I've been asked to contribute a piece for the gay men's spirituality magazine White Crane Jounal, on the heavy and difficult topic of money, one of my least favorite things. This is the raw version of that article, presented here for vetting and your thoughts.

Some would probably call it a low point in one’s childhood, the day the block of welfare cheese arrives in its stark white box. True, times were very hard, and it was certainly represented a blow for a mother who worked multiple jobs to pay for her only son’s specialized schooling and who herself was brought up with all the trimmings of upper class society. But for me, a ten year-old awkward child who didn’t quite understand the symbolism, it was a blessing. While for my mother this handout was probably something of a last straw, it presented an opportunity for unusual and imaginative culinary misadventures. It was a challenge for my little hands to cut and its hue was so artificially orange that there is no natural analog for that color. Truly, making a meal of welfare cheese is a singular experience, a communion of resourcefulness and a twinge of despair, which the eyes of even the youngest children can glean from their surroundings even if the language isn’t there to classify it.

Yet, I remember very clearly laughing with my mother about the ridiculousness of it all. Hanging by a financial thread, the government in all its charity, gives us a dense monolith of adulterated cheddar; there’s a strange comedy in that. Yet we persevered, and during that interim I appreciated the little bit of food we had. As is natural when poverty strikes, we made sure nothing went to waste. And yet, that youthful naïve quasi-asceticism of mine had a flip side to it, as all stories do. On the weekends with my father, the centerpiece was always fresh, the silver always polished, and the roast, tender if intimidating in its girth, lay steaming in its opulence for no good reason other than it was Sunday dinner. Elbows off the table, fork held just right, the contrast between my two lives left me confused in my loyalties and questioning which of my parents made me feel more secure. Child psychologists often note that food is one of the greatest factors in creating or avoiding childhood neuroses, and this duality of scarcity and extravagance, of appreciation versus quantity left a mark that is still reconciling itself.

It’s only logical that money, in all of its permutations and schizoid transactions, remains an indelible bug-bear in a life made of priceless beauty. Throughout all the wavering fortunes of my days, what remains in my soul’s reservoir of thankfulness are not the costs of my desire but the outcome of my choices, and what I carry with me is gratefully free of charge. My soul wears sunsets more luxuriant and audacious in their wonder than any jewel or fabric. Some of the waters of my blood are dissolved crystals of snow, caught on my tongue one beautifully cold winter’s morning. The art my heart refers back to when trying to comprehend a moment of love remains to flutter in the trees or scurry along moonlit branches, full of secrets... such wonders could not hang on a wall or be bought at discount. This isn’t meant to be pretty metaphorical lip-service to a particular lifestyle, rather these images represent a value I’ve come to treasure, which has saved me from completely losing myself in a society written by checks and charges. Many times, I’ve got the equivalent of that block of cheese in my ‘fridge of my spirit, but there’d be a rainbow overhead or a strain of music wandering the street that sets my senses alight and reminds me that I will (like all humans) often bypass what’s truly precious over the drama of spinning my psychic wheels about things that are meaningless in the context of an infinite universe, like matching dishware and bed-sheets with high thread count.

It may be foolish and unprofitable to live this way, yet I believe that there’s an edict awaiting us for edifying a spiritual identity through the raw and gritty means we choose to live by. As gay men, we often begin the process of self-realization on our own, while big and glittery assumptions about our identity await our mental purchase, pearls of half-price. In conversation with queer and straight friends alike, it’s frequently noted in euphemism the tendency for young gay men to buy into the consumer culture without question, that their self concept is found in mass media and their affect can be as shallow as network programming. While I insist that our individual natures are eternal and no matter how trapped we may become in quick-fix salvation, I do see the point that queer culture frequently flirts with homogenization via the power of money and the power of product. I would rather see this as a temporary growing pain of our maturing selves and “Young Gay America” than a paradigm which could undermine our future spiritual and cultural growth, and I vary between skepticism and hopefulness about the outcome of our social emergence. Many of us weren’t born into environments supportive of our sexualities, and achieving financial success became a venerable tool to demonstrate pride and worth. In this sense there is a justification of sorts for the motivation to make as much as you can, and even flaunt a little. In these times, however, the deep soulful gratification of living in harmony with the Earth is a jeopardized modality, and the next generations of all children might not have the chance to fully enjoy a kinship with the world which cradles a conflicted humanity.

