Alone as All One

For much of my life I've felt like the odd man out. That guy who never really fits in. A bit of a misfit in some respects, but not in a woe-is-me kind of way. Just different. That's led to much of my life being in solitude, doing my own things, often alone. This aloneness started at an early age. Living in a trailer park where there weren't many other kids to play with, I found ways to entertain myself. My older sister was around some of the time, but she was often busy doing her own thing. Personality-wise, we were very different; she was precocious, always keen on being with the adults and participating in their conversations, even as a kid. Whereas I was quiet, demure and uncertain. When we moved to live in another trailer, this time on a farm near my paternal grandparents and my father's extended family, I was further isolated. My sister was in school during the day, which left me alone at home with my mom for two years. Back then, we didn't have 24/7 kids' entertainment on TV, so there wasn't much to do. I somehow got myself occupied, but I learned to live in my head a lot. Back then, I could sense the tension between my parents. It was one-sided; my dad was cruel to my mom. It was clear he didn't enjoy being with any of us and spent little time there. He was mean to all of us. I guess my mom thought that was how it was supposed to be; she accepted it, sadly. He didn't have anything good to say about or to me. He nicknamed me "Sarah" because I watched a kids' program in the mornings where the hostess's name was Sarah. He took good fun in making fun of me. It hurt a lot, even then. Rejection was what I learned from him at an early age.

When I finally started school and got to take the hour-long bus ride with my sister, I felt overwhelmed by all the big kids on the bus. I was nervous and scared. I got laughed at for my buzz cut, something my dad gave me, because it was the early 70s and all the boys had long hippie hair—the same hair that is very much in vogue today. Thankfully, at school my same-age cousin was there and she provided a sense of familiarity. Belonging. I learned how to socialize with the other kids, but mostly with my cousin and her girlfriends. I was that boy.

I already knew I didn't like things my male cousins liked. I wasn't into hockey—they'd already joined the pee-wee league. I didn't participate in their rough and tumble activities during family get-togethers. My shyness and insecurities were painful. I sensed "difference" from the get go. And on many levels, it hurt. I was confused.

We moved to an acreage on the outskirts of town after four years on the farm. It was owned by my great uncle and my father was considering buying it because it had buildings to house the machinery he used in the landscaping business he'd started. That was a short-lived idea because he left us the following year. His departure was a good thing. I never liked his presence.

Adjacent to the property we lived on was a trailer park—yes, a recurrent theme—where lots of kids lived. I met new friends and started to come out of my shell a bit more. It was interesting to see how other kids' families lived, to play in the streets until nightfall, to laugh and have fun. On the acreage, a number of old cars were parked behind one of the buildings. I never knew why, but we'd play in them, imagine ourselves driving, being chased, etc. There was also a playhouse we could play in. We didn't spend a lot of time in it because it was too confining for our energies. Another thing I remember is the garbage barrel behind the garage where we'd burn literally all our garbage. Who knows what kind of toxins were being emitted into the environment. The lawns encircling the old white house with its painted red shingled roof were enormous. When dad was around he'd pay me $0.25 to cut the grass. It took a long time, but 25 cents back then was enough for a few pieces of candy—something we never had in our house.

My trailer park buddy Ray was a year older than me. I think he had a learning impairment; he was in the "slow class" as it was called. We'd play in the trailer park with other kids, ride our bikes all over town together, sometimes with Gary who was a year older than Ray. I don't remember how it started, but Ray and I would do role playing. It started in the playhouse and in those old cars. He'd be the boyfriend and I was the girlfriend. We'd kiss and make out. The dialogue would be of this imagined couple. We'd be taking road trips. Then we'd park and make out, pretending to be at lovers' lane. There had been a lovers' lane near the farm where we lived—young people would drive down it and make out. Often they'd get stuck in the mud and need to walk to nearby farmers to ask for help. Every community back then had a lovers' lane.

One day, when Ray and I were in the backseat having one of our passionate make-out sessions, we were suddenly interrupted by Gary. He'd been trying to find us and must have seen our bikes near the old cars. We didn't hear him approach. When he saw us making out he freaked out and asked us what we were doing. He was very agitated. I sat in silence and Ray did the talking. I never fully understood if Gary was angry about the fact that we were making out or that we hadn't included him.

From that day forward, the making out stopped.

