Balance

Every morning and every afternoon I check the mail, meaning e-mail, Face Book, Instant messages and Twitter notifications. I go to the Post Office once a week, maybe, to get regular mail which usually must be pried from the box. Yesterday I noticed that the number of emails now pale in comparison to these other ways of communicating.

Of course snail mail is mostly mass advertising and credit card applications.

On a daily basis from Alaska to south Florida and from New York to Hawaii my conversations take place in real time. Most are about my daily musings, followed by work related questions then travel planning because of work and finally just having fun.

Snail mail and most email are now mostly passé. Aside from the occasional personal note, they are impersonal and take out the human factor of life and work.

The more immediate and instant modes of communication are taking their place. Web pages are also quickly becoming passé because they’re not interactive and people want communication, answers and service in real time. So I can talk to Ida in Alaska and immediately answer her question. Or my daughter is in London and we Skype and Face Book to stay current on a daily basis.

Communicating this way has led to meeting new friends in person, reconnecting with old friends, questions about work have led to business, and even when a tornado blew through my son’s living room volunteers were immediately available and friends from State and Federal agencies were letting me know how they can help … in real time!

For most of the past year my life has been on Tybee Island but my discussions have been World-wide. Jose in San Juan, Jacob in Norway and Kurt in Croatia all chime in with regularity. Of course my St. Martin friends want to know how Goddess is doing and when Conner and I will return.

This is the way that the world now works.

So yesterday it was funny when I left this way of doing things to meet my mentor and friend Ben Barnes for lunch at the Starfish Café. And though cyber-hugs are great they’ll never replace the real touch of people who love you when they see you. When I walked in Chef Paul and Gloria came running with real hugs and kisses.

People I used to work came and did the same. Francis Carter who now runs Union Mission was hosting a women’s gathering for United Way. As ladies arrived many saw me for the first time in a year and made their way over for hugs and conversations.

“Micheal!” one yelled, “I thought you were …”

“Dead” I finished for her.

She released me from the hug and finished for herself, “Gone.”

“Nope,” I replied “just been lying low.”

But the fact of the matter is that I really haven’t laid low. I’ve just used different ways to stay in touch. For the most part I’ve left Savannah to Francis, a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, and those now in charge of things. I had my run and made my differences and how it’s their turn (well not the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … he’s done).

Every day I’ve posted what’s been happening in my life, both personally and professionally. When I discovered that I was suddenly single, I wrote about what it was like and I was overwhelmed with how people responded. I said things that many felt but keep to themselves and don’t say. They reached out and these dialogues began that led to … support, personal meetings and church (in the real sense of the word).

I wrote about living on Tybee Island, the Bored meeting, drunken bicycles, my deck, my dog, Bar Church and a sad little holy dock. And people responded in ways I never would have imagined. One wrote asking for a photograph for Face Book of me on the Beloved Back deck with Goddess and my drunken bicycle (Nancy or Julia … we might have to do this).

Another asked if I would conduct a worship service on Shirley’s sad little holy dock? If anybody actually showed up, it would collapse.

Describing my travels and the amazing work that I see and get to participate in, lots of people have gotten in touch and I either answered their questions or made cyber-introductions to those who are the experts.

Other times I just share what is going on, funny or sad, personal or professional, inside or outside. Again I remain stunned at the response. One friend got on the Internet and took a virtual tour of the walk that I take Goddess on every day. He found aerial views of the beloved back deck, the sad little holy dock and even where Art gives Goddess treats. He is a long retired Georgia Tech man and though he doesn’t travel outside of a five mile radius, the man gets around!

So last week I decided it was time for balance (meaning Rebekah and Jodi were telling me to get out in public in the old fashion way). I’m starting close at home. There are meetings in Savannah all week and all through next week. I’ll enter the juggling act of balancing the new with the old.

Now that I think about it … that’s what I’ve always done.

Scars

I’m standing in the still of the night under a hazy silver of moon that looks like a bowl just of above the trees that I call Fran’s thousands of green. There are stars above it and they look like sprinkles dropping into the bowl or cereal.

My neighbor has left all of the lights are on in her house, on her back porch and her television is on. She lives alone so maybe this is her way of adding additional protection. Maybe she just doesn’t want to feel alone. There is no sign of her anywhere so I assume she’s asleep on her sofa.

It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m lost in thought standing on the back deck.

There is no breeze … no rustling of leaves and no birds are singing. There is no traffic in the distance. The only sound is that of my own breathing.

Goddess is asleep in the doorway of my bedroom with half of her body in the bedroom and half in the living room. She used to sleep on her benches or her bed but sometime over the past year some protective spirit kicked in and she sleeps like this every night so that whatever she thinks is coming to hurt me has to get by her first.

After half an hour of staring out of the five windows that I can see out of in my bedroom, I get up and step over her and come outside. I am restless for the future to arrive now. I want the things that I’m wishing for. I’m telling myself to concentrate on these things and go back to bed.

I’d woken up with the image of scars ... and the people who inflicted them on me ... and the ones that are self-inflicted. I reach down and rub the scar just below my right knee where the pin had been placed to straighten out a shattered leg.

I rub the scar under the upside down moon in the bright darkness of a funny night.

This scar is self-inflicted. I’d snuck out of the house to go dancing only to be hit by car shattering my leg. Six weeks in traction in the hospital, followed by eight weeks in a body cast, was followed by a shriveled leg half the size of its companion.

I remember going back to school for the first time in months, embarrassed when it was time for P. E. I remember Maurice making fun of the shriveled leg. We’d played football together. Then Coach Greg Talley told us to line up and run.

I couldn’t believe it!

But I ran, one strong leg followed by a remnant of a leg going through the motions. And it hurt. And the embarrassment grew because I was no longer what I was. Maurice and others laughed as I made my way to the finish line far behind the last person in front of me. I was sweating, gasping for far, my leg was killing me and I hated every damn one them.

“The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places,” Hemingway wrote. “But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good, and the very gentle, and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.”

In the midst of being broken … things were born inside of me that day.

I began to run. I did leg squats like nobody else would. I’d stand on the edge of steps and bounce up and down building my calf. Then I remember later racing past Maurice at the finish line and immediately turning just to watch him cross it behind me. Then I slapped my hand in the air dismissing him.

My finger traces the scar in the bright dark of an upside down moon.

The scars that were inflicted by others run through my mind. And I call each of them by name in the still of the night.

And I cuss them.

Something moves in the yard and I look down. The Palm Tree has a face … eyes, nose and mouth made out of oyster shells … and the haze of the moon illuminates the face. It smiles at me.

I stare at it, amused by my thoughts and its smile.

Then I’m struck that I’ll always have these scars. And the ones inflicted by others are far worse than the ones that I inflicted on myself. And I cuss them again in the middle of the night for stealing sleep from me when they’ve already taken so many other things.

But ...

It is that future that I care about.

And I will race passed the past …

Then I’ll turn around and smile ...

… because I am strong at the broken places ...

Then I go back inside, step over Goddess and sleep soundly.