On Being Useful

Overture

“All I need from you, is that you continue to exist. You are my Seumas. Just keep being my Seumas. That is all I need from you.” Cody leaned back on the other side of the table in the bar with a broad smile and gestured expansively. He looked like a man who had won a fight. He hadn’t, but he had put a chink in a set of armor that I didn’t know I was wearing.

I met this man when he was about nine years old on the day I married his father to one of my best friends; his new step mother. We had barely seen each other again in the intervening two decades until a couple years ago when he reached out. “Your card has stayed with me through three new wallets. That has to mean something. Let’s talk.”

We started to spend time together. It wasn’t instant, but we did find a way past the father’s friend / friend’s kid framework and grew comfortable with each other as peers. Over many evenings of food, drinks, and intense conversation we grew close.

Act I: But the story begins before that, of course

Like most of us, I went to public school. In 1980s small town Washington that meant graduating from a high school with only about 800 students in total, and there wasn’t a great deal of diversity. I had a few close friends, but was never well liked and never felt a part of anything other than my own small group.

We were all into the paranormal, and eventually started a coven together. I had a leg up because I already knew a bit about the subject since I had started studying Witchcraft when I was nine. We called ourselves Shadowood Coven, and within our circle of both friendship and magic, I felt safe for the first time.

I also started studying the harp in high school, which became as central to my identity as being a Witch. It added a new dimension to my life which connected me to the world-wide network of harp players, but further isolated me from most people. In the harp world I could be special.

After graduation, I went to college for music. Not to a big mainstream college, mind you. Nor to one that had an established harp program that could mould me into a working musician. No, I went to the hippie school where I designed my own program. Even at Cornish College of the Arts, I was alone, being the only harp student. At least, however, I was among fellow musicians.


After getting my degree, I still lacked the courage to try to make my living with music. I went to work in student lending instead. I had been helped to get Summer jobs there by a commuter buddy I met riding the Washington State Ferries named Kris Abbott. It was the path of least resistance at the time, so I took it. I was unbearably awkward and made cringeworthy gaffs regularly. By the time I left that field I had a few friends, but I mostly found I had to keep all my true interests to myself.

Meanwhile, outside of work, our coven continued to meet, and it was truly what sustained me. I made a reasonably good set of connections in the local Pagan community, and served in volunteer roles. Along with that status among the local Pagans however, came drama and I made my exit.

My career as a harp player stumbled along without much effort from me. I wound up helping to found an Irish / Scottish traditional band called Wicked Celts, and that became the centre of my social identity for many years. I became a more accomplished player, which gave me a higher status with my bandmates and others in the ‘Celtic’ music community. (I hate that term)

In 1994 I started studying the Scottish Gaelic language as the next logical step in deepening my expertise in the music. My class of six people were chugging along just fine when the films Rob Roy and Braveheart happened. Suddenly our teacher had huge classes and we started organizing weekend intensives. I found many, many ways to make myself useful for the next 18+ years.

photo: michael sean morris

During that time, because of Gaelic and our society’s relationship with our sister group in Vancouver BC, I met the love of my life, Doug Barr. We have been together for 19 years now, with all the usual ups and downs. We often joke about not knowing why the other stays, but there is a grain of truth that makes the joke funny. In the early years of our time together, I was working very hard to be useful. It was what I knew how to do, having never been in a relationship before. I can’t recall when it was exactly that I stopped being afraid that he would give me the boot, but I did eventually. I had never felt as safe in any relationship of any kind in my life.

And now, Act II

The condo I live in had to have a massive remediation project done in 2015 which meant that our building was wrapped in plastic for most of the summer, and it was a hot one.

I have never been comfortable being alone in public. Somewhere deep inside I have always felt that when I walk into a place everyone there wishes I hadn’t. I know it doesn’t make much sense.

I had gone into one of our local bars, Teachers Lounge, once or twice and pulled my usual move of tucking myself back into a corner and trying to be inconspicuous. This bar, however, had air conditioning, so in desperation to escape the plastic wrapped building I overcame my social anxiety and started to go pretty often.

After a couple of weeks of dropping by regularly, Desiree the co-owner and I had chatted several times. She is a disarmingly beautiful woman with a razor sharp wit and a tolerance for bullshit that starts at zero and goes down from there. She is, therefore a woman perfectly suited to steal my tiny cold gay heart.

I have known many people who work in hospitality and the stories about patrons who interpret friendliness to be friendship are the worst. I understand my job in an establishment: 1) make up my mind 2) order off the menu 3) say thank you often 4) be patient 5) tip well. That code of behaviour has almost always gotten me excellent experiences, but I never interpret that as meaning anything other than I’m good at being a patron.

I had no reason to think that my experiences at Teachers Lounge were going to be any different, but then the most surprising thing happened. Desiree invited me to join the party at the bar instead of hiding back at a table. I don’t know why, but I said yes. I had never actually sat at a bar before, much less chatted with total strangers. I discovered I was less awkward and less uncomfortable than I had been when I was younger.

I started sitting at the bar regularly and meeting other patrons. Over time, very amicable casual friendships started to happen. Some of them have grown far beyond that. It takes a true friend to climb in a taxi with you and head to the bad part of Las Vegas looking for your stolen purse.

Then, growing more brave, I became a patron at another of my local bars. I connected with both staff and other frequent customers. I even played harp and the wedding of two staff members.

Act III Where I Try to Self-sabotage

I am a fearful person by nature. When something good happens, I start looking for the problem that is going to wreck it all. My inner demons were more than up to the task this time. A question started to form in the back of my mind as I continued to enjoy spending time with my new neighborhood friends. Why are these people interested in talking to me? They’re not into anything I am. I’m not an expert in anything they want to learn. They don’t need any of my professional skills. There has to be some mistake.