The only other foray into same-sex activity as a kid was when we still lived on the farm and were spending the night at our grandparents' house because the parents were going to a social event. The four boy cousins were in one room. The two female cousins in the other. I was in the bed with my younger cousin and the two other boys were sleeping on the floor. They were making a lot of noise and when we asked what they were doing they said "fucking". I didn't know what this meant. They explained they were taking turns putting the peters (the word we used for penises) inside each other. I remember feeling mortified. I had no idea what this meant or why they'd be doing it. My bed partner wanted to try but I was having none of it. I often wonder how these men would react if I ever brought this up with them now. Me being the only one who is gay now.

I became more of a loner after the fracas with Ray and Gary. Somehow, when I was 12, I got initiated into a group of cool kids. I'm not even sure how it happened. But that year, grade 6, was one of the best of my childhood. My teacher was amazing. She treated us with more respect than the other teachers. Something about her approach made me thrive. While I was doing all sorts of experimentation with the cool kids—drinking, smoking pot, and generally starting down a path that could have led to no good—I was also getting the best marks of my school life to date.

The 12-year-old debauchery ended as quickly as it started. By the end of the school year, something inside of me told me this was not my path. I told the leader of our posse that I wasn't going to be friends with them anymore. This made him very hostile. I thought he was going to beat me up, and he was a strong kid, already lifting weights and building a muscular physique. But I walked away, never to turn back. One of those boys died an early death related to his drug use. The leader ended up killing someone in a drunk driving accident.

As I grew into my teen years I had no friends. There were another set of cousins from my mom's side of the family who I started to hang with. They lived at a nearby city. I'd take the bus there for overnighters on the weekends. I already had pocket money from jobs I was doing. My weekdays were very isolating. I lived to have connection on the weekends. Most of them were older than me and they too were into partying. I learned to drink early. Thankfully, it never got out of control.

I got a car at 14 and would drive to see my cousins and their friends. I didn't have my license because I was too young, but I didn't care. I needed to connect, to feel some sense of community.

When I entered high school I started to make friends. I was working in a local motel and restaurant. I loved making money, having things to do, and spending the money as quickly as I made it. Booze still played a role in my life, not unlike it did for most small-town kids back then. There were bush parties every weekend. There were deaths resulting from these, too. Too many traffic fatalities attributed to drunken driving. When I look back I count my lucky stars that I wasn't one of those fatalities.

During these years there were attempts at girlfriends. Most of this was contrived to try to fit in with the group. I never felt much for girls; I saw them more as friends than people to date. The few dates I did go on were uneventful. I didn't know why it was this way. In many ways I think I believed I was a broken kid from a broken family and that's just how it was going to be.

I left that town as fast as I could after high school and moved to Edmonton. I lived with my cousin and a friend initially. The friend didn't last long. I think mostly because my cousin and I didn't make it a very hospitable place to live. Over the next few years I attended college, then university. I worked part-time to support myself. I made friends through school and work. I started to develop a better sense of who I was. But this feeling of aloneness, of difference pervaded. I didn't know what it was or why. And yet, I had amassed a number of male pornographic magazines which I'd masturbate to frequently.

My cousin and I had gone our separate ways. His studies were going well and he was becoming a talented creative. Me on the other hand, was stumbling. Stuck in unfulfilling work and not really connecting to my studies. I did more socializing and drinking than anything else. I was lost but didn't know it. I was angry all the time.

My cousin came out to me and shortly after my friend who'd lived with us did as well. I'm not sure why, or what kind of denial I was living in, but I was shocked. My cousin had a girlfriend for a while which concealed his identity. Having both these men come out to me was the opening I needed to sort out who I was in my mind. Clearly, I was already acting out my prurient needs with porn. I hadn't yet connected in real life with a guy. That didn't seem feasible for some reason.

When I finally came out to myself it was a big relief, but mostly anticlimactic. I hung out with my cousin and his growing group of gay friends. They were a couple years older, much more savvy gay than myself. Most were attractive, in interesting careers already. I felt like the ugly duckling. The sad tag-along cousin.

I started making my own group of gay friends through university. I encircled myself with strong female friends. I didn't have many male friends, which has been a pattern throughout my life. Men perplexed me. I never fully understood how to interact with them. Even when I was dating, which was rare, I seemed clueless.

A colleague friend who was a single mom and a wonderful person subtly suggested that I should talk to her therapist. She could see that I was struggling with issues. The first guy I had sex with was amongst my gay group of university friends. He was in a relationship but would like to steal kisses from me when he could. One night we ended up back at my place together. The sex was not great. I couldn't perform; I was too nervous. He didn't seem phased and got himself off. I was mortified by the situation and couldn't face him again. This led to me exiting myself from that group of friends. I was back on the loner track for a while. The colleague friend could see this pain. The fact that I was a gay young man, unable to connect with other men because of my deep-seated fear of rejection, was obvious to her. For whatever reason I agreed and became a therapy client for a period.

