A hearty fist bump

While I wouldn’t exactly say that my days are as ordered now as they were when Diane was still alive, there is some predictability now. With minimal exceptions, each day involves coffee (generally Highlander Grogg, with flavors of butterscotch and faux rum), cats (a species I may have mentioned previously), a devotional time, a walk (often but not always at Fern Island), and generous doses of both writing and reading. This is the pattern of my days now, and I’m reminded (being old) of the long-distant commercial with the tag line, “Cotton — the fabric of our lives.” I can’t quite remember why it was thought necessary to advertise cotton, but I suppose there were those in the South who feared the rise of alternatives like rayon. “Naugahyde — the abomination of our sofas!” There are no naugas left; they went extinct sometime in the 1980s, when people began to discover that a polyvinyl chloride coating has some disadvantages. It was impervious to spilt coffee, though; and that’s all I have to say about that, absent a generous grant from the Uniroyal Corporation.

Well, back to reading. I ordered the book Beyond Awkward Side Hugs, by Bronwyn Lea. I’ve never met anyone named Bronwyn; it’s a Welsh name, and I actually don’t think I’ve had an openly Welsh friend, even. In high school, our concert band did once perform a piece called Mannin Veen, which means “dear Isle of Man”, which isn’t the same as Wales, but memories come to me unbidden, and I force them into these essays as best I can. Some people don’t like that, but they need to keep reading, if they ever want to share in the windfall I’m expecting every day from the Uniroyal Corporation. I’ve never had a side hug, either, but I’ve read about the dangers of scoliosis. “Often, no treatment is necessary,” says Wikipedia in a reassuring tone, but “often” isn’t the same as “invariably”, now is it? I’m notably risk-averse, which isn’t apparently true of Bronwyn, whose name means “white raven” in Welsh, and yet she’s happily married with a flourishing writing career, proving that etymology isn’t destiny.

The book addresses the question of what healthy opposite-sex friendships in the church might look like. The church circles I inhabit — well, it’s mostly an ellipse — are like most in that this is an issue that never gets publicly discussed. Well, I’m discussing it, or at least writing about it; like my old pal I. A. Horowitz, I’m “courageously heading for the most difficult variation”, as he said admiringly of a brave chessplayer who challenged him to a game. Our culture — I’m sorry to have to say it now, but there are some problems with our culture — is good with extremes, but terrible at the via media, the middle way. That’s because we are afraid of the dialectic, the fuzzy fractal place where things are muddled and confusing. Did you know that fear is, well, nothing to fear? I write as someone for whom panic is more or less a lifestyle, but anyone can write. Well, not just anyone. One needs some credibility, and a Chromebook, or a simulacrum thereof.

Bronwyn reinforces something I’ve long asserted, which is that we all need community; none of us can successfully walk alone. To find and to maintain community, we need to stop thinking that everything fits into neat little boxes. (Sing with me, older readers who remember Pete Seeger: “There’s a pink one, and a green one, and a blue one, and a yellow one, and they’re all made out of ticky-tacky, and they all look just the same!”) Our hypersexualized culture misses the fact that everything we do is as a gendered person; I didn’t become genderless when Diane died, though I became a widower, which has been hard enough. There are many forms of love — storge and phileo and agape — that are entirely available to and permissible for me, without my having to violate any rules (and I do believe wholeheartedly in the rules); and we all need connection. The Bible uses the metaphor of brothers and sisters (adelphoi) for a reason: we’re in a family, and we need to find ways to act like that. When I was growing up, I loved my brother. He liked to wear a pumpkin costume, but that only made me more fond of him.

She also has a chapter on carpooling as a metaphor for dating, which is interesting. My car beeps whenever I cross a line, so I don’t have to worry. “Can’t that be disabled?” asked a friend the other day. “Yes, but I like having something about which to complain!” I replied. Well, I do. It’s either a beeping vehicle or the Trilateral Commission, which to my knowledge can’t be disabled. Better people than I am have tried, in their gendered way.

So, I recommend the book. I can get e-books from Kindle with just one click — we live in dangerous yet exciting times. It’s a quick read, and as you read it, you’ll learn a few things about Australia, which isn’t anywhere near Wales. From one perspective, this was a minor flaw in the book; but I consoled myself by humming Mannin Veen, which I avoid doing at the express line in the grocery store. I go there to purchase coffee, so that if I ever encounter any Naugahyde, I’ll be ready. And at church, I greet others with a hearty fist bump, which is the safest way to express gentle affection.