Winners get pictures

Then, in one of our continuing conversations, Cody said:

“Those of us who grew up without much sense of self worth often settle for being useful instead of loved. Please believe me. I do not need anything from you. I just love you and if you want anything in our friendship, you can ask for it.”

He won the fight. I was shaken and my armor was in pieces on the ground.

I saw clearly that I had been doing exactly that since childhood in most circumstances. I found ways to be useful because I wasn’t sure if I was much more than that. I can see now that it was never true, or at least not as true as I thought. I have had friends without many common interests before and Doug has stayed with me even when I was very needy. I suppose I have unconsciously processed those realities as flukes, but I can’t anymore. The preponderance of the evidence shows that some people actually just like me for no apparent reason.

Paying for friendship with labor was how I lived in the world and I had not seen it. That is, until a certain Canadian stuck with me for nearly two decades. Until a young woman running a bar in my neighborhood took a chance, and invited me to come closer. Until the man I met when he was a boy told me it was OK to ask him for things in our friendship.

I must be more than useful.

Mother Knows Best

The view from Betty’s front window

I am a medium. I haven’t always known this about myself, but as I have gotten older it has become more and more apparent. When I was about 27, near my first Saturn return, through a complicated and very interesting series of events I met a man named Mischa Duvan, who was at the time the senior and only shaman of the Ulchi Tribe in Siberia. He told me that I would work with the dying and the dead later in life, but that I should not attempt to at my age.

That was nearly half a lifetime ago, so as I approach my second Saturn return, I can’t be surprised that I see and get messages from dead folks more often. It usually happens when I’m doing something else, like giving a Tarot reading or having a deep magical counseling session. It’s not something I initiate, but once it starts, it tortures me until I understand and pass on the message I’m being given. That torture takes the form of a crushing and unexplainable sadness that I must assume is the easiest of my buttons for someone on the other side of the Veil to push.

The last time it happened was on the 19th anniversary of our mother’s death on October 26, 2019. I had been feeling that nagging, causeless sorrow for a few weeks, but it had not risen to the point where I would notice it above the general noise of my fear-prone mind. I and my fiancé were very busy assisting his mother with the sale of her home of 45 years and her transition into a retirement community so I was quite distracted. The winning offer came in on that anniversary day, so the three of us went out to dinner to celebrate. It was such a great load off all our minds and erased so much uncertainty that we were all feeing good. Future mum-in-law has some mobility issues, so I dropped her and her son off at the front door and went to park the car. The instant I was alone, the weight of sadness that descended was absolutely crippling. I remembered that it was our mother’s death anniversary and the penny dropped. She wanted me to know something. I made it into the restaurant and back with other people, I could hold it at bay for a while.

After dinner and returning to her soon-to-no-longer-be home, I excused myself and retired to the basement semi-suite that we use when visiting. I made it to the bottom of the stairs before collapsing in sobs. My man put his mum to bed and came downstairs to find me there. He was of course tremendously concerned and asked what he could do. I told him to stay with me, since his presence is like a control rod in the reactor of my stability-challenged spirit. He logged on to his computer and I curled up on the couch and started playing solitaire on my phone. A few minutes later, a seemingly random thought crossed my mind: ‘I wish I could go home.’ In my idiolect, ‘home’ means our mother’s hometown of Cleethorpes, England. We spent summers there growing up, and I always feel closest to her when I visit.

I had no sooner thought the thought when a surge of energy when through me from head to foot like a bolt of lightning and I saw a picture of my aunt Betty in her home in Cleethorpes. I gasped, dropped the phone, and clamped my hands over my face and started to shake violently.

My man asked if he should phone an ambulance. As soon as I could speak again, I said no. I told him that Mom wants me to go to Cleethorpes. He answered “tell everyone I said hi.” That’s someone you marry.

Mom has never come through to me in all the years since she died, so I took it seriously. I had gotten the message, so within a few minutes the cloud of sorrow was gone without a trace and I went back to as normal as I get and started looking for ways to make a trip back home.

The right opportunity arose and I was able to tack on a short trip to the UK to the end of a business trip to the East coast. I saw most of the family, met a new cousin, and looked in on our eldest god daughter and her partner in Glasgow. I headed home, feeling a little bit foolish, honestly. No huge drama. No big revelations. No spectral appearances. Just a lot of great fish and chips and some much needed family time.

Then COVID-19 happened. Borders started to close. Our wedding plans are thrown into uncertainty. My late-eighties aunt is in lockdown, and like me, many of my closest relations are old enough to be in the at-risk category. I got an e-mail from Betty’s eldest daughter this morning sharing that she is fine, though quite bored being in lockdown, since she has run out of tasks to do around the house.

When the severity of the consequences of the situation became clear, I got on my knees in front of my ancestor altar and prayed to our mother and thanked her for telling me to go while I had the chance. Mother knows best.

The Winter Solstice Banquet

When I was growing up, Christmas was often a stressful and traumatic time. Life in my family wasn't peaceful in general, so adding stress, expectations, and a fair amount of alcohol didn't improve matters. I was baptized and partially raised in the Catholic Church, so Christmas was very definitely a religious holiday with a bunch of other fun stuff tacked on to it.

I stopped celebrating Christmas when I was 15 years old because I had decided to commit myself to living a Pagan life, and it seemed the height of hypocrisy to make a fuss over the birth of Jesus. My friends and I who formed our teenage coven celebrated Winter Solstice together, of course, but without a home to decorate or the ability to mark the shortest day rather than Jesus' birthday it still kind of felt like Christmas and I didn't like it.

When, after lots of adventures I finally got my first real home in Ballard, I was absolutely resolved that I would decorate for Solstice and have a real celebration. My close friend Pandora and I conceived of a multi-course celebratory dinner, and that was the start of what became the Winter Solstice Banquet.