Within a matter of weeks, I was opening up, being able to connect with my emotions, to understand some of my thinking. It was a powerful few months of figuring shit out. It was after those eight weekly sessions when I decided to take a break from it, feeling confident I was ready to maneuver through the next stage, that I met my first love.

In retrospect, continuing with the therapy would have likely been the best choice, but it wasn't the one I made. I figured that love would save the day. Having this stunning, outgoing, kind and gregarious man suddenly in my life, seemed too good to be true. We had a blissful summer together. We both worked at the same restaurant, where I'd picked up a few shifts to make extra money. I was introduced to his close-knit circle of friends. They welcomed me in. But they were tight, so it wasn't a full embrace.

The first few weeks were blissful. I'd never had such feelings. I felt empowered and at the same time a bit untethered. This was unfamiliar territory and I had no reference for what a gay relationship was supposed to look like. At times things flowed like clockwork and other times I'd feel confused and frustrated. He had very clear boundaries about his priorities. I was number four on the list: family, university, and dance—he was in a troupe. In my life, he was number one. A recipe for a broken heart already.

The summer was a wonderful time, but when he returned to studies in the fall, things shifted dramatically. We'd still spend time together on weekends, but not always. As our time together lessened I felt a sense of desperation. On some level I knew he was slipping away and I didn't know what I thought I needed to do to keep him. No one likes the energy of despair. It wasn't long before we were sitting at one of our favourite restaurants when he told me it was over. It felt cruel for him to do that in a public place. I couldn't contain my tears. It was humiliating and infuriating. I couldn't make sense of it. It felt like my life was over.

Somehow, I muddled through those emotions over the next few days and weeks. To add salt to the wound, his new boyfriend would come to the restaurant and sit with us at the end of our shift as we did our closing procedures. I didn't understand narcissism back then, but I experienced it full throttle.

All the gay friends around me were sexually active, living their best 20-something lives, or so it seemed. And I was trying to make sense of who I was. The therapy, the relationship and a chance reading by a psychic who told me everything would shift significantly at 28, catapulted me into a determination to make some changes. I didn't know how or what, but I eventually landed on returning to university at 28, uprooting and moving to the west coast to do so, and finding a turning point that I couldn't have dreamed of.

For the next four years I'd grow into myself, get clear about my values, learn to develop deeper friendships, understand how to be more honest with myself, or at least let that doorway open a bit. I developed a strong group of women friends and mentors. There were some males too, but they often disappeared into their relationships or other commitments. These women were like bedrock to my slippery sense of self. They helped me to finally feel a sense of belonging. Of finally being seen. They worked or were involved in a campus organization that was doing social change work. I was introduced to new progressive concepts and social activism. I was respected in the organization because I had some life experience under my belt, unlike many of the students who participated in the group. It was amazing to feel respected and valued in ways I never had. It was truly transformational.

As in grade 6, I excelled. My grades were exceptional. Though I didn't graduate summa cum laude, in my mind I'd achieved the unachievable. While all of this was moving me forward, there was still a part of me that felt alone, different, not whole. I realized during this period that it wasn't going to be a man that made me feel whole; that somehow that was my responsibility. I'd observed how many people rely on their partners to make them happy, feel needed, etc. I didn't want to put that burden on someone else. That was my work to do. The most important relationship in my life was with myself. I needed to figure out how to love myself—though I didn't have that language for it at the time—before any relationship with another man could work.

These positive changes and immense growth lead to me landing a dream job a few years later. Once again, I found myself moving to a new city, this time across the country, where I knew no one, for a job I'd have for the next 25 years.

My work was in the labour movement. While a full one third of Canadians were unionized, mostly in the public sector, very few Canadians understood what work for the union meant. Most, including my family, assumed I worked for the federal public service. My career mirrored my life. It was misunderstood. In the early days I'd find myself defending the union and the union movement when people asked what I did—some of this was my own defensive nature I can now see—and I quickly tired of that so I didn't explain it any longer and let people make their assumptions.

I was now doing similar work to that I'd done on campus with those powerhouse women, but now I was being paid a great salary, with benefits and a pension. I was set.

