Through a Naturist Lens

A brisk walk into the countryside this morning confirmed that it really is winter. Of course, I dressed in layers as there was wind that decided that -10 Celsius wasn’t cold enough. It’s a different story when I find a windbreak to continue my habit of taking a winter challenge.

Being nude while outdoors on the Canadian prairies is a very visceral challenge. Prairie winters can and do kill humans. Think of Siberia and you get an idea of just what is in store for a person during winter on the prairies. Of course, one has to be wise and alert when taking on such a challenge.

First, is the scene free from spectators? There is nothing more noticeable than a naked person outside in the winter time. There is no blending into the scenery. It is simply a physical challenge that is done in private. As such, there is no sexual connotation nor is there an element of exhibitionism in the act of being nude outdoors.

Second, is protective clothing or shelter immediately available should the cold become too much? For myself, a nearby garage or patio door that is unlocked is usually enough. There is no free-hiking for me on the open prairies during the late fall to mid-spring. Well, that is if it isn’t sunny and warmer temperatures than normal which makes it feel warmer that it really is. The human body is tougher than one could possibly imagine after one gets acclimatised.

Third, who is the challenge for? If a person makes it personal rather than responding to the dare of another person, the challenge has more meaning. For me, there is no alcohol or drug involved. The challenge is a personal testing and that is all.

I am bringing the second part of the story to you with this post. This is as far as the story goes to this point in time. Is it a short story, or the beginning of a novel of some sort? I would like to have your input before I make a decision. With that said, here is part two.

~

I leaned back in my office chair rubbing my temples in search of relief from too many hours at the keyboard with nothing to show for his efforts. At least, I hoped that it was this that gave me another blinding headache. The fact that I had written next to nothing today, with the exception of time spent perusing the tweets and Facebook posts of friends and followers, as well as playing a few games of Hearts against the computer only made me feel guilty. My headache just wouldn’t go away. I intuitively knew that the only way I was going to ease my sense of guilt as well as my headache would be to return to the story that demanded to surface from someplace deep within.

It didn’t take much for me to realise that I had tapped into something deeper than my own unconsciousness. There was an archetypal feel for roots of the images that sought to be expressed in words. And, I sensed that I had somehow accessed the central core of whatever it was that lay as a foundation for all life, both conscious and unconscious life. Perhaps it was something called God in a myriad of forms over centuries and millennia. Whatever it was, it seemed to possess me with a will that superseded my own will. Why was I resisting so much, was the uppermost question on my mind. Perhaps, it was fear. After all, becoming the human voice for this inner voice that came out of darkness meant that I would have given up control, not something so easy for me to do. With a sigh, I turned back to the computer and brought up the document I had begun yesterday, reading what I had already written down:

It was dark. Darkness was all that there was, an infinite darkness that was unbound by time and space and place. The darkness was anything but empty. All that was to be, all that would never come to be, everything was already in the darkness simply being unformed. It was dark. It had always had been dark.

Sitting still I heard the echoes of the voice which had demanded that these words be written just this way. With a sigh of resignation, I conceded and let my guard down. And then the words began to flow. Again as I listened to the voice spoke to me.

Time was unmeasured in the darkness. The dark pulsed, alive which it was in a way that defied definition. The darkness was an unconscious and unformed soup of invisible movement. The whole was alive with no parts and with nothing outside of that whole. All was simply being, not becoming, not regressing nor differentiating nor birthing nor dying. The darkness just was.

There came a moment of almost awareness for that darkness, and in that moment, an agitation began to disturb the eternal sameness and sublime nature of simply being. That moment of almost awareness gave birth to form which gave birth to matter. Yet, in spite of the creation, the whole was still as it always was.

So it came to be that the whole became a universe in which a gathering of energy had birthed galaxies, solar systems, planets, and moons, and other sterile forms with the space between them remaining a darkness that had no definable substance.

“You know,” I commented, “If I didn’t know better, I would say that this is just a complicated way of saying the first line in the book of Genesis in the Bible.”