The Banquet is a ritual meal, rather than a ritual per se. If the Solstice is a religious holiday for you, then the Banquet is a religious event, but if it isn't, it's still a really nice evening with good food, good friends, and heart-felt reflection on the year that is ending. Each of the courses of the meal has a question that each guest answers during that course. The meal doesn't progress until everyone has had a chance to speak. For that reason, it's best to limit guests to about eight. Otherwise, you are likely to spend an uncomfortable amount of time sitting in front of empty plates.

I held the Banquet in my home in Ballard until I was forced out and moved to my condo in Greenwood. My place here doesn't have a dining area, so I thought that the Banquet was lost to me forever.

From 2007 until 2017 there was no Banquet and I grew more bitter and despondent during Christmas with each passing year. I would usually spend Christmas with Doug and his mother in Victoria, and although entirely pleasant, I had grown so resentful of the day that it was a struggle to keep my feelings under wraps.

Then, in 2016, I drew the Tower card (It's a Tarot reference - go look it up). I came home from US Thanksgiving with my family to a home in the process of being destroyed by flooding from my upstairs neighbor. When all was said and done, I came back from two months of living in a hotel to a living room with no furniture. For a while, I looked for replacement items, but nothing felt right. I started using folding camping furniture for convenience. That solution also allowed me to put the seating away when I wanted to set up my sewing studio.

Then, in 2018, my beautiful man asked me why I didn't just set up a folding table and have the Banquet again? Uhhh. Ummm. YEAH!!!!

And so on Solstice 2018, the Winter Solstice Banquet was restored.

Here is the order of service in case you want to do this too:

Winter Solstice Banquet

Appetizers

The Shortest Day

The youngest person present reads The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper while all join hands. At the conclusion, toast to "Welcome Yule."

Salad

Question: What was the hardest challenge this year?

Soup

Question: How have you changed?

Seafood

Question: What have you done for others?

Vegetables

Question: What was the highlight this year?

Main

Question: What do you hope for in the new year?

Salutation

Host reads Salutation by Fra Giovanni Giocondo

Dessert

Before posting the poetry texts and the menu we developed last year, I will just add that anyone is welcome to use this as a template to create your own Banquet tradition. Just please tell everyone you know how my genius has enriched your life. Thenk you.

---

The Shortest Day

Susan Cooper

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!

---

Salutation

Fra Giovanni Giocondo
excerpted from A Letter to the Most Illustrious the Contessina Allagia degli Aldobrandeschi, Written Christmas Eve 1513 A.D.

I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got, but there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take.

No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven!

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace!

The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness could we but see - and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look!

Life is so generous a giver, but we, judging its gifts by the covering, cast them away as ugly, or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power.

Welcome it, grasp it, touch the angel's hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angel's hand is there, the gift is there, and the wonder of an overshadowing presence. Our joys, too, be not content with them as joys. They, too, conceal diviner gifts.

Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty - beneath its covering - that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.

Courage, then, to claim it, that is all. But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are all pilgrims together, wending through unknown country, home.

And so, at this time, I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.

Alasdair Og Donn

Alasdair òg donn,
eireachdail, dualach,
tàmh thall anns a' bheinn àrd:

Thug thu bhuam cuid mo chrìdhe

agus ghlèidh thu gu caoin i.
Thug thu dhomh air ais i
nas fheàrr na bha an toiseach i.

Fhir nan crìdhe binn agus nam pòg,
éist ri cainnt mo bheòil dhut.
Saoil nach faic mi a-rithist thu
ach bithidh mo bheannachd mhaireann leat.

Happier

While I treasured my wounds
The days ticked by
Now most are gone
My wounds will die when I do
But no one will mourn them
They will just wish
I had been happier

Seumas Gagne
2019

Ding! Level 50

Pearrygin Lake

Another year over and it's time to answer the Birthday Questions again. I spent an extended long weekend with Doug, Lance, Deena, Suzanne and their parters and kids camping out at Pearrygin Lake State Park near Winthrop, Washington so this is a little late.

What was the most difficult thing you faced while 49?

Without a doubt, it was the realization in early 2016 that I had slipped back into a depression and that it was manifesting very differently than before; as anger. After I got back from my wonderful Christmas trip back to Cleethorpes and no longer had that out in the future to distract me I started to find myself getting into pointless, unnecessary conflicts with people. Some of them very important and beloved people. After the third or fourth incident I started to feel like something was wrong with me, since I was the only common factor in all the scenarios. I'm happy to report that just naming the problem has given me the power to at least control myself when the anger arises. I'm working on more durable solutions, but that's a story for another time.

What was the best thing that happened while you were 49?

Aunt Betty, and two daughters, one granddaughter,
and four great granddaughters of my Uncle Eric.

The moment that I became a UK citizen in my Mum's hometown with my aunt Betty and cousins Karen and Dave there. I became aware in 2014 that the UK had changed their citizenship laws so that the foreign-born children of British mothers could apply to be recognized as citizens. The foreign-born children of British fathers have always been citizens from birth. Apparently citizenship flows more easily through a penis than a vagina, or something like that. Anyway, I began the application process and one of the requirements was that within 90 days of being approved you have to attend a citizenship ceremony in the UK. I used the magic of Google to find out how long the application process usually takes and counted on my fingers and toes. If all went well, I could combine the trip for the citizenship ceremony with my long-wished for trip back to Cleethorpes to spend Christmas with the English side of the family. There were a huge number of variables, of course, and my approval didn't come through until a week before I got on the plane, but the kind folks at the Northeast Lincolnshire Council accommodated me. Since Doug has been a UK citizen from birth through his father, we now have a shared citizenship and the possibility of living and working in Scotland someday.

Aunt Betty and Uncle Tom, cousins Karen and Dave Suthern,
and their daughter Kelly.

What do you hope to achieve while you're 50?