One of my powerful female friends introduced me to yoga. During this period yoga became a staple in my life. I was the skinny kid, the one always picked last in the sports team lineups at gym class, the demure kid with the curly hair and freckles who was often mistaken for a girl, that timid kid who was too shy to stand up for himself and more often than not at a loss for words. Scared. Shaken. Uncertain.

Suddenly, I was in my body, connected to it, working with it, and learning to love it in ways only the eastern traditions can offer. My love for yoga was parallel to my growing self-love. Love my body, love myself. I had started working out in my mid-20s so I understood that I could build more muscle—though it was a slow process on my ectomorphic body. Yoga was something deeper. I was blessed with a great teacher from the first class. She addressed it as much more than a physical practice. When I moved to Ottawa, I found another amazing teacher at a local community centre who helped to deepen my connection to it and to myself.

I joined other yoga classes and my body started to open up in new and magical ways. When one of my favourite teachers stepped back from her classes I did too. I started to practice on my own, to follow my own path, to listen to my inner guide about what to do. This served me for a couple years but then I sensed I needed more. My love for facilitation work, which was a big part of my career, could be coupled with yoga if I became a teacher. This realization took me on a journey of over two decades after my eight initial years of practice.

I studied yoga with an Indian man who was running a training program with his wife at one of the yoga studios. This was the first stage in my journey to spiritual awakening. I didn't know this would happen and wouldn't have embarked on it had I. Sometimes ignorance is truly bliss. The kundalini awakening experience I had in one of those first weekend training sessions showed me how much more there is to this life than the limited 3D approach we've been indoctrinated into. I knew in that moment I was entering a mystical phase, one that I wouldn't be able to talk openly about or have understood by most. Again, I was in this singular position. Different. Misunderstood—or so I thought.

My spiritual awakening was a surprise. It started with that first glimpse into consciousness. Many otherworldly experiences would occur for years. I dove deep into meditation. Initially, I simply sat in stillness. I heard my body opening up, my pelvis releasing into the seated position, making noises as it adjusted to this new way of sitting. There was no pain; it was a literal opening. I later immersed myself in yogic and tantra teaching through my teacher that provided a range of powerful techniques. My journey within deepened. I was able to find stillness and clarity on the mat. I worked with an energy healer who cleaned up what felt like cosmic cobwebs within me, so that lifeforce could move freely; so that blocked-up energy of unresolved trauma and emotions could exit. At times energy moved through my body in pulsations that I simply trusted, knowing that it was beyond the rational mind. My arms would flail. My head would rotate from side to side with greater speed than I could muster if I were doing it of my own volition. I might begin coughing and expelling toxic phlegm from deep within me, feeling it starting from a knot of energy in my torso and eventually making its way up and out of my throat. This could go on for long periods of time. I was grateful there was no one to witness this, as they would have been alarmed. But I knew I was safe. I didn't question any of it. I knew my body was cleansing what it needed to.

This happened over years, not weeks. I'd sit on my mat at home, alone, and my body would move in ways I couldn't control. Sometimes I'd be there for an hour, sometimes just twenty minutes. The experience was always different, always surprising. I learned to trust the process, to not impose my rational mind on what was happening. There was an intelligence at work that was far greater than my ego's need to understand.

Stillness became my friend, my confidant, my sanctuary. It is to this day. This deep connection to self was the relationship I'd been craving, yearning for. And I'd found it.

When my teacher shared the teaching that all our answers are found in stillness I knew this to be true. I'd experienced it.

All of this deep discovery made the challenges and perceived unnecessary pain of daily living bearable. I started to live the teachings that this 3D life is all an illusion, maya. It's the deeper stillness where truth lies.

Yet those daily struggles and challenges tugged at me, kept me connected to the phenomenal world, reminding me of this human journey—with all that entails. On the one hand, I was on a journey of growth and expansion that words can't fully convey. And yet, there was the other part of me that I had to face as well.

Over the next few decades, I dated. I'd have a few relationships that turned out to not be relationships; they'd tell me after months of hanging out with each other, spending nights together, daily communications, that we were explicitly not in a relationship. I couldn't figure out why this was happening. In the early days, I couldn't face my shadow self. Instead, I wallowed in victimhood to a degree, I seethed with anger—mostly towards men—and I felt desperately alone. I'd force myself to the bars from time to time, but invariably would stand there like a wallflower, drinking my beers, smoking my cigarettes, until I couldn't bear the pain of it any longer, and would retreat to my home, feeling rejected.