“You’re right. I knew that you had it in you to write this. By the way, you kept your ego out of the way today, and wrote it just like I wanted it written.”

“But why bother with re-writing what already has been written. You know that it will only create a boatload of misery for me and most of the world. I will likely be terrorised and likely even murdered when, and if, this gets published,” I sighed.

“Having doubts?”

“Well, it’s not that I have any choice,” I admitted, “but no. I guess I just want to understand what I am doing and why I am doing it.”

“Well, the times have changed and fewer and fewer people have a clue of what I had written for me in the past. You know that Genesis wasn’t the only version that was recorded. I have been explaining to all animate life that was able to grasp at least a small part of the story in multiple versions suited for the time and place of those who would hear it. That time has rolled around again. Humans need new words, a new true story.”

“But why me?” I asked, puzzled and surprised with what I was hearing. I knew I was either stark-raving mad or . . .  a thought I didn’t dare complete.

“Well, just think about it. You’ve had a good life, well a good life of sorts – family, a career, love, and all that you have ever needed. You have spent a lot of time exploring where not many others have dared to look. True, you got seriously lost more than a few times in the process, but here you are now doing my work.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, there is also the fact that the boundaries between yourself and me have weakened enough to allow you hear me. Your willingness to be vulnerable in search of meaning and truth, a vulnerability that shows up in your poetry, your photography and your embracing the natural body you were gifted with. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah,” I conceded. “I think I get the gist of what you are saying. But, something tells me I will have more to ask you as the story gets told.

And just like that, the voice went silent.

After a conversation with a nameless entity, it dawned on me that I should be telling this story here. The words, “It was a dark and stormy night,” seemed to be almost the perfect beginning for a novel. Yes, a novel with a sense of humour. Now, to be honest, this wasn’t my idea at all. Left to my own devices, I would stay as far away from a story like this as possible. But the nameless entity is insistent. Just think of me as a scribe for the unknowable, doing what he is told by someone who is commissioning a work. Just don’t think I’ve lost all of my marbles.

* * *

Prologue

It was a dark and stormy night.

“Erase that, you can’t write that. I hadn’t invented night yet. Everyone knows that to have a night, there also has to be a day with morning, afternoon, and evening thrown in for good measure. All that comes later.”

“Okay, okay already,” I grumbled. How about, “It was dark and stormy.”

“Geez, can’t you just write what I tell you to write? It wasn’t stormy. You can’t have storms without planets, atmosphere and weather systems. Just write. “It was dark.”

“Boring,” I stated with exasperation. “I heard what you said. Yes, it was dark and that is the whole story for so long that you finally got bored of nothing but darkness. Do you really think anyone will want to read a story that basically talks about nothing else but darkness?”

“That’s not fair. You know that there is a huge story that will follow.”

“You talk about being fair?” I protested. “If there was any fairness, I wouldn’t be writing this crap that no one in their right mind is ever going to believe, even as a fiction story if they even bother to read it at all.”

~

It isn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be, to write this story, especially since it isn’t even my story. I’m like a ghost writer with my name never being attached to the document, not that I would actually want to ever admit that I was ever involved.

It wasn’t easy, as the voice in my head was determined to control every single word that was to be put on the paper, well, the keyboard and screen. I had been reluctant to give in to this impulse to write this particular story as the voice wanted the “truth” to be told as it had never been told before. When I protested that it couldn’t be a novel if it wasn’t fiction; and if it was fiction, then the words really didn’t matter as long as the story was told. My reluctance to give in to the inner voice only resulted in a headache that didn’t let up for several days.

I took my concerns to the woman who is my significant other. All that she had to tell me was to just go with it, trust that the inner voice, to trust it as my muse. After all, what did I have to lose other than a headache whenever I resisted that muse? I had to admit that she was likely right about the whole mess. After all, when the story was done, I sure as hell didn’t have to publish it. Conceding a defeat of sorts, I returned to the keyboard to let the story be told.

~

It was dark. Darkness was all that there was, an infinite darkness that was unbound by time and space and place. The darkness was anything but empty. All that was to be, all that would never come to be, everything was already in the darkness unformed. It was dark, It had always had been dark. And it was boring.