In my own imperfect way, I’ve tried to be a young-ish gay American who has chosen a lifestyle of relative simplicity in order to reflect my spiritual ideals. My aim, which is no better or worse than any other sentient being’s, is to be in greater empathy with the Earth herself and the vast majority of her struggling humans. The lessons required to foster that view, from the block of welfare cheese to holding dying children in Haiti, have not been easy, and I’m no saint for enduring my simple trials, which are trite compared to the real suffering that is invisible to us only though our fear of pain and deprivation. Yet I don’t reject money. The idea, quite simply, is to make money as useful as possible to the greatest good for myself, the planet, and that which I value. As illusory and artificial as I think it to be, it is still an energy to be reckoned with, and like the forces of nature, the direction of that energy can be malleable and can result in deep creativity. We can do sacred, holy things with it, and contrariwise. Money’s destructive power could become blasé if en-masse we began spending in radically different ways, which is possible to observe in your own daily life. It’s cliché to say that we feel better when we give to good causes, but if money can be made into a metaphor for our energy, the feeling becomes real and increasingly useful. I’d rather feel hackneyed than useless.

Two years ago, I went to Haiti to have my world rocked, shaken, and split wide open. It was my hope that doing some service work in the hemisphere’s most forsaken country would re-affirm the mystical and ethical path which by coincidence and hard-knocks I’d embraced. There are no words for the compassion and shock that blow through your heart like a landslide when your own struggle and suffering are put in a perspective so alien and incalculably more desperate. It’s common for people, children especially, to come up to you and say, “Blanc, Blanc, give me one American dollar!” And it utterly breaks your heart to not reach for your wallet and peel off a Washington, for you’ve been told doing so actually feeds into the poverty even more. But to go into an orphanage, or a hospital, and be present with every age of soul confronting a stricken or non-existent future, and to squeeze their hand and touch their heart and love them with everything you have that very instant, surpasses the worth of any currency in any amount. In blindingly vivid moments like that, amid the flies and squalor and despair, you come to understand that the only exchange that really matters in our brief time here is the exchange of soul, that personal energy which acts as an umbilical to the elements and the purposefulness of life. While wandering in a daze down its streets, absorbing the extreme differences in my story and theirs, I longed for some sign of commonality, and it didn’t take long to find... the smile. In spite of the pain and fear these people live with daily, they still smile, broadly and brilliant like the sun breaking through the mountains. There is music everywhere, joyous, hopeful, and full of spirit, for spirit is written into all aspects of life on that island of mystery and magic. While they own very little, and live threadbare at the mercy of nature and government, Haitians’ lives are overflowing with God and the Loa, and they see their plight as only temporal, for their faith far outweighs the brokenness of their nation.

That little field trip into the very hands of the Divine did indeed rupture my soul in a holy way, allowing new lessons to flow in about real appreciation, which felt a lot like the appreciation for that hunk of cheese which helped my mother and I get by so long ago. When I went to the supermarket, I was stunned with twin feelings of thankfulness and disgust, and when I emptied the spare change from my pocket, I blessed each penny as if it were a sacred jewel. I’d realized I’d never said “thank you” for the abundance I had, no matter how thin it seemed or how problematic it became.

Altruism and simplicity as virtues are not dead. In fact, their effects are as profound as ever as technology advances to where resources and abilities are paired instantly when needed, as evidenced by the swift and massive global communities online response to the Southeast Asian tsunami. As gay men resurrecting ancient ideals and creating and whole new social paradigms, we must follow a noble passage if we are to find security in today’s volatile world, and if we are to confront injustice and moral inconsistency. The only way to do such a thing is to decide for yourself what really matters, and whom you affect in your choices. I can only speak for myself, and it’s not my place to suggest how to consume and spend. As a gay man, I feel an extra duty to sculpt my material life in good conscience as so much attention is put into debating our worth and value as members of American society. I must try to live within my means, I must try to heal my little patch of Earth because it is right to do, I must remember that my empathy is only as good as my energy expended, and that correlates to each financial choice I make. I volunteer to be simple, even if it makes for a bit of anxiety on the first date.

The last sandwich I made from that block of cheese was mushy with yellow mustard, and I remember thinking that it tasted like sunshine. I was a strange kid. I still am. It’s with fondness that I consider those days, wearing hand-me-downs to private school and making forts from trash heaps. Our lives are so delightfully made of contrasts, so wonderfully a story only we can tell. In billions of years, when our sun explodes and the memory of Earth is dust, it won’t matter what’s in my savings account. What will matter, to each of us, is that we lived and loved, and appreciated the miracles of the colors of the sunset, the curves of a smile, and even the taste of a cheese and mustard sandwich.