When I retired from the Board of Slighe nan Gaidheal last October, I decided that I would not accept any new projects until my Three Great Quests were achieved. Firstly, finish Mum's estate. Secondly, finish my second CD, and lastly get married. Will I achieve all three this year? Who knows?
I'm going to close this post with a quote from the birthday card that my loving, patient future husband wrote to me.

Just a reminder… 

Cousins Lynn and David and their grandson, Corben

Welcome to 50, Love – it's way cooler than it looks. You get to be you. You give up a few things that it turns out you weren't going to be, and then you find out they were blocking your view of who you are.

And you're fabulous.

My younger cousin, Mark 

Another Chance to Say Thanks

The Quick Shuttle, which we have been using for the last fourteen years to get Doug back and forth between Vancouver and Seattle has temporarily changed their pickup location from the Best Western by the Seattle Center to the Washington State Convention Center on Pike street. No one, unfortunately, told me that when I made his reservation to get back home tonight, so thirty minutes after his bus was supposed to depart, I started to worry.

Checking on their website, we figured out what had happened and hopped in my car to zoom over to the new pickup location. There was one more departure tonight, so we anxiously waited for the bus to arrive, hoping that there would be a seat available for him, and that the driver would take my word for it that we had a reservation on the previous bus.

While we were waiting, a familiar face walked past us in the crowd.

"Doctor Savage?" I called out.

He stopped and looked at me, obviously trying to figure out who I was.

"I don't know if you'll remember me…"

"Of course I do, Mr. Gagne. Are you still playing the harp?"

Dr. Savage and I had a sometimes tense relationship when I was studying with him at Cornish College of the Arts back in the 1980s, but there was an underlying respect that grew into a warm teacher / student friendship by the time I graduated. He was my professor in several subjects including opera chorus, cultural history, music history, and more. The things I learned from him changed the course of my musical life in many positive ways.

Dr. James Savage

We quickly caught up with the basic outline of life. He had just retired after 33 years as the music director at Saint James Cathedral. I introduced him to Doug and told him about my complete immersion into Scottish Gaelic music and culture. It seemed we were about to part company, so I gave him my card.

"Since Fate has given me this opportunity…" I began.

He got a funny, apprehensive look on his face. Had other previous students found him years later and been negative?

"I want to say thanks. Thanks for everything you taught me. Thanks for the foundation you gave me. It has served me well."

He beamed. We hugged. He said it was the best feeling in the world to hear that from a former student. Then he looked past me to Doug.

"I'm allowed to do this because I couldn't when he was a student."

He kissed my cheek. Tenderly, sweetly, and we parted ways.

Doug's bus arrived, and the driver believed our story, and there was a seat for him on the bus.

"I think that was why this happened." I said as I kissed him goodbye.

Maureen's Letter

This is the story I premiered at a concert last night in Seattle. The song described will be on my next CD, which will only be made when my first CD is sold out. Hint. Hint.

---

When I started learning Scottish Gaelic and our society, Slighe nan Gaidheal, was just a glimmer in our eyes, our teacher, Richard Hill, encouraged us to get on up the road and attend events at the Vancouver Gaelic society to meet and learn from the community of Scottish expats there, many of whom were native speakers.

I did so along with my classmates, and got something out of it I wasn’t expecting. I was already giddy with excitement at having started to learn this language and music which I had been looking for since I was a child, and with the beginnings of a community of people here in Seattle that were just as excited about it. Through the friendships we made in Vancouver, though, we discovered that we were connected to something that spans the globe and the centuries. I found a culture in which because I play the harp and sing, and was studying Gaelic I was automatically valued.

My first teacher, Richard Hill and Maureen circa 1996.

My first native speaker teacher was a woman from the Isle of Lewis called Maureen Lyon. Maureen was a high school teacher in her working years, and was a driving force in organizing events at the Vancouver society. She has an easy laugh, a bright spirit, and is a woman who gets things done. The more times I made it up North to study Gaelic with her, the more I felt like we were becoming real friends.

At that time, I was single and had been for most of my adult life, so the fact that I was Gay was pretty theoretical. That was, until I had a short affair that happened to coincide with Mòd Vancouver 1999. His name was Glen, and he has sadly since passed from this world –may his spirit find peace– and I brought him along. People noticed, and my deep-seated insecurities surfaced. These folks were mostly from the previous generation or the one before that and I don’t know if you know anything about the Isle of Lewis, but the Free Church of Scotland is a big part of island life and their outlook on many subjects is black and white. I became worried that my friendship with Maureen and the others would evaporate if they knew.

In true Gaelic fashion, somebody told Maureen that I was worried. The next time I was up in BC for a weekend I got a call from Maureen on Sunday morning as I was packing up to drive home. “Stop by the house. I have something for you.” Seemed perfectly normal. Probably a tape (we still used tapes then) or book or song or something.

Maureen lives in White Rock, right on the border. I drove into her drive way and got out of the car, but then something strange happened. She came out of her front door and closed it behind her. She had an envelope in her hand. I walked up and greeted her. She handed me the envelope and wished me a safe drive home, then went inside and closed the door. If you know anything about Highland culture, you know that is exceedingly strange. No tea?

I went back to the car and then the metaphorical bucket of ice water went down my back. This was a letter telling me to take my abominably sinful lifestyle choices home with me and never come back.

When I got in line at the border, my hands were shaking as I opened the envelope. Inside was a half sheet of paper with a poem in the format of a letter. It began “a Sheumais Chòir,” – Dear Seumas. I won’t translate the whole thing because it would sound like I was praising myself and that’s simply not done. Suffice to say that she gave me a long list of all the things she likes about me told me that she would never want me to be heavy in mind, but full of light for my whole life and true to myself always. She signed it “le gaol agus tuigse” – with love and understanding – “do dhéagh charaid” - your good friend, Maureen. It’s one of my most prized possessions.

Last year, as I was thinking about putting together material for another CD, I glanced at it up on the wall and wondered why I had never done anything with it. It’s kind of short for a song, I thought, and then it dawned on me. I would write a reply, and so I did.