“Boring? I didn’t tell you to write ‘boring!’”

We went out for a 10 kilometre walk this morning. The sky was overcast and the temperature was -2 Celsius with a southwest breeze. We walked at a brisk pace for us, five km/hr. Being shorter than most, and being in our seventies doesn’t let us walk much faster most of the time. Now, we are back in our home with our fireplace enough of a heat source for me to feel comfortable in my own skin. I don’t wear clothing unless we have company or it’s time for a meal. It just is the way it is. In our home, that is normal.

When the weather is cooperative, I am outdoors in our yard the same way, clothing free. Our neighbours know that this is the case and have accepted that as normal. It’s not what one could call social nudity as I am the only one nude. Because of Covid, I haven’t been to the AANR-WC club closest to my home for two years, a club that is four hours distant from my home. Hopefully, that will change come next summer.

I’ve been reading a number of social media posts that have certain individuals want to control the nudist/naturist universe. The authors of these posts are adamant about who is or isn’t a nudist. For them, it becomes almost religious as though written in some sort of bible that just being nude does not qualify a person to self-identify as a nudist. Of course, in each of these attempts to “control” the narrative, these writers take it upon themselves do judge people as nudists only if these people do what the writers do, and how they do it.

Control of others is always an indicator that the person has a poor self-concept and needs to be constantly validated by others who “follow” willingly. It’s as if “Well, they are following me so I must be right and okay” is the needed drug of choice. Of course, it all comes down to “self” in the end.

I self-identify as a male, a father, a husband, a grandfather, as a naturist, as an author, as an Indigenous Canadian, as a Métis, as …. Well, you get it, I self-identify. Others may dispute any one part for whatever reason that comes to mind. However, when they do, it really isn’t about me, it is always about them. In depth psychology, it is called projection.

As a result, whenever I see a person or a group seeking to control others, I begin to think that the person or group has a real issue with controlling themselves. What are your thoughts?

The sun isn’t up yet as I enter these words onto my keyboard on Remembrance Day. The day is meant as a time of reflection. Though I had issues with my father who was anything but a good father, I do recognise that life hadn’t dealt him a fair hand either. He was a child in the dirty thirties, found himself a father when he was only eighteen when he joined the military to take part in the Korean War. He was injured there but thankfully survived and returned home. He was a wounded warrior in many ways.

Those wounds coloured the remainder of his life. Why did he go to war when there was a child at home and another on the way? Only he knew, if even he knew. Before he died in a veterans’ hospital, we had reconciled. My anger had been spent and I felt nothing but sadness for what we had both lost over the years. He was my father and I loved him just because of that. And I know, in his own way, he loved me as well.

Being wounded by life seems to be a natural condition. We don’t need wars to be wounded. The effect on the human psyche is the same whether the wounds are physical or mental. Everyone is wounded, though not all know this. The wounding begins not long after birth, a necessary wounding so that a dependent baby eventually becomes an independent adult. Have you ever wondered why those who appear to have everything going for them – a good family, education, wealth, health, and the respect and love of others – why they suffer? It doesn’t make sense that these golden people get divorced, become alcoholics and/or drug addicts, and sink into the darker regions.

Survival is what counts first, when one has been wounded. How one survives ranks second. Surviving comes first. Once physical survival has been achieved, the how becomes a series of choices one makes consciously or unconsciously over the rest of one’s life. Even “floating in the wind” rather than controlling to some degree the choices with which one is faced, is a choice. For some, such as myself, naturism was a choice, a choice that pulled me away from the brink of self-annihilation.

Like I said earlier, the first task is to survive, and yes, my survival was at risk. My wife, my children, and my grandchildren are glad that I chose life, a choice that I had to make a number of times over the decades from adolescence on. I imagine that others are also glad. Though it might not be evident to a person on the brink of extinction, one is never alone. Every survival has its impact, every death has its impact. Not all have a choice when it comes to surviving. Death on a battlefield, in a car, in a fire, etc., doesn’t exactly provide one with a choice.

