Invite Me to the Table

23/07/2026

I wanted to share my thoughts on a recent conversation I had that is now taking me on a very personal journey of self-awareness and finding peace.

Invite Me to the Table - July 23, 2026

17/07/2026

On July 1, 2026, Canada Day, we lost Russell Alldread AKA Michelle DuBarry and I wanted to share my thoughts on his life, our friendship and his passing. We spent many wonderful times together, celebrating their birthdays, organizing media opportunities and other special events, and even meeting Canadian comedian Luba Goy. Hope you enjoy my tribute.

Invite Me to the Table - July 17, 2026

26/06/2026

This concludes my 20267 Pride Series of articles. I'm sorry I didn't write one last week. Although I haven't been as active this Pride season, I've enjoyed what I have experienced and reflecting about it.

Invite Me to the Table - June 25, 2026

15/06/2026

https://open.substack.com/pub/prguy1968/p/2026-pride-series-2-more-than-a-flag?r=h9f23&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

Invite Me to the Table - June 11, 2026

15/06/2026

https://open.substack.com/pub/prguy1968/p/2026-pride-series-i-a-pride-reflection?r=h9f23&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

30/05/2026

I've decided to share my writing with a bigger audience. In addition to sharing it here and in the Humbercrest United Church newsletter, I started a substack column too. Here's this week's installment.

Invite me to the Table - May 28, 2026

25/05/2026

Where Music Meets Community: A 2SLGBTQ+ Reflection

As Chris Higgins noted in his Beacon column last week, I spent the long weekend in Vancouver attending the Unison Festival, Canada’s national 2SLGBTQ+ choral festival. More than 1,000 delegates from 27 choruses gathered to perform for one another across four concert blocks, as well as at the opening and closing concerts.

The Unison Festival is held every four years in a different Canadian city and is hosted by that city’s 2SLGBTQ+ choruses. I have attended since 2006, and in 2018 I joined the Board of Directors, where I have served as Secretary, Vice President, and now Treasurer. This year was my first time attending without being affiliated with a member chorus, although I did sing in one of the four festival choirs at the closing concert, a group made up of delegates from across the country. I also continued my Board responsibilities throughout the weekend.

I wanted to share this experience with you because the festival is far more than a weekend of music. It is a space where 2SLGBTQ+ people and our allies can share songs, stories, and our authentic selves with a like minded community. It showcases a rich and diverse choral repertoire, spanning many musical genres, including works by emerging composers and lyricists, and it creates room to reflect on 2SLGBTQ+ history, rights, and the issues affecting our communities today.

Every time I attend, I forget just how emotional attending the festival can be. Seeing singers from coast to coast, from youth to seniors, perform music that carries deep meaning is profoundly moving. Sometimes it’s the lyrics, sometimes the story behind the piece, sometimes the reason an artistic director chose it, and sometimes the way a chorus embodies the music. Whatever the source, the impact is unmistakable.

The experience reminded me of our recent West End Affirm film series and how those three films that were screened sparked meaningful dialogue among 2SLGBTQ+ individuals and allies. At a time when 2SLGBTQ+ rights are once again under attack, events like our film series and the quadrennial Unison Festival offer safe and brave spaces where we can gather, be ourselves, share our thoughts and feelings, and deepen our understanding of one another.

As someone who has been active in the 2SLGBTQ+ community for more than 20 years, I can say honestly that there is still much to learn and much to share. Miscommunication and misunderstanding, both about the community and within it, are real. There have been moments when I’ve wondered whether “community” is even the right word, given the judgment and division I’ve witnessed.

And yet, the conversations I’ve had with Humbercrest congregation and community members give me hope. Your curiosity, engagement, and support mean more than you may realize. The struggle continues, but we walk it together, and that makes all the difference.

Final Note
I also want to share how much I am looking forward to hearing Rev. Dr. Cheri DiNovo deliver the sermon this Sunday at Humbercrest. She served as our MPP for many years, and as an advocate and active member of the 2SLGBTQ+ community, she has fought for—and won—important rights and protections. I am truly grateful for her leadership, her courage, and her many accomplishments.