My reply begins “a Mhaureen Chòir” – Dear Maureen. Your enduring faithful friendship is more valuable to me than I can tell and I want you to know how important that poem was to me that you wrote twenty years ago. It’s in my mind and heart still encouraging me every day. – And I close my reply with “le gaol agus cuimhne” - with love and memory. “do charaid gu bràth” - your friend forever, Seumas.

The song I made from these two verses is titled “Gaol agus Tuigse” – Love and Understanding and will be on my next CD. As soon as my first CD is sold out. Hint. Godsdamn Hint.

Just to prove this a true story.

A Family of One

Back before I met Doug​, I struggled with being single. I remember my 30th birthday in 1996 very clearly. My friends and bandmates threw me a lovely party, but I had never been in love with a man who was in love with me and I felt that made me a failure as a human being. Surely I was a warty horror that no man could ever love.

Warty horror circa 2000CE.

Time went on, and I did eventually have a stormy nine month relationship with a very nice and completely ill-matched man. It came to a crashing end on Winter Solstice in 1998, but no matter how painful that experience was, I'm still grateful to it and to him for all that I learned.

When I moved to Baile Ard​ in 1999, I decided that I was going to change my life; that I wouldn't wait to have a husband before making a home and being a family. I would be a family of one. Each time I worked on the place, cooked for myself, decorated for a holiday, or entertained friends I became happier. I had my friends, my band, my family, my coven, my Gaelic society, my job, my health, and a home I loved. What earthly reason did I have to be unhappy?

I became unreservedly content, joyous, and satisfied as a single man. Maybe being authentically happy is what changed my luck in love. Only the gods really know, but I can tell you that even if I had remained single I would still be a family of one with a very rich and fulfilling home life.

If you're struggling with being single, lay down that burden and make yourself a home and a life that you love. You don't need anyone's approval or permission to do so but your own.

With love,
Seumas

Kitchen Witchery

This is the third of the four enchantments that I designed for my House Blessing / Spell Casting party when I moved to Baile Ard in 1999. See Spell To Attract A Cool Boyfriend for more details on the event.

My relationship with cooking fundamentally changed while I lived in Baile Ard. I had never been particularly enthusiastic about it, but there was something about the combination of having a place I was proud to invite people, having a kitchen that was open to the living area, and a decision I made not long after moving there that changed everything.

The decision was that I was not going to wait to have a man in my life before making a home. I was going to be a family of one, if that was my fate, and that included homemaking, home cooking, decorating for holidays, and entertaining.

I started off by delving back into my childhood memories of cooking Japanese food with my godmother, Kimiko Sakai, and with her mother-in-law, Botchan-san. I was still vegetarian at that time, but managed to pull together a couple six-course Japanese dinners. I don't know if my guests stopped for burgers on the way home or not, but we had a laugh anyway.

The epitome of my culinary adventures was the Winter Solstice Banquet, which I and my friend Pandora started as a collaboration. There's a little more about that in this post: Happy 10th Ballardiversary!

This transformation of ingredients into food was a new form of magic for me, but the spell that was cast by so many friends that night which led to my embrace of it was classic Seumascraft:

Kitchen Witchery

Take your favorite of the cooking implements from the kitchen and go back and forth between there and the dining table waving the implement and intoning the following:

By wooden spoon and crescent Moon
By spice mill, sieve and knife
By spinach, potato and garlic clove
All foods that nourish life,
All meals and snacks and feasts herein
with any tool employed,
Shall be full-well nutritional,
un-fattening, and enjoyed!
Heed this charm!
Cause no harm!
So mote it be!

How To Boyfriend: The Gift Giving Edition

Every year in November, Doug reminds me how difficult I am to shop for. I'm a minimalist with reasonably good income and reasonably poor impulse control. This year, as he often does, he asked for hints. Hints I can do. List? No way. That turns the whole thing into a transactional obligation and banishes the magic.

Over the course of the last thirty days I've sent him these text messages at various times:

Thanks for the stemware, Baby. Gin-o'clock!

Red KitchenAid two slice toasters are so lovely. I'm quite distraught about mine being broken you know.

I feel so ratchet when I drink martinis out of ordinary glasses when I'm in Seattle. I just love the ones at The Olive and Grape with charming coloured glass stems.

Sometimes when I'm working on black fabric at night I wish I had a good task lamp for my table. I should ask for a recommendation the next time I'm in Fabricana.

To which my prince responded:

I see what you did there. 

And because he's the most awesome man ever known to me, he started following suit:

I find it annoying to do laundry so often since the laundromat in Inverness wrecked one of my two good pairs of jeans. I often get work clothes at Old Navy.

In learning a little Turkish I keep wishing I had a small dictionary that indicates long vowels and unusual word stress, because the standard orthography doesn't. I'd even get rid of a book or two to make room for it.

(Yes, he's learning Turkish now)

And I do so miss Babylon 5 and wonder if it ever came out on DVD.

And that, dear readers, is how you boyfriend. Can there be any doubt why I adore him so?

Taking Doug Home

Growing up in Poulsbo, I knew that when my Mother used the term "home" she didn't mean the farm where we lived. She meant the town she was born and raised in, Cleethorpes, England.

The Promenade in Cleethorpes at the mouth of the river Humber

Mom took us back there several times while we were growing up, but the first time I was old enough to really remember it was when I was 13. My cousin Karen, the daughter of my Mom's youngest sister Betty was getting married, so Mom took me and my brother Tom with her back to Cleethorpes for the summer of 1978. I got to know Cleethorpes a little, and formed relationships with my Mom's father, her brother and sisters, and their kids that have stood the test of time. My grandad, aunts and uncle and their spouses also made trips over to visit us and sometimes brought their kids with them, so we really did know each other pretty well.

