Through a Naturist Lens

It’s Sunday morning and the weather is pleasant with a bit of sunshine, a breeze of 14km/h, and a temperature of -9. For the first time in a month, I felt like going outside for another photo which I bring to you here. Obviously, I could have taken a few extra moments to have my hair tidy, but it just didn’t seem all that important. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if one lets one’s hair down and allows for a less-than-perfect presentation. After all, who really cares? It’s not like I need to make a good impression as far as my appearance is concerned. I am not looking to capture someone’s attention in order to perhaps have a relationship. I mean, who would ever be interested in a 71 year old man living in a northern climate, especially one who is introverted and not the most attentive to social conventions?

My photos are a record, a personal record that portrays my presence on the planet without camouflage. Through the process of taking these photos on a regular basis, I am confronted with the reality of my body. Over time, that reality becomes accepted. There is no way for me to be taller, younger, dark-haired, or more attractive – whatever that might mean. This is who I am and I better get used to it. There are things that I have learned in the process. Eating properly and getting some exercise are first on the list. This is the only body I have, so I may as well take care of it so that I can enjoy to best degree possible, the years that remain to me.

There is one benefit that comes with living during a pandemic for either an extrovert or an introvert – time alone. Continuing on with my look at Who Am I, Really? which I began in the last post, I found: “… being alone. Interesting things happen to me when I’m by myself. Or rather they happen in me; I just listen. Things also happen in me when I’m with other people, only I don’t hear them as well because of the noise.” [Daryl Sharp, Who Am I Really, p. 16]

So, what happens within oneself when one just listens? The first thought that comes to mind, born out of years of experience with meditation is monkey mind. The chatter is enough to drive one crazy until one learns to stop listening to the chatter of one’s mind that is trying to distract the ego from hearing from one’s depths. Whoever one is, it is there in the depths, buried under every conceivable mask, mirror, and distraction.

Beneath all the noise, I catch glimpses of a Robert that isn’t a retired educator or a quasi-shaman elder. That Robert is more of a presence than a being … ageless. Okay, so how does this help me or you know who we really are? Honestly? Perhaps it can only tell us what we aren’t. I was a teacher in a public school system. I am not that person anymore – or I should say that I am no longer defined and hidden behind that persona, that role. The same goes for you. Each of the roles, each of the persona that we discover, experience and let go teach us something about our nature, positive or negative.

I want to return to something else that Daryl Sharp wrote: “… the general understanding of personality is too superficial. What you see is not all you get. What you see is persona. What’s behind that – our shadow, things about ourselves we don’t know or wouldn’t show to others even if we did – is anybody’s guess.” [p.27]

When you think about it, getting nude is only the beginning. Daring to look deeper without self-serving filters to learn that we are a complex, swirling collection of good and evil, of saint and sinner – that is the ego-deflating risk that needs to be taken of we are ever to really know oneself.

One of the hardest things to do is to look at ourselves and accept what we see. There is a protective lens that is activated when we look in the mirror. For most of us, there is only so much truth that can be processed at one time. Even when we stand naked in front of the mirror, the lens kicks in. For whatever reason, we want to have a positive experience of what we see, a reason which then results in “not-seeing” who is really staring back at us. 

In most of my books, I always include the following quote from James Hollis, a Jungian analyst and author: “whatever reality may be, it will to some extent be shaped by the lens through which we see it”. – James Hollis, Jungian Analyst, The Middle Passage, 1993.

The lens we use is one that is individually constructed by ourselves in response to life. So many little micro events, and more significant events have us respond in ways that subtly shift our perception of the world around us, as well as our own selves. No one escapes growing up and growing older without creating a unique lens which determines how we see ourselves, others and the world around us.

