My Canoe Has A Hole In It

Cincinnati saw the lowest recorded temperature of -25°F in 1977. I was nine at the time and was ecstatic at the amount of snow, canceled school days, and the witness of redneck antics like driving an Impala across the frozen Ohio River to Kentucky. That summer, fishing on the banks, I wondered what it would be like to see the Kentucky I had been staring at for all these years. If Terry's brothers could do it in a car then I could accomplish the same in a canoe. I was enchanted at how rugged and thick the mountains seemed. A train would split the silence every now and then giving a burst of life to an otherwise unforgiving landscape. I had to go. I boarded a canoe and began my journey unbeknownst to family and friends.

In the middle of the river I came to believe that I had made a huge mistake. The river was much wider than I had imagined. From my perspective where I fished in looked like it would take perhaps as long as eating a Sno Kone. I was wrong. I shared the channel with barges and debris I hadn't counted on. To say I was in a shitpanic would be an understatement. I could feel the deep beneath me and the current pulled at my paddle bringing to mind horror stories of beckoning dead. Having an over active imagination does not help in a time of crisis. Paddling became a chore as my limbs went numb. I attempted to stay on course but the river carried me a ways down stream. This was my first lesson of powerlessness. I wouldn't recommend to anyone under twenty attempting this let alone ten.

I reached the banks of Kentucky and strangely enough it looked the same as Ohio. I found several creeks to venture up and there were otter slides, deer, kingfishers, catfish, carp and all the sounds and smells I had grown to know in my own backyard. Somehow I thought this would be like the Hobbit's adventure outside the Shire. It was beautiful, but not as romantic as I had hoped. It would be a few years from then when I would find my true love in the swamps of Bodcau. I found my way back to where I could sit across the river from where I fished. I would have said my little town looked like a Norman Rockwell painting if I knew who he was at the time. I do remember feeling that I wanted to be back home knowing I was safe. I missed my family. I could see some of my friends riding bikes on Front Street but they couldn't hear me as I yelled and waived. I wanted some kind of recognition that I had accomplished this feat of bravery but I knew the majority would not believe me and if they did they would consider it stupidity. Staring across at the day's activities the river looked quite different now because I knew what to expect. Reluctantly I pushed off the Kentucky banks and paddled for all I was worth. Since I'm writing this at the age of forty it's safe to say I made it.

Internally I have crossed many rivers. I have battled conflicting currents, debris of doubt, and oncoming ships of sabotage. During meditation at a Buddhist Sangha, the reader read a portion from Thich Naht Hahn's writings that stated, with regards to religious pursuits, that "the canoe is not the Shore." Never had such a statement arrested me. Regardless of whether I was in that car crossing the river of winter or in a canoe fighting the waters of summer, we were all headed towards the same destination. Is it possible to find that same acceptance in my brother's Islamic pursuit, or in my sister's Mormon quest? Can I encourage and applaud the Hindu that looks at me with a suspicious eye as I stand three feet higher than everyone else in the temple? As I watched the Greek and Armenian Orthodox fist fight within the Church over bragging rites I had to wonder why? Aren't they in the same canoe headed for the same Shore? I have always pursued religious paths because I saw a distant land that might hold the answer. Romanticizing a practice or belief I would become disenchanted after crossing their mountain of acceptance or navigating their bayous of belief only to find more questions than answers. Could the answer be within the quest and not the destination?

The bearded wonders of The Eastern Orthodox Church taught me that salvation is a birthing process, not a defined singular moment. They also believe that salvation began when Mary said yes, not when a person reads the Sinner's Prayer. Chewing on this for a few years I would say I agree. I don't believe a faith will ever intoxicate me or enchant me as The Way did. But, cultural differences and unyielding requirements forced me to leave the smells and bells. My venture through Protestantism found me in several fox holes firing shots at those I was told were the enemy. I really had no knowledge of which I was shooting at, all I knew was that they were different and that fear justified our character assassinations of them. I had no 'All's Quiet on the Western Front' revelation but I did sense a lot of hype to reassure each other of things we were all uncertain of. Sort of like watching brothers and sisters trying to cope without a father. Buddhism was an extremely refreshing rest area where I was welcomed and tolerated. The encouragement from them to remain a better version of my previous faith or to seek further was not for enlightenment purposes but because I was a guest, not family. Those who have gone deep within this practice know that of which I speak. Hindus taught me that what I seek is the guiding Source within us all. After all these experiences I still find myself on a distant shore wishing I were home knowing that I am safe.

Will I ever be anything but a bastard without a homeland? How many more canoes will I try? I believe I have found an unlikely vessel to reach the shore within the Catholic Church. This Easter I will be brought into full communion with the very place I was taught was the Synagogue of Satan led by the anti-Christ. Catholics are relieved that President Elect Obama has been awarded the title of the anti-Christ so they get a break for at least four years. Still the echoes of a friend's humorous jab left me wondering. Will I again become disenchanted along the way?

At our first meeting Fr. Larry assured me that God would provide answers but that they may not be the ones I'm prepared to except. Once I made the decision to convert he assured me that this was just the first step on my journey. I walked away thinking I came so far to rest only to be told that the journey has just begun. I trust him and that is a big issue with me. When speaking with him I feel like I'm in a Verizon commercial. He would answer a theological question of mine and millions behind would give him a thumbs up saying, "You're good!" How can you argue with such an in depth history? Even if you disagree with some of their questionable practices and minute dogma, the underlining fact that the Church gave us scripture, scripture didn't give us the Church is irrefutable.

Are not the same human issues prevalent wherever two or more are gathered? I have been surprised that this Catholic canoe seems to have more than enough room for my baggage. I have discovered an acceptance among priests that really reflects the teachings of Christ. This has pleasantly surprised me. The parishioners are another matter entirely as I have noticed that many walk the aisle to receive then leave not knowing why they do so in the first place.

This time I think I will 'take the cotton out of my ears and put it in my mouth' as an old man in Memphis suggested. I have my side of the street to keep clean. I wish I could reassure myself but I know the reality of crossing yet another river and it isn't an attractive option. Must be the mountain in me that keeps me wondering what the promise of distant lands will bring. "The way that you wonder is the way that you choose. The day that you tarry is the day that you lose. Sunshine, rain or thunder, a man will always wonder where the fair wind blows." Here's hoping.