From my 2001 visit: Left to right: Eric,
his wife Lois, Karen, Betty, Me, My aunt May's
widower, Les, and Betty's husband Tom.

As time went on, we drifted apart a bit, though we've never been completely out of touch. When my Mom died my cousin Lynn wrote us a condolence poem that couldn't have been more perfect if Mom had written it herself. I decided then that I needed to make a trip back to Cleethorpes. I went in October of 2001 and had a great visit with my two aunts and uncle and most of their kids. At that time, Doug and I had been dating less than a year, but my cousins all wanted to know when I was going to bring him over to meet them. "Soon" I said. Irony. Anyway, I wasn't sure how receptive my Mom's generation would be to meeting the gay nephew's Canadian boyfriend, so I let sleeping dogs lie.

The years got away from us, and the next trip to Britain was in 2010. Doug and I signed ourselves up for a one week Gaelic immersion course in South Uist, and we didn't plan a trip to see my family. I will regret that decision for the rest of my life. Since then I've lost my last uncle and one of my two aunts.

And now it's 2014. Doug and I were invited to travel to the Royal National Mòd with the Victoria Gaelic Choir to compete this year and we accepted without hesitation. I insisted this time, however, that we spend enough time to make crossing the Atlantic worth the expense and the effort. Three weeks, and not a day less, and visiting family was non-negotiable. No argument. Doug had seen my face when I learned that my uncle Eric had died, and when I found my aunt Gladys' obituary online accidentally. No argument.

From my 2001 visit: My cousin Lynn, Her son Matthew
and his newborn son, Corben. Corben is in the
double-digits now!

We flew in to Heathrow on Monday and spent the first few days in London doing tourist and harp-related things. Thursday we hopped a train North headed for Ramsey to visit my cousins Lynn and David. I had asked them to arrange a birthday cake, since Doug was turning 50 while we were there. My cousins were just as warm and welcoming as I had remembered from my childhood, and they made it clear that under no circumstances were we to get married without giving them enough notice to come. Message received, cousins.

So, my aunt Betty, my Mom's youngest sister, is the last of her generation, and still lives in Cleethorpes, just around the corner from the house where they were all born and raised. She's in her eighties, and I had learned that she is on dialysis, so I was prepared to find her and her husband Tom in tough shape, and didn't want to be a burden in any way, so I only planned for us to spend a half day with them. Just enough time to see a couple sites, maybe have lunch and a good visit before heading off to Glasgow.

#19 Edwards Street where Mom
was born and raised

David volunteered to drive us to Cleethorpes, which meant that we would also get to make a stop at Lynn's mother's house. That's my Uncle Eric's widow Lois for those of you keeping score at home. We had a short but robust visit there, then back on the road.

When we arrived in Cleethorpes we got quite a surprise. Far from frail, Betty and Tom met us at the door looking like the picture of health and style. Tom took our suitcases and said he would bring them down to the train station for us so we didn't have to wrestle with them. My cousin Karen was there, now a woman in her 50s, with her grown daughter Kelly. We hadn't even sat down before Betty asked if we had eaten. No? Within thirty seconds we had a table reserved at their favourite restaurant down at the front (that's the waterfront for you Yanks) and we were in Kelly's car. Memories from the summer of 1978 started flooding back. Mary Lawless' house! The family home at #19 Edward Street! Saint Peter's Church! Ross Castle!

Over lunch, Betty shared news of the family. She talked about her brother Eric who had died in 2013; about what happened when her last sister Gladys passed away earlier this year. She told me about her and her Tom's illnesses. They had come close to death, but were both now doing very well. She also wanted to know about us and our lives together. She talked about having gone to a same-sex wedding recently and made it clear that she had no issues with it. Then she got quiet.

"I told her. I told her that Summer when you were here for Karen's wedding. I told her she needed to help you cope." she said.

And my understanding of my life changed. Someone in my family was advocating for me when I was 13, and she was still alive and sitting across the table from us, right there in Cleethorpes. Then she took an envelope out of her purse and handed it to me.

"Something for you and Doug."

Pounds sterling. Lots of pounds sterling. There's only one time in your life when relatives hand you envelopes of cash in England. This was a wedding present.

It was time for us to leave to make our train to Glasgow, so Betty walked us the two blocks to the station. Tom was waiting there with our cases. I put my hands on her shoulders and said the truest words I ever have.

"I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you." I said.

"I know. Don't be too long." she said with a smile that was at once happy and sad.

We got on the train and as it pulled away, my heart ripped out of my chest. I was leaving home again. When we reached Glasgow, we stopped at the first news stand and got some postcards. I wrote the first one to Betty and Tom, thanking them for the present and promising a longer letter when we got home. I included it in a Christmas card I put in the mail last Thursday. This is what it said in part:

Mom died on October 26th, 2000, as I’m sure you remember. I met Doug on April 7th of the next year - barely five months later. Within a few weeks, I realized that I had met the person with whom I intended to spend the rest of my life. It wasn’t too much later, on a Summer weekend when we were hanging new curtains in his house that it truly dawned on me that I would never be able to take Doug home to meet Mom. They would never laugh together; never make fun of my quirks together. I would never see them hug. She would never be there to accept him as a part of our family the way his mother and father have accepted me.

Thirteen years have come and gone since then. Doug and I have been through a lot and seen the days when first his country, and then mine, and now yours accept our little family as real and worthy. My heart is so full and I’m so grateful for my life that I didn’t think I had any wounds left to heal until you opened the door of your beautiful home and welcomed us in.

During our lunch at Steel’s, the things you shared about your conversation with my Mom that Summer when we were over for Karen's wedding, and about your own positive relationships with same-sex couples were a great comfort to me. That old sorrow that I had been carrying for thirteen years melted away. No, my Mother wasn’t there to accept Doug, but through you, my Mother’s family was. It meant so much to me, Betty. I feel more at peace than I have in a dozen years.