It takes a midlife crisis, more often than not, to begin questioning everything, especially the stranger that is looking back at us in the mirror. There is a small book by Daryl Sharp, a Canadian Jungian analyst who was an old friend of mine who passed not so long ago [an indicator that I, too, and getting old] called “Who Am I, Really?” that comes to mind as I write this post. In the book, Sharp writes:

“You see, we hate what we are, we reject what we need. In frustration, we lash out at those we love. Behind all that, the very root of it all, is that we don’t know how to deal with the opposites.”Who Am I, Really? Daryl Sharp, p.10

So many of us don’t like what and who we see. As a result, we invest in all sorts of disguises and filters to hide the truth. Clothing, makeup, plastic surgery, drugs, booze, extreme exercise regimes, legal and illegal drugs are used to excess in hopes that we can make the image in the mirror transform into a better version. We see a stranger in the mirror and we fear strangers. If we are lucky, we end up in a crisis where we are forced to do something different, to rethink and re-see who we are.

Naturism was for me, the response when a crisis whacked me over the head. I retreated into a wooded area, slipped out of my clothing and cried. That was more than fifty years ago. Since then, I found escape from the wounds that continued to come my way by retreating from the sources of wounding to embrace the healing of naturism, especially with the presence of warm sunlight.

Shedding my clothing allowed me to finally find peace, first with my body and eventually with the “me” the “I” that I was discovering. I still don’t fully know who I am though I have a good idea. I have become more or less, at peace with myself. And naturism was a significant part of that.

Body acceptance is vital. Aging teaches us so much. I look forward to your comments.

I sometimes find myself looking into one or more of our closets with absolutely no thought of what I am hoping to find. Obviously, I won’t be finding any skeletons in the closet. Well, not literal skeletons. However, I usually find items that have been abandoned for years. When I opened this closet door, my eyes were drawn to a chess game in a tattered box that has sat unused for a few years.

I stared at the box and somehow didn’t take in anything else that may have been sitting on the same shelf. I have played chess using this set, with almost every member of my family with the exception of the two youngest grandchildren. Now, I play online chess. The memories of games won and lost, and games thrown so that beginning chess players get the occasional taste of victory, flit through my head, pleasant memories.

But not everything we bury in our closets give rise to pleasant memories. We do bury psychological skeletons in our closets, those things that wait to be purged. Yet, how often do we find ourselves resisting opening the door to the closet. There are ghosts of the past, those things that lurk, waiting to again inflict trauma on the psyche. We see the closet door and dread opening it. And if we dare open it, it is with a thin veneer of fear that has us rush to grasp whatever it is that we need from the closet.

Much to our discomfort, the good stuff is stored in the same closet as those dark and dangerous things that haunt us when we are sleeping. Too often, we refuse to open the closet door, even to get to the good stuff. We give in to our fear of the dark shadows lurking in the closet. We are faced with a choice, go without the good stuff, or risk another nerve-shattering encounter with the shades and skeletons.

This is what psychotherapy is all about, taking those risks. The difference between self-psychotherapy and other therapies is the presence of a guide. It is so much easier to open the closet door when we know that there is someone beside us, someone who has done battles against these very demons and has emerged whole.

If you find yourself, hesitating and growing more and more lifeless, less and less animated, consider reaching out.

As I write up today’s post, like every other time, I am naked. For the most part, that is my normal state. A short while ago, I went for a walk with my wife around town. It was sunny, breezy and -29 Celsius. The breeze made it feel like it was -41 Celsius. My wife and I went for our walk around the town. Obviously, we were dressed to the max in order to survive the walk. The idea is to get some fresh air and exercise, not to expose the body to undo stress and risk freezing the anatomy.

Earlier, we both exercised in the basement where we have an elliptical walking machine and a Nordic Trak ski machine. I typically use the ski machine. Twenty minutes of effort leaves me coated in a sheen of sweat, even though I don’t wear an exercise outfit. The basement is kept a comfortable +12 to +15 Celsius for exercising. Upstairs on the main level, the temperature is kept at 19 Celsius, just perfect for my writing life.

As for my writing life, I am now on Chapter 16 with more than 38,000 words written. The Romance in a Nudist Colony anthology which I have just published for editors Ted Bun and Will Forest, has already sold fifteen paperback copies and pre-sold twenty-seven eBooks books. The eBook gets released on February 14th, Valentine’s Day. There are 18 short stories on being naked and being in love. But enough of that for now.