08/05/2026

On Uniqueness, Gratitude, and Growing Older

Lately, spending so much time alone, I’ve found myself feeling deeply nostalgic. I’ve been flipping through old yearbooks from elementary and high school, listening to songs from my younger years—back when bands played their own instruments and sang live. I’ve been revisiting books from my personal library, the ones that once brought me joy, inspiration, or a spark of insight.

We are living in interesting times, and I still hear fear, panic, misunderstanding, and anxiety in people’s voices. Many of us are quietly wondering how to live comfortably in today’s version of humanity—what I sometimes jokingly call the “new world order.” As I sat with these thoughts, one word kept rising to the surface: gratitude.

May is my birthday month, and this year I’ll be turning 58. I’ll be spending my birthday weekend at the Unison Festival, Canada’s national 2SLGBTQ+ choral festival, which I’ve attended since 2006. Someone close to me once said that birthday celebrations are only for kids, because “it’s all downhill from here” for adults. I don’t buy that. I still feel like a kid at heart, and I have so much to celebrate and be grateful for, and I really like birthday cake.

In fact, I’ve started thinking of this birthday as the countdown to 60. There’s something special about decade milestones—they invite reflection, preparation, and a sense of possibility. So, I’m giving myself two years to get ready for whatever the next chapter brings.

Let’s be honest: life is a journey and a continuous work in progress. We will never finish everything we want to do. There will always be something new—opportunities, diversions, surprises—to navigate.

Recently, I reread Oliver Sacks’ small but powerful collection of essays, Gratitude, written as he approached his 80th birthday and after receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis. In these pages, he reflects on the experiences that shaped him as a physician and writer, and on the process of completing a life and making peace with death. He also writes candidly about growing up as an Orthodox Jew and stepping
away from those traditions after his mother reacted harshly to his homosexuality.

One other line that stayed with me was this:
“It is the fate of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own.

As I reread Sacks’ reflections on life, religion, writing, sexuality, and gratitude, I felt a resonance with my own recent struggles. His words about our uniqueness touched me deeply. He writes, “There will be no one like us when we are gone… When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled.”

To paraphrase Sacks: we live, we love, we give, and we receive. And when we look back on our relationships and our life journey—this gift we’ve been given—we eventually reach an age or stage where gratitude becomes essential. Gratitude for the good and the difficult, because both have shaped us. Gratitude that allows us to forgive those who hurt us, to release what no longer serves us, and to keep moving forward with as much openness as we can muster.

So, as I step into another year, I’m choosing to lean into gratitude—not as a tidy answer, but as a way of seeing. For the memories that shaped me, the people who held me, the music that carried me, and the
chapters

23/04/2026

When Music Becomes Prayer

I recently came across a conversation about the connection between scripture and hymns, and it brought to mind the well known line attributed to Saint Augustine of Hippo: “He who sings prays twice.” Singing is a physical act, but singing hymns is also a form of verbal prayer. It stirs emotion, deepens our devotion to the words we’re offering, and enriches our worship in ways spoken prayer sometimes cannot.

Growing up, I sang hymns and gospel music with choirs in churches and in concert halls. It was always an emotional experience, the power of the lyrics, the beauty of the arrangements, and the shared energy between singers and audience created something sacred every time.

Some songs stay with us because their lyrics speak directly to our hearts. As a lifelong record collector, I played my favourite records so often that my parents had to keep replacing the needle on my record player. That emotional pull has always made me want to dig deeper, to learn the stories behind the songs and the people who wrote them.

This morning, while listening to Tom Power on CBC Radio Q, I heard an interview with P.E.I. actor and theatre director Mike Ross about the Don McLean classic American Pie. Ross has co created a stage show exploring the hidden meanings behind the song, now playing in Toronto. It reminded me how powerful it can be to uncover the stories behind the music we think we already know.