Porn and anonymous hook-ups were the norm. Sometimes I was more careless than others. Trips to the sexual health clinics were regular, as were the occasional treatments for infections. Every HIV test left me numb, waiting for the results. I never faced a positive result, fortunately.

The yoga journey was the light in my life. The dream job's glow had faded. But I found great joy in creating a yoga studio that was all my own. I could teach in a way that resonated with me and the teachings I'd embodied through years of study. I was a consummate student, eager to learn more and go deeper in the tradition. I loved sharing this deeper understanding with students. Those who trained with me to become teachers were exceptional in their craft. My embodiment of what I'd immersed myself in was authentic in ways many others weren't. It separated the teacher from the instructor. I had discipline. I was better. This is the thinking that kept me isolated from the yoga community. The lone wolf who thought his way was the best way. This came through the lineage-based approach I learned. The guru worship that is proffered in most spiritual traditions. I bought into it hook, line and sinker. It served me well, until it didn't.

After studying with my first teacher for 15 years and the subsequent one for 5, I sought freedom from others telling me the tools and techniques I needed for the next level of evolution. This stepping away is not an act of rebellion, but an act of autonomy. One that any good teacher, including mine, advocates for. Again, finding myself alone, but in a new way. One that only someone who has advanced in their awakening can truly understand. Alone as all one.

As I've entered this next chapter, a whole new approach to my connection with men has risen. When I decided to bring my years of experience into coaching, another level of awakening occurred. There was a realization that some of the shadow aspects of me had been spiritually bypassed. I hadn't addressed them at all. I'd been so focused on the transcendent—the meditation, the energy work, the mystical experiences—that I'd conveniently sidestepped the messy, relational work. The intimacy. The vulnerability with other men. The fear of rejection that had haunted me since childhood. I'd used spiritual practice as a sophisticated escape hatch, a way to transcend the very wounds I needed to face.

By facing some of these issues—the ones that tend to show up on the day-to-day—I grew more. It helped me see how I'd been avoiding men most of my life. That I'd conveniently been protecting myself from facing my fears by focusing on the positive aspects of spiritual practice. New tools like journalling, self-inquiry, and practicing publicly how to have conversations with men prepared me for what was next. I had to learn to be present with discomfort, to sit with the vulnerability of not knowing, to risk rejection in real time rather than transcend it on the meditation mat.

For the last few years I've worked with men exclusively, helping them to navigate their midlife crossroads and find meaning and purpose for the next stage. The wonderful tools I was provided with in my yoga and personal development journey now serve my coaching clients beautifully. In doing this work, I've healed a lot of my issues with men. Not through therapy or even deep reflection, but through connection and service.

But there was still something I needed to face: my connection with gay men. A mentor challenged me to start now to build community for gay men online. To create a podcast for gay men over 50 who, like me, are experiencing a range of challenges and changes as they enter midlife and beyond. My ultimate goal is to create co-living environments for aging gay men, so they don't have to live alone in isolation. The challenge was to build that community online first—connect with legions of men from which some will one day be part of co-living environments. This suggestion warmed my heart. It's perplexing how what's painfully obvious sometimes isn't.

As these things go, momentum picked up quickly and my life's work is now aligned in ways I couldn't have previously imagined.

This powerful shift has laid the groundwork for the foundation of the Wisdom Trust. I'm now ready, willing and able to work with gay men exclusively. To create a platform where we can share our stories, learn and grow together, and free ourselves of the baggage that may still be keeping us from our true essence. It is a stage of life for deep honesty, for radical authenticity and for growth like we've not seen before. Breaking the patterns, habits, and beliefs that have kept us fractured individually and collectively. Creating a pathway for living as whole beings, free from the bounds of the past, free to become our best selves.

In these wisdom years we can tap into all that we've experienced, the many lessons life has taught us, and use the depth of knowledge to rise to new levels. This is a time for great personal power and freedom. Free to be the best versions of ourselves—and to take the time to figure out what this is. To leave judgment and uncertainty behind and open to the hand that guides us, the higher self.

This work together is more than a podcast to listen to. It's about sharing and contributing to community forums, hanging out in live events, showing up for in-person events when they are planned and being open to the new. We want to rekindle the curiosity we had as kids at this stage. None of us have it all figured out, but we can certainly help each other navigate what's ahead. We have the tools now. Isolation is a choice, not a necessity. It's a time for more community, not less. For greater connection, not isolation. For aligning with deeper purpose by being with others. To age intentionally, not gracefully.