Life in a deep freeze continues here on the Canadian prairies. As usual, I resort to soaking in as many of the sun’s rays as I can during the day. It’s a thing with me. If I can’t be outside, I bring as much as I can of the outer world into my space as I can. Sunshine coming through the windows is free, and it is warming. Luckily, my favourite winter writing spot has a large picture window which allows light to flood in to warm the air even though it is -36 Celsius outside with a feels-like temperature of -46C.

As far as my writing is going, the story is now 35,000 words long. It’s going to be my longest work to date just to tell this opening story. There is no question that another book or two will be needed to complete the tale – or even more than that. With that said, here is a peak at a segment from Chapter 13. Just a side note: Rita is an indigenous human while the other characters in the segment are Azulians, aliens from a very distant planet who look like humans.

~

Rita travelled with Dev to La Ronge for the August long weekend. It was the third time she had made this trip as they had also been to the cabin for the May long weekend and Canada Day. She had also gone to Sophie’s place in the city of Prince Albert several times for Sophie’s spontaneous parties. The stays at the cabin were always with a much smaller group with just Ashley, Madison, Sophie, Jorey, Dev, and two men who never went to Sophie’s house in Prince Albert, Camsell and Huntley.

Rita noticed that the group was close, very close. It was obvious that they had a history, one that didn’t fit the stories being told when other people were in the picture. She didn’t pry as she didn’t want to find herself outside of the circle. She realised that she could have been mistaken about Madison, Jorey and Ashley, that it might simply be their personalities that neatly fit in with Dev and Sophie who had a relationship as friends dating back years. And try as she might, she never did find out much about the two men.

The cabin belonged to Sophie. It was predictably large, but nowhere near as large as the mansion back in the city. Though Sophie was European, she didn’t push her preference for nudity when swimming in the lake during the daytime. However, night-time skinny dipping was the norm when weather permitted. Otherwise, the basement level with its hot tub and sauna was their clothing-free zone.

“You’re adapting well to being nude,” Sophie remarked. “I was surprised at how well you are handling it.”

“Skinny dipping is not just a European thing,” Rita replied. “The women in my home community have no issue with being naked by the river or the lake, when the men are not around. Of course, nudity indoors is not a thing.”

The talk around nudity was rare, and only initiated by Sophie when it did happen. Realising that, Rita then reconsidered her thoughts of the whole group having a long history together. Most of the time, the conversation focused on the political scene or the growing social dissatisfaction that had been responsible for so many protests and conspiracy theories. There was even a conspiracy that blamed the current problems on aliens from outer space.

“No one takes them seriously,” Ashley said, with a laugh. “Those are the people who wear aluminum foil on their heads to prevent aliens or foreign technology from tampering with their thoughts.”

Others, like myself who choose to see themselves beneath their clothing, are risking so much with the acts of disrobing and being naked. Are we really being ourselves? It is as if we have set aside the filters that have been coded into our lives as we grew up into adulthood. Many are in search of self. How often do we hear grown adults state that they need time to find themselves? Typically, that search for self is a journey that only leads further and further from the intended destination of self-discovery. As well, we often find ourselves on the outs with the larger society for what we discover about ourselves.

Over the years, as I have studied and worked with human psychology, I have come to realise that most people really don’t want to do the work of self-discovery, regardless of their claims otherwise. Most people simply want to be fixed so that they fit better with the social world around them. They want to think, feel, want, and do only those things that will allow them to be more accepted, perhaps even loved. Yet, every so often, that isn’t enough. For these people in the minority, and they are a minority, the imperative “Know Thyself!” becomes a quest. That journey begins with self-disclosure. becoming transparent to the self and to others.

“Through my self-disclosure, I let others know my soul. They can know it, really know it, only as I make it known. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that I can’t even know my own soul except as I disclose it. I suspect that I will know myself “for real” at the exact moment that I have succeeded in making it known through my disclosure to another person.”Sidney M. Jourard, The Transparent Self, p. 10

Jourard talks about self-disclosure from a psychological perspective. That psychological journey is also a social journey if it is to be authentic. At the present time, in the midst of a global pandemic which has so many of us sticking within the confines of our individual lodgings, the opportunity to let others see/know/feel the truth of our individual souls is problematic. Thankfully, there is a cyber world where we can virtually be present with others. That cyber world allows for us to be seen and heard. What we disclose in this cyber world doesn’t allow for full disclosure as the conveyance of feeling is very, very weak.