Getting on that train and leaving Cleethorpes was the hardest goodbye I’ve experienced in a very long time. I will return as soon as I can and we’ll have a proper visit if the fates allow.

I got to take Doug home with me where we were welcomed with open arms. Even here at the shaggy winding-up end of our stories, there are still miracles of grace to be found if you look. If the fates allow…

Thanksgiving 2014

Holidays are complicated and hard. That's not actually a problem statement, though. Humans the planet over have evolved societies over time that set aside special days to contemplate our relationship to the universe and each other and labeled them holy. Since those relationships are the way they are, why should we anticipate that the days we set aside to consider them should be easy and straightforward? That seems to be an unrealistic expectation.

We have all suffered through the public discourse on the 'War on Christmas" in which our culturally Christian nation(s) struggle with the erosion of their hegemony. When I was a kid, the identified problem was the commercialization of Christmas. The same people who are claiming now that they are being oppressed by the term "happy Holidays" are the same ones who cried bitter tears over stores being open on a Sunday. Now, of course, they don't want those damn un-Christian liberals interfering with their plans to mob Walmart stores on Thanksgiving.

Which brings us back to the subject of Thanksgiving. What a delightfully simple and straightforward holiday. No particular religious identity; just a day to spend with family contemplating gratitude for the good stuff. Unless you're a First Nation / Native American / Indigenous Person. Dang. Reality intrudes again with the complications of actual life and history. If you're ancestors didn't get to North America on foot, I suggest you educate yourself a little on how the First Nations think about the arrival of significant numbers of Europeans on their shores just a few centuries ago. You might not enjoy it, but you owe it to them. You can't undo the evils of the past, but you can bear honest witness. You must bear honest witness.

There. Enough finger wagging for one year. I would now like to write a little about the things for which I am grateful this year.

• Diabetes diagnosis: Shocking, frightening, but ultimately good, since I got the disease under control and am doing well.
• Trip to NYC: Any chance to visit the Only City That Matters is a blessing.
• Tutankhamun Exhibit: It brought many people to Seattle who stayed with me!
• Language Hunters: Learning this new method of teaching language has been a revolution!
• Carmen's Surgery: My dear friend's brain surgery went well and has been an opportunity to demonstrate my friendship and commitment to her family.
• Seirm's Trip to Vancouver: It had been more than seven years since the last major Seattle to Vancouver road trip; high time!
• Olivia's Surgery: Doug's mother had breast cancer surgery, which went well, but is always a worry.
• Féis Seattle 2014: And I had very little to do with producing it!
• Wiccaning: My godson completed his year of religious education and charmed his Counsil into allowing him to continue. Softies.
• Trip to Britain: 22 days in a row with my beloved pre-husband and he's still beloved. This trip was life-changing in many more ways than will fit into this bullet point. Will I write more about it in the future? Maybe, but you fucking Colonials won't get it anyway, so why bother?
• Washington Area Folk Harp Society Getaway: Ending a year of music career frustrations with this out-of-the-park experience was a huge blessing.

And there we go. Long list. Complicated and truthful.

May we all give thanks and receive blessings.

Seumas

The Luckiest 13

Today is the fourteenth of April, in the two thousand and fourteenth year of the common era. That might not mean much to you, but it does to me. Thirteen years ago today was my first whole day spent with a certain Canadian.

These were those anguish-filled times long ago.

My schedule has kept me in Seattle for the last two weekends, so I haven't woken up next to him since the 30th of March. Our anniversary, or date-a-versary as I often call it, taking place in the midst of a period of separation would have, at an earlier point in time been the cause of great anguish. Today it is still uncomfortable, but we've got this.

I'll be in a surgical waiting lounge tomorrow with my godson's father while his wife has a tumor removed from her brain casing. I'll be 110 miles from the only set of shoulders that fit my furrowed brow, but we've got this.

My siblings are in a tricky situation that I may have to get them out of despite the fact that they HATE asking their baby brother for help, but it will be OK. We've got this.

Himself just heard that his mother (whom I adore) has gotten some troubling medical news of her own, but we will rise to meet whatever need comes, because we've got this.

Reaching middle age comes with challenges. There are creaks and groans where before there were none, but there are also powers and rewards. There is a sense of satisfaction that comes when you walk into a situation where people you love are struggling and they heave a sigh of relief because "The boys are here."

Yes, I would rather spend every remaining day by his side. Yes, it costs us to be apart so often, but we're OK. We've got this. What can we do to help?

A Moment of Grace

Last Sunday night was shaping up like many before it. Doug was at work until 5:00 pm, and I had everything ready to make a nice dinner of oven roasted chicken and vegetables with a side of red quinoa with butter and salt.

I picked him up from work and we came home. I busied myself in the kitchen while he unwound and caught up on what had happened on the Internets during the day. I set the table and laid out dinner, which all turned out well. While we were enjoying it and talking something dawned on me that transformed my experience. I realized that this was one of those times that in future I would look back on as a rare and wonderful moment of perfect intimacy, peace, and enjoyment together. Through some unknowable grace, I could see the timeless divine light shining through each moment. We finished dinner and being the wonderful man that he his, Doug did all the dishes while I stretched out on the couch.

Dear gods, if I have served you well, when my last night on Earth comes, somehow let it be that night again. That's all I need.

Thanksgiving 2012

Oh my goodness, where do I begin?

This year has brought a fundamental transformation in the way I view myself and my future. Before the CD and After the CD are really two different worlds. At 45 years old I went from doubting myself as a musician and waiting for the first person to be honest and tell me that I'm not very good, to honestly believing that I have talent and skill that rivals professional musicians. I'm grateful to everyone who helped me get through the recording project in one piece, most especially my cherished companion in life, Doug Barr.