However, if “will” allows for the choice between surviving or not, the choice to survive is a monumental task in itself. That task remains constant for those who have suffered the most. The will to survive despite one’s wounds are what heroes are made of. For all of his brokenness, my father was a hero.

As usual, I was up to greet the day while it was still dark out. As I was sitting by the fireplace nursing my second cup of coffee I saw the sky gradually begin to lighten. And then I saw a sliver of the moon with the rest of the moon barely visible in shadow. There was no mistaking that what I saw was the whole circular surface of the moon and that retaught me that though one can’t see something, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. That’s not an easy lesson for those who can only believe what they see.

Too many are imprisoned with their handbag filled with their incontrovertible truths. If their five primary senses don’t align with what is clutched desperately as fundamental truth, then it is obviously false. When the senses tell someone one story and science tells them a different story, science generally is set aside. Though not everyone sees, hears, smells, tastes, or feels the same, meaning that their sensory input cannot be trusted, does not deter them from fervently believing otherwise.

Yet, there is a back door for truths to be embedded, through the subconscious. Advertising and mass media, and trusted groups such as religions, repeat messages to the point where the messages are then held as truths. Tell a lie often enough, then it is held closely as a personal and collective truth.

So what does this have to do with naturism? Everything. People gravitate to naturism because of a number of reasons including sensory pleasure. However, most don’t. The power of the collective unconscious that has been pummelled with negative imaging for centuries upon centuries, is enormous. Should one see a nude human, the first response is surprise, then fear, and then anger. That initial response can be broken down over time for some people. And that, is the motivation for the #NormalisingNaturism movement.

And just a footnote: Yes, the temperature was below freezing this morning when I took this photo. For many this would too much for their senses to handle. For myself, it wasn’t unpleasant in the least as there was no wind. Different bodies, different responses to the same stimuli.

The paperback copies of the last three books published have finally arrived and been added to my bookshelf. This book, Déjà Vu was one of my NaNoWriMo projects from a few years back. The book is naturist fiction, and as the title might indicate, it is quite tied in with Celtic mythology in a modern context. It isn’t my latest naturist novel, however. That honour goes to a book currently in the process of being published, a book I have talked about in one of my previous posts in October.

The other two books are a social history story of an immigrant from the Ukraine to Canada, a story that took place 100 years ago; and a middle-grades chapter book, set in the near future in Europe.

Needless to say, their arrival bodes for an auspicious start to a long winter, hopefully an productive winter as far as my current works-in-progress are concerned.

It’s Halloween, or as it is also known, Samhain. The sun is shining and it is quite cool this morning. I woke up to -10 and then went for a decent hike in the countryside once the temperature soared to -6 Celsius while it was still morning. I want to be home for the early afternoon appearance of little people in search of Halloween treats. Of course, when they come I will be wearing clothing as I do want to continue living in our town and not taking up valuable space in some jail cell which is needed for real criminals.

Typically, the day signals the imminent arrival of NaNoWriMo. However, unlike past years, I won’t be attempting the challenge. I have other priorities for the month of November including the release of my latest naturist-fiction novel, Aliens Among Us, a book that is now on pre-order at Amazon [click here to add your name to the list]. The print version of the book will follow shortly after November 15th. The cover for the novel was designed and executed by Fabien Barabé, an artist from Nova Scotia, Canada.

I have just started another novel that will be space oriented, something that is completely different from any of my past novels. This story will take quite some time to develop as I am hoping to get input from a certain grandson in terms of story line and expected conflicts. I will get to spend some time with him in late November and again in mid December. Once those two meetings are done, I will spend more time on the story.

Until then, I am eighty percent through the rewrite of a non-fiction book that tells a number of micro-stories of marriage to the same woman for fifty years. I am hoping to have the story edited before Christmas so that our children and grandchildren can have their copies as Christmas presents. So, as you can see, there is no time for a focused NaNoWriMo adventure.