When one removes one’s clothing and risks being seen as imperfect beings, there is an honesty that words can never match for words can easy become masks behind which we hide, just as we hide behind our clothing, or the roles we live in the world. However, images are only as honest as we allow them to be. For example, How does one disclose an underlying fear or emotion or belief that we don’t want revealed? In my case, in the face-to-face world, I smile. I adopt an equanimous state that masks self-doubt. In the case of Robin Williams, a mask of laughter hid a deep sadness that eventually resulted in his self-destruction.

It is only with the passage of time, that one gets to know another well enough to risk disclosing more of oneself. And it is only with this passage of time and taking these risks that one discovers more and more about oneself. It’s a catch 22 situation which few people hesitate to enter into. Getting naked in front of others is easier than risking authentic self-disclosure. And so here, I find myself wondering about nude images of self as authentic self-disclosure versus nude images of self as yet another mask behind which the true self remains hidden. And, I now invite you to share your thoughts about the naked self and self-disclosure.

The title sounds a bit ominous, however it is true, naturist lives are in the balance and I am the one who will be responsible for all of it. Naturally, I am referring to the latest novel I am writing. It’s not all black and white as I sit in judgment of a number of the characters in the story, there are definitely shades of grey as I ponder the fate of these people who have become part of my world. After all, I am like both a mother and a father for each of these figures, or perhaps some sort of mythological deity who sits blindfolded on a rock holding a scale for the souls of each of my characters.

As I mentioned previously, I have a work-in-progress that features aliens from the planet Azul who are on a secret mission for the United Federation on planet Earth. Somehow, and I don’t take the blame for this, I have what I feel are too many characters in the story, something that might make for the story to be a hard read. As well, their existence might make for a story that becomes too long, too complicated.

So, if I am to rectify this situation, I will have to go back and erase them from the story. I can already hear their protests as if I am like Saint Michael weighing their souls on a balance and condemning some to the flames. It is heart breaking. Yet, what is an author to do?

Coffee is definitely a necessity when engaged in this bloody work. Fire is also a necessity. If I were to print out the story as it now stands, the pages containing the soon to be exorcised characters would be burnt like some heretic in the Spanish Inquisition. What a heartless bastard I must be to be so cruel. Putting my feelings aside, I examine each character like a jeweler studies the precious stones in a shop through the exacting lens of a jeweler’s loupe.

Perhaps I will wait, drink a lot of wine and shed tears for the sacrificed lives that will surely come in the days ahead. Being an author is no trifling matter. After all, their are naturist lives in my story in the balance.

Monday morning and I’m still nude. Just before nine this morning, the first light began to appear in our dining room with its east-facing window. It’s another cold day, just slightly colder than yesterday. Though the calendar tells me that a new week started yesterday, in reality for almost everyone, it is Monday when a week starts. After all, both Saturday and Sunday are included in the term, week-end.

So, what is it about this Monday that suggests something new coming my way? This morning I received a message from the Irish Naturist Association requesting that I become a member of a short-story selection jury. Since I have no pressing engagements, other than finalising the print edition for Romance in the Nudist Colony, and continuing with the writing of my latest Naturist Novel, I answered in the affirmative.

The Irish Naturist Association had advertised its literary contest with entries due in by Christmas Day of 2020. It appears that I am to be a last-minute addition to the jury which is comprised of some notable personalities. How the Irish Naturist Association came across my name and my background as a writer and publisher, is an unknown. It is a new role for me, being on a jury charged with determining a winning piece of literature.

