I'm gonna mess you up so badly, Stick Man, that when I'm finished with you, you're just gonna be a scribble

Oh dear, it's been nearly three months since I last properly blogged (the last post doesn't count, a bit like how your vote in an election probably won't count). I feel I should hang my head in shame. Don't know why - it's not like I have a contract with anyone for a quota of blogging output. And it's not like anyone reads this blog anyway, so no one would know. If anything I might have a tiny expectation placed on me by my good merry self. And by 'good merry self' I mean that bit of my self that believes in "should"s and tries to beat me over the head, albeit very lazily, with a stick saying that I need to earn my acceptance or validity by being a certain kind of person, and if I can't even write a blog post every couple of weeks then that's proof that I am a miserable failure as a human being (and it better be a good post at that, don't think you can get away with posting some useless twoddle about how brilliant clouds (which they are) and how I saw nice cloud yesterday that looked like a 6-legged hamster playing football with David Hasselhoff's head (which I didn't)).

I'm almost tempted to now refuse to write any more of this post, simply as a way of sticking two cheerfully benign fingers up at that stick-wielding self and to show it who's boss. But sod it, here's a post.

I read this quote the other day, from a Richard Rohr book I'm reading: "...until you are excluded from any system you are not able to recognise the lies, idolatries or shadow side of that system."

That's something I'm both unfortunately and fortunately able to relate to. Unfortunately because I'd have had little experience of being excluded if it wasn't for the fact that I have an incurable degenerative neurological disease. Having MS is often a bit of an unpleasant arse. And also unfortunately because it's just not that fun being excluded. Most people want to be on the inside; it's safer and warmer and more cuddly and gives you a positive identity, making you feel like you're somebody. Just look at how homogenised our society is becoming. Being excluded means you're stinky and no one likes you. Because you're stinky.

But I say fortunately because, as the book goes on to say, "It is the privileged 'knowledge of the victim'. It opens up the playing field granting equal access to all if they want it, because it is no longer a winner's script, which the ego prefers to make it, but actually a life script that includes these so-called losers." Sometimes being excluded has felt a bit like waking up from a daze. It's meant I've started to uncover what feels like a deeper reality. Obviously being on the inside of any group isn't all lies, or even mostly lies. But I reckon the boundaries between what's real and what's illusion can become blurred. Being excluded has also meant I've started to notice the insignificant and found something beautiful. And that's been nurturing and freeing for the soul, because it means I'm more likely to be able to find beauty and truth regardless of my situation.

To be honest, I know a part of the reason I like the quote is because of my own shadow side. At times I have a propensity to fall into the trap of wanting to be the one who's right. Being on the inside of who's right is something I can let motivate my words all too easily; it's why I can frequently get caught up in political debates on Facebook (though I like to think that's something that's made even easier by the Tories being so obviously, ignorantly wrong.)

As an example of the quote, I'm a white male living in a pasty-skinned patriarchal society. Now, I'm pretty adept at spotting racism and sexism when they're as subtle as a punch in the face. Yet I'm never going to be able to really appreciate how much those prejudices may be subtly woven into the fabric of our society. I don't want to be a victim of racism or sexism. So being a fine upstanding sort of gent, I'd like to know where I'm tacitly colluding with it and, therefore, perpetuating it.

I think if I didn't experience that 'knowledge of the victim', and was blind to the experiencing the value in the insignificant, then I'd feel a little bit bereft. Or in other words, I'd feel excluded. Which is ironic.