A while ago, I watched the film I Can Only Imagine, and last week I watched its sequel. Both touched me deeply, and I highly recommend them. The first film tells the true story behind MercyMe’s contemporary Christian hit of the same name, one of the best selling Christian singles of all time. It’s even been covered by many other musical artists. Lead singer Bart Millard wrote it out of his turbulent relationship with his father, and the song’s lyrics reflect that journey of pain, forgiveness, and hope.

The sequel continues the story as Bart and the band navigate fame, past traumas, and family and health challenges. We also meet musician Tim Timmons, who is battling cancer while touring with MercyMe. He shares the meaning behind the beloved hymn It Is Well with My Soul. Horatio Spafford wrote the hymn in 1873 after a series of devastating tragedies, including the loss of his four daughters in a shipwreck. He penned the lyrics while passing over the very place in the Atlantic where they died. Knowing that story changes the way we hear the hymn forever.

Throughout my life, I’ve had the privilege of working with artistic directors, conductors, songwriters, and musicians who generously share the inspirations behind their work. Their stories always deepen my appreciation for the music they create. Even here at Humbercrest, I commend Marg Parsons for offering background notes on composers when she plays in the chapel during the summer months. She often says how much she enjoys the research, and I’m grateful for it, my love of history and storytelling makes those notes a gift.

Do you have a favourite hymn? Humbercrest would love to hear from you so it can be added to the choir’s repertoire. But I’m also curious: what’s the story behind your choice? Why does it resonate with you? There’s another meaningful conversation waiting to unfold.

See you in church.

16/04/2026

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda — and Eventually, Loving Myself

I grew up in a large Maltese family, surrounded not only by relatives but by an entire Maltese community. One of my uncles owned a bustling hairdressing and retail business, and many of my sisters, and even my father, worked for him. His employees became like extended family, adding to the chorus of voices that shaped my early life. Before the digital age, opinions travelled quickly and loudly. Whether praise or criticism, people didn’t hesitate to tell me what they thought about me or choices or decisions I made. Over time, those constant commentaries fed my anxiety and made it difficult to trust my own sense of self. I know I’m not the only one who has lived under the weight of other people’s “shoulda, woulda, coulda” thoughts and opinions.

Many of those voices have faded now, some because people have passed on, others because life has taken us in different directions. I still keep in touch with a few, but not as often as before. Yet even in their absence, the silence can be deafening. Old comments still surface in my head when I least expect them, as if they were waiting in the wings for their cue.

Being the youngest in that community meant I was often told I didn’t know what I was doing, or that someone older always knew better. But even then, my curiosity led me into places and ideas they had never encountered. I would mention things I’d learned, and suddenly I realized I understood far more about the world than they assumed. Still, the old judgments lingered, and even as I matured, those internalized voices followed me.

Then came the pandemic. Like everyone else, I found myself in a bubble, physically isolated, emotionally stretched, and forced to rely on my own thoughts and decisions in a way I never had before. The loneliness was real, but so was the clarity. With fewer outside voices, I began hearing my own more clearly. It was unsettling at first, but eventually it became grounding. Even now, in this post pandemic world where many people still keep to themselves, I’ve learned to understand others’ distance without taking it personally.

More importantly, I’ve learned to listen to myself with compassion.
This past year has been challenging personally, professionally, and financially. But it has also been a year of trusting myself because I’ve had to. Life evolves, and so do we. As a Ta**us, I’m not naturally fond of change, but I’ve learned to accept it, sometimes even welcome it. Relationships shift, communities transform, and the world keeps moving. Through it all, I’ve discovered that I’m stronger when I share only what feels right, journal when I need clarity, and pursue interests simply because they bring me joy.

At 57, I’m more confident and more in control of my life than I’ve ever been. The “shoulda, woulda, coulda” voices may still whisper now and then, but they no longer define me. I’ve learned to love the person I’ve become. So, if you ask how I’m doing and I smile and say, “I’m fine,” know that I truly am — and I’m grateful for anyone who cares enough to ask.