Now, back to my ongoing saga, a tale about aliens from the planet Azul [Azulians] who are being sent by the Interstellar United Federation to positively influence the political situation on the planet Earth with the objective of having the Earth become a member of the Federation. The story is complicated because the Azulians are blue-skinned [the word Azul is Spanish for blue] and the task is against Federation policy of non-involvement on planets which are not yet space-faring people and ready for alien contact.

I have reached a point in the story where the aliens are about to land on the planet, 18,500 words into the story. There is a level of complexity to the secretive task that suggests that this could be a very long story. The role of nudity should end up becoming significant in terms of conflict and political evolvement, as most alien races don’t have the same hang ups about nudity as is the norm on Earth.

I can’t tell you much more, as I don’t know much more. I can say that I am enjoying this tale immensely. Is it really science fiction? Is it really naturist fiction? Or is it more classical literature that explores the human psyche? Only time will reveal that to me, and eventually to you, the future readers of the story.

It’s Sunday morning on the Canadian prairies. As I write up this post, it is still dark with dawn more than an hour away. The temperature outside is -26C, with a wind chill that makes it feel like -38C. Now, that is cold. However, I am toasty warm as I sit in my rocking chair in front of the fireplace writing this post. For those who might be interested, I found this rocking chair in 1976, in a northern community.

The rocker was in a few pieces with broken runners, so the owner sold it to me for only $5. The rocker was old, very old. I repaired the rocker and often think of the old trapper who sold it to me. He died that winter and I was the one who wrote up his memorial as an editorial in the newspaper. Now forty-five years later I am surprised at how it is often the little things that have the most meaning.

I looked back into my photo collection from that time and found photos that tell me that even back then, nudity was a valuable part of my life as a father and husband. It was a time of no social media. The nudity wasn’t taken to be shared with others, but as a record of who we were as a young family. We camped in the northern wilderness beside rivers and lakes, usually finding time to be free of clothing, especially when we were in the water.

The remoteness of our camping experiences, and the sanctity of home meant that there was no outside influences to shutter these moments of pure freedom. There were no, “what if” moments to deal with. The odd photo that was taken was more about a passion for photography as an artist than about documentation. That passion hasn’t gone.

Other than my books of Naked Poetry, an odd photo taken for a photography exhibit in gallery, as well as a collection of three photos above our bed, I have refrained from displaying nude images of my wife. They weren’t taken for public consumption. Those found in the poetry books were taken deliberately for those three books and used with permission.

That’s the thing about waking up in darkness and sitting by a fire – memories, good memories come bubbling to the surface.

It’s a bright and sunny day with minus temperaturesIt’s a bright and sunny day with minus temperatures and strong winds. It is cold, cold, cold outside. At least the sunshine pours in and tries to persuade me that it would be a wonderful time to go outside for a walk. However, I can see the outdoor thermometer, as well as seeing the flag in front of the house whipping madly about. There is definitely a strong wind of change blowing.

I used to be a folk musician many decades ago, singing songs such as “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “The Times They are a-Changin’,” by Bob Dylan. I was a teenager singing songs of protest and freedom during the era of the Vietnam War [known as the American War in Vietnam], the Flower Children, and the awakening of the will to live on planet we vowed to protect. I wore long hair, played six and twelve-string guitars, wore sandals and moccasins, and wrote newspaper editorials about saving the land and its people. I was an idealistic young man.

That young man didn’t disappear. What has changed is my body which now shows evidence of seven decades of living. The idealism didn’t disappear. Rather, the hole in my heart that gave rise to my protest about the way things were, has enlarged. A second hole in my heart was healed as I left life as a solitary folksinger and became a husband in 1971. Two months later, having settled into a new way of being, John Lennon wrote and released, “Imagine.” I imagined all sorts of things, I even dared to imagine myself as a father and teacher, dreams that time would fulfil.

Today, in the sunshine and the wind, another change is unfolding. A new president in the USA is to take his place with a woman to serve as his vice-president. The hopes of 80+ million people who voted for him are being realised. The hopes of hundreds of millions around the world are being uplifted at the same time. And more importantly, the shadowy figures that were gnawing away at the collective soul of humanity, are slithering back into the shadows, at least for a while. “Give Peace a Chance.”