Comparison is the Eighth Deadly Sin

I used to be friends with a dental hygienist

who judged people by their teeth

and so my mind begins to wonder

about the condition of my bicuspids and molars

so much that we eventually drift apart.

If this is true for teeth, says Perfectionist,

then surely other experts cultivate

similar measures for acceptance?

And so, the professions of various acquaintances

begin a long march across the field of comparison.

The merchandising manager at the dress shop

had to know about my threadbare closet

(how the floral blouse always shows up on Wednesdays)

and thus my limited wardrobe would invariably

have to circumvent that friendship

A psychologist raises my lingering suspicion

that he has X-ray vision into my psyche;

the nurse knows instinctively about that small goiter

the fireman discerns the smoke detector battery must be dead

and a pastor knows the hidden depths of my soul

Expert knowledge becomes a smile killer,

beauty competition, mental or physical health exam

home safety evaluation and a spiritual assessment

if everyone can see me the way I see myself

All those not-so-hidden little faults on parade

And it crushes me then that my life as a poet

could possibly discourage others as they read my words

quash so many, if they think I look at their writing

with some measure of carefully crafted eloquence

and find them wanting.

Comparison kills.

On the other hand, connection grows

if we set aside the rulers

human measures of success

better-than, less-than subjectivity

then, we are grateful to learn from friends 

the life-giving principles of collaboration,

share knowledge like a library loans books

our own personal Wikipedia

downloaded from one to another

Expertise to build a life:

that caring for teeth improves overall health

certain clothing can minimize body flaws

that no, it’s not just me

who feels inadequate at times

If we only compare notes about life. love. longing.
put down one-upmanship, then
home can be safe, goiters can be treated
and redemption is possible, 

even for a judgmental hygienist
or a renegade poet.



Picture: depositphotos.com #5431243, standard license

Report on Conditions in Latest Search

I search down empty country roads, around city street corners in the dark, street lights a flat white mockery: "Who ya lookin for?" I look through page after blank page of internet lore, lies and appearances, late night LED screen, URLs that show me everything and tell me nothing. I search the eyes of children who grieve through laughter and liquor, stumble blurry eyed through books required, unable to absorb. I lean into laundry, check pockets, shake out wrinkles, dry tears that never come. I read the children's book and velveteen rabbit tells me you're only real when someone loves you. I watch birthday and Christmas come and go like a freight train at the controlled crossing, arms down, wheels clucking, red light flashing left and right, "He left, that's right, get back on track, Jack."

I sign up for the right to mingle amongst mug shots, thousands of marital rejects gathered and groping in misnamed dating sites that are more e-discord than harmony, looking for someone with tender eyes and strong shoulders. And I, the Jack of all trades and master of none, add to my shelf the latest trophy: Champion Lover of the Not Real.

I read my journals, wander through memory. I find you finally. There. Right there. In black and white. Imprinted on every page of every book. The subject of every poem written by every poet. Standing on every street corner waiting for the light to turn green to cross over to my street. Embroidered on the clean white bed sheets drying out in the Alberta wind, engraved on the leather-gripped steering wheel of the German sports car, emblazoned on the label of every wine bottle, basting on every rack of juicy ribs. Filling up my mind, firing every synapse, invading every procrastinated decision. Tattooed in the deepening lines on my face. Touching my hair. Expanding to fill my body, my days until there is room for nothing else.

And nothing it is. You are everywhere and nowhere all at once. Your silence is my solitary confinement. Who are you? Where are you?

The weather reports the highway is bare and dry. All roads leading home are wide open. The want ads report single white female, 50-something, with aging dog, seeks long lost friend for daily communion. Telus, Bell and Rogers report all cellular towers working with no static. The Bible reports that faith, hope and love still hang out together, but love. Ah, love. Contrary to what you might think. It's Real.

It shows up in the strangest places. When the last jigsaw piece is placed. The last line of the play is spoken. Where women cry and men clear their throats, shift from one foot to the other. Where searchers gather, torch lights raised. Where eyes lock so briefly for so long and the SOS is transmitted.

My religion reports that what I really seek is not you but God. But even God admits it's not good to be alone.



Photo credit: Joyce Rempel

Virtual Reality

I wake slow and easy on a Saturday. Love on the dog, choose bits and bytes before brekkie, dig through the web to surf, sit around the net warming my open hands to stories, to life.

Stand beside my niece on her first trip to the ocean. Drink satisfaction in the recording studio with my son. Witness jellyfish and whales with Dale. Sing "In the Jungle" with Billy and Jimmy. Mock Alberta Spring with Marcia. Weep with two widows, dancing together on our ashes.

David shows why otherness is worth the hazard and John reminds me there's no transformation without brokenness. Serena shares a cup of grace, that faith isn't about perfecting a behavioral combination - it's about trust. Period.

And I pray gratitude for

• an office in a spacious place
• enlarged borders
• forgiveness found and forwarded

This isn't social networking
This is the net working like a Body
All parts a part
A living breathing
Virtual. Virtuous. Vibrant. Reality
of love, loss, beauty and truth

Good morning friends.
God's got this -
holding us all in wide open
grace-scarred hands
and we get to be here
holding each other
and this dear reality.