Now, with all that said, my words return to Halloween and Samhain. The intent going back centuries, if not longer, is about marking a transition. Days are getting shorter here on the prairies north of the 49th parallel, and nights are getting longer. Frost is becoming more and more of the norm, a sign that the big deep freeze of winter is on the horizon. There will be less and less opportunity for me to be out in nature while nude though not a decrease in the amount of time I spend clothing free. It is a time for transitioning from a life lived in the outer world, to a more contemplative time.

I woke up in darkness, a normal thing this time of year on the Canadian prairies. At some point during the night, a light rain shower had happened. Unlike yesterday when I woke up to minus temperatures, today was a balmy +7 Celsius. I have to admit it, I couldn’t resist experiencing the smell and feel of moisture in the air. I took out my good camera and tripod to attempt capturing an image to mark this moment. Some of you might know that we are in the midst of a drought and there is no end in sight.

There is no doubt that drought affects the mental well-being of a person. People become more anxious and irritable, less resilient to the local, regional and global challenges that assault them via mass media and social media. People become listless and angry. These responses to drought are the same whether the drought is weather related, relationship related, work related, or about a dry spell in one’s creative endeavours.

I am one of the lucky ones. I am older and have no worries about my future. I know that I am on the slippery slope that will only end with my becoming a memory. It almost is a relief as it allows me to feel I have more freedom to do what I really want to do – within reason of course, after all, I do live in a community and there are laws.

As a writer, I have experienced creative droughts, some of which lasted longer than I would have preferred. I still experience droughts but they don’t seem to last as long. It only takes a tiny crack in the drought, such as last night’s brief shower, for me to rush in and allow the ideas to come to life. I am more willing to take risks with my writing, and for some reason I begin to believe that my writing is getting better because of it.

The summer season in the northern hemisphere is done and many of us are resisting as much as possible, the descent into the darker season of winter. Days are getting shorter and the temperature is dropping. In summer, the community of those who embrace clothes-free living as much as practically possible, posted many images of themselves [myself included] to the online community. Yoga outdoors, hiking outdoors, nature scenes, gardening scenes, social scenes – you name it, we took the pictures and shared them. During the past 18 months the pandemic made the online community a vital piece of finding ways to remain sane and feeling less alone and isolated. 

Like others, I created an image this morning to add to the community. Being a thick-skinned Canadian, I can tolerate cooler temperatures better than many others, so I attempt to do “normal” things outdoors as much as possible. Indoors, I live nude unless we have visitors or it is mealtime. Dressing up for a meal is de rigeur.

So what is it about images we post of ourselves while being nude? Is it exhibitionism? Is there some thought that doing so will somehow give us friends or potentially a mate? Is it a sign of a personality disorder? To be honest, there is no one right answer. There are exhibitionists, narcissists, friend-starved individuals, and those needing psychotherapy in the crowd. However, for the most part, most are just normal people who are confident enough in themselves to risk engaging with others who share similar values. Each person is unique.

For those within the community, uniqueness is honoured. No one bothers to judge others for choices made, whether BIPOC, the LGBT+ community, conservatives and liberals, religious and non-religious, or whatever metric you want to use. Images, honest images, let others get to know the face behind the words spoken in the community. There is no focus on a particular body type or even gender. All the scars of living are exposed and honoured. I guess, in a way, we could state that the community is body-positive though I am not so sure of that.

I understand this to be more of a person being self-positive and self-accepting. And at the same time, being honest with oneself that the journey to be our best selves is far from done. We acknowledge that the bodies we live in need to be nourished and taken care of to the best of our ability, an acknowledgement that doesn’t mean everyone is on a diet to lose weight or strive for a body-builder physique. After all, we are each given a body to house our thinking selves, whatever it is that allows us awareness of self.

Images are one of the things that allow us as individuals to track our own journey through time and space, a journey that includes “others” whether we want that to be the case or not. We belong in community regardless of how big or small the community might be. In reality, we belong in several communities within which we carve out separate identities or personae. In the end, we are the sum of all these identities. Whether or not there is a community of nude others is irrelevant. The persona we adopt in relation to our own naked bodies is part of the whole self.

Now, it is time for your words here. Nude images? Yay or nay? Why or why not?