Then, as if that weren't enough, another huge boatload of great things happened this year. If I go into detail about all of them this post won't be done until First Footing, so I'll be brief:

• 11th Anniversary trip to New York - Manhattan is my idea of heaven. Being with Doug is my idea of heaven. I had a double-heaven week.
• Played Folklife for the first time in a very long time as myself!
• Féis Seattle 2012 - a respectable success by any measure
• The Ohio Scottish Arts School - It was even better than 2011 and has gifted me with lasting friendships.
• Team Member of the Year Award from NOAA's National Ocean Service
• First trip to Hawai'i - I wasn't expecting to fall so deeply in love with the place
• Last minute opportunity to be a presenter at Dusty Strings Harp Symposium
• A full year of funding for work at NOAA
• My favourite presidential candidate was re-elected
• Marriage equality won at the ballot box for the very first time in my country
• Lots of opportunities to sew and grow my tailoring skills
• Lots of opportunities to perform, and more yet to come this year

It hasn't been a perfect year, of course, but on balance it has been the best one in a very, very long time.

Independence Day

I didn't post this yesterday because I was deep in a project, but July 4th is my independence day also. In 1994, my bandmates Stan and Marisa bought a house in the University District which had a partially finished studio apartment in the basement. They were looking for someone to rent it, and I was more than ready to get out of Poulsbo, so at the tender age of 27 I left my parent's home.

That first night was pretty intense. Stan and Marisa and I went looking for fireworks on the spur of the moment. Probably doesn't seem like a big deal to a normal person, but to me the freedom to do that was like something out of a dream. No guilt trips. No ferry hassles. Just climb in the car with good friends and go. Later, as I was laying in bed in the dark in a basement the fear started to settle in. Would I be able to afford this life? Will my parents be OK? Is Mom laying in bed crying because I'm not there?

I lived in Stan and Marisa's basement for several very important years. I had some catching up to do in terms of learning to be a good housemate, but it worked out in the end. I started learning Gaelic while I lived there, got my Yule harp, and lived through the joy and heartbreak of the heyday of Wicked Celts.

When Stan and Marisa sold that house in April of 1998, things moved rapidly and I wound up settling for a dingy studio apartment in Northgate. At the time, I thought life had taken a terrible turn for the worse, but the gods had a plan. Slightly over a year later, in June of 1999 I moved from Northgate into my little rental house in Baile Ard. If I had been living somewhere less depressing, I might have hesitated to move and missed out on some of the happiest years of my life.

Thanks for helping me get out on my own, Stan and Marisa, and for taking me out in the Ford Explorer to celebrate my independence day all those years ago.

Happy 10th Ballardiversary!

Ten years ago today, I moved from a dark, oddly-shaped studio apartment in Northgate to an adorable duplex in Ballard. The place had just been vacated by a co-worker, who tipped me off to its availability. It was perfectly laid out for me, with a bedroom (yippee!) kitchen, dining area, living room, front yard, back patio and parking place and the rent was unbeatable. $650 a month!

After I moved in and got settled a little, I had a series of housewarming events over a weekend. Friday night was the house blessing and spellcasting party. I made up little spell kits with complete instructions and folks had a great time sprinkling saltwater, reciting charms and stringing up rowan berries. Saturday was a drop-in buffet for those with evening commitments and Saturday night was a grand céilidh with somewhere around sixty people singing, playing tunes and drinking gallons of scotch. Sunday was a "survivor's brunch" complete with a reenactment of the assault on the Death Star from Star Wars using primarily French cheese for all the actors and ships.

Over the next seven years, countless wonderful and moving things happened in that house. I threw at least twenty huge céilidhs for the Slighe nan Gaidheal community. There were times when every room, including the tiny bathroom, was packed with happy, laughing, singing people enjoying the little home I had made for myself.

My friend Pandora and I started the Winter Solstice Banquet, which usually entailed a full day of decorating, a day and a half of cooking and a full day of washing dishes and cleaning afterward. The traditions of heartfelt reflection and honest sharing that evolved around the Winter Solstice table will stay with me for as long as I live.

One year I held a birthday céilidh for my dear friend Kat which her evangelical parents attended. I was pretty nervous about not offending them and with controlling my reactions if they inadvertently offended me. I kept myself in an icy grip of self-control, but despite my fears we had a truly wonderful evening and found common ground despite our differences.

That house was also the last of my homes that my mother ever saw. The year that I moved there, I decided that I wanted to host the family Christmas celebration. It was a very big deal to me and it came off really well. I took the last photo of my Mom that I ever would that day. We blew it up and framed it for her memorial service.

Lingoman and I met while I was still living there in 2001. In the early years of our romance, he would come down to Seattle fairly often so we spent a lot of time in that house getting better acquainted. One weekend, we were getting ready to go out of town when I discovered an enormous dragonfly perched over my dining room table. I mean enormous and it had apparently decided to settle down and start a family with my Ikea light fixture. Being the son of a biologist, Lingoman had no problems capturing the guy unharmed and releasing him outside to rejoin the dragonfly dating pool. That next Solstice, he gave me a beautiful cast aluminum tray decorated with dragonflies. Every time I see it I think "he will help me deal with my fears."

In January 2006, I received notice from the landlords that they had sold the place to a developer, who would be tearing it down to build townhouses. After crying for a week, I picked my self up and started looking into buying a place, since I never wanted to get that kind of letter again. With help and guidance from my wonderful realtor, Sara, I found the condo in which I now live. I moved at the beginning of August, 2006. It's a nice place; comfortable and convenient, but not set up for entertaining. Life has become rather solitary as a result and I struggle with that.

The developer didn't get around to demolishing the place until January 2nd, 2007. I got a call from my former neighbors while I was driving Lingoman to the airport to fly home. By the time I got there, it was all over. You can see my stove on which seven Winter Solstice Banquets were prepared in the pile of rubble if you look closely.

I often ask myself if I would trade the more upscale conveniences of this place to have my little duplex back. The answer is still 'yes.' I would go back if I could.