Delusional Sunsets

Goddess Elliott and I watch a lot of sunsets on Shirley's sad little holy dock. Just down the street from A.J.'s the dock sits in the middle of the marsh and has a terrific view of the Back River. Unlike the crowds that flock to A.J.'s for dinner, drinks and watching the sun sink into the ocean, it's normally just Goddess and me sitting on the sad little holy dock. If the tide is low the choirs of mussels sing to us with their ticks and pops. If it's high the green marsh grass is covered and it looks as though God has painted it a greenish blue. Either way it is beautiful.

One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.

I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.

Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.

Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.

I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.

Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.

Over the last year, something similar occurred.

Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.

I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.

Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.

Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.

Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.

Daufaski

Within seven hours of arriving from New York City I was on Daufaski Island.

According to legend, Da-fus-ki is "Gullah" for "the first key" ... a key or cay is an island ... like Key West. The Gullah were former black slaves who emancipated and fiercely held onto their language, which is a Jamaican Creole that was bastardized by white people's English. The language is also called "Geechee" in south Georgia and when I was growing up whites would lapse into racism and call black people "Blue gums" when they talked this way.

When Lincoln emancipated the slaves some were pure genius and negotiated their own islands with the federal government ... Daufaski was one. About eighty black families lived there separated and segregated from the world that had raped them. They had beaches, oysters, shrimp and could bend over and pick up handfuls of sand ... which are pulverized sea shells ... broken by the ocean into something ... as beautiful as it had once been.

Broken often leads to something more beautiful than it was before.

I remember Daufaski growing up ... I mean it was always just right there ... but white people went to Hilton Head when they weren't building homes with servants quarters on Tybee Island.

I grew up in Port Wentworth which was a factory town ... literally built around a factory. My childhood friend Pig Jones is the Mayor of Port Wentworth. I loved a Mayor named Pig even before he was Mayor. We grew up together and our Dads would take us to University of Georgia football games or Braves games. Good times!

But they also told us about Blue gums and Daufaski.

So we went to Hilton Head ... where all of the black people lived in the middle of the island ... or Tybee where they all lived downstairs in the servants quarters. Tybee remains greatly proud that it has more historic beach cottages than any community on the East coast. What this means is that there are more servants quarters than anywhere on the East Coast (sorry Cullin Chambers ... but it is what it is).

Then Pat Conroy started writing books. I love Pat Conroy! Everything that he's ever written! When he was a kid after being the lone liberal graduating from the Citedal ... he became the first white teacher of black kids on Daufaski Island. "The Water is Wide" is the name of the book. They made a movie about it named "Conrack" because the Gullah kids could quite pronounce Conroy and it came out different ... as beautiful things always do.

Like a seashell pulverized by the ocean into sand ... it was a thing of beauty once ... but now it is a different thing of beauty ... more beautiful in so many ways!

So "The Water is Wide" is right up there with Jesus, Hemingway, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Carl Hiaasen, Dorothy Day, Alice Walker and Guy Sayles to me.

So Jenny O was having her 50th birthday party and decided to do on Daufaski. About 30 of us collected although only about ten of us remember another ten. I was flying in from New York and though ... there were other things that are important to me ... it's Jenny Orr who is my friend ... on Daufaski.

How could I not go?

So my extended family Jodee and Cheryl took me over on their boat. There is no other way to get to the first key. And it rained beauty throughout the day and night. Though I was so exhausted from New York that I missed half of the beauty.

At one point, I sat on the dock alone ... thinking about the girl stars ... talking to them ... cause I love them most ...

And I sat there ...

Thinking ...

And while ... in the words of Jimmy Buffett singing about Daufaski ... "the bulldozers bury the past" ...

But ... Beach Music, Beach Music, Beach Music ... just plays on ...

So darlin' ...

Save the last dance for me.

Our House

As good as the meetings where with a book agent and leaders in social media for good causes is as bad as the trip home was. A large thunderstorm over Manhattan may as well have dumped glue over the runways because everything got stuck. LaGuardia is a small Delta terminal anyway so it filled and was soon crazy crowded. Long lines at the bars and restaurants made it worse and the delays grew longer too. Soon people started getting upset and it showed. The entire place was this collective fund of bad karma.

I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.

Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.

It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.

"Shit!" several people said at the same time.

The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.

"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."

"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."

"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."

So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.

The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.

People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.

I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.

At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.

I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.

And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...

Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...

Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.

Our House

As good as the meetings where with a book agent and leaders in social media for good causes is as bad as the trip home was. A large thunderstorm over Manhattan may as well have dumped glue over the runways because everything got stuck. LaGuardia is a small Delta terminal anyway so it filled and was soon crazy crowded. Long lines at the bars and restaurants made it worse and the delays grew longer too. Soon people started getting upset and it showed. The entire place was this collective fund of bad karma.

I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.

Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.

It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.

"Shit!" several people said at the same time.

The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.

"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."

"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."

"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."

So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.

The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.

People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.

I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.

At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.

I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.

And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...

Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...

Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.

The World Grows Smaller

The very famous Dr. Jim Withers and I are in New York City for meetings. They are today though we arrived yesterday and opted for Broadway last night.

I love Broadway! Musical comedies are my favorites though I like musicals of all kinds. Pippin. Jesus Christ Superstar. Godspell. RENT. Spamalot. Hairspray (I went kicking and screaming but then there was Darlene Love in it and it doesn't get any cooler than her!). Cotton Patch Gospel. Don't Stop the Carnival. Avenue Q.

I could go on.

New York is always a head rush though I've grown fond of finding little taverns and neighborhood pups ... especially when the Giants or Jets are playing. That's always fun!

New York has no real concept of college football though. Once my son Jeremy, Melanie Finnachario and I ran like twenty-seven city blocks to catch the second half of a University of Georgia football game. Everybody else in the city was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art which is where we had been but ... UGA was playing so we found the one sports bar that was showing the game (Georgia beat Kentucky on a last minute field goal).

But I like running through Central Park because I'm always discovering these little hidden treasures. Once I literally ran into Yoko Ono on the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's death.

Ray's Pizza is really good! Once we were there and this homeless guy burst in the front door, held up his hand and screamed, "Don't worry kids! I'm the trash inspector!"

Then he buried his upper body in the trash can looking for ... I really don't know what he was looking for.

"Hey Timmy," said a kid sitting at the table beside ours, "what the heck's a trash inspector?"

"Beats me," said Timmy with a mouth full of pizza.

The entertainment in the subway stations are to die for. As is Ellen's Starlight Dinner where those who fail to pass the auditions on Broadway get jobs as singing waiters and waitresses.

Anyway, I'm here with Jim for a meeting with a book agent and another meeting concerning using social medal to solve problems like homelessness. The head of the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the National Coalition for the Homeless, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and a several philanthropists will be there.

Lunch is provided.

It is interesting to me that a year after leaving Union Mission these opportunities continue to come my way. The sponsors bought my plane ticket, spent a lot of money to put Jim and I up at the Omni Berkshire on West 52 Street and apparently read a lot of what I write every day. We're going to explore the power of blogging, Youtubing, Twitter on mobilizing public responses for serious social issues like health care, homelessness and housing. As the world gets smaller because of technology, we have the opportunity to grow closer.

It's a small step from the writing that I do every morning on my beloved back deck to corporate offices in New York City.

Who knew?

A Rain Kissed Night

Lately, I've fallen in love with Tybee Island again. As someone who has lived on this clump of sand for over two decades you might think I would have grown weary of it or its lost luster. If anything my love of the east coast's eastern most island has deepened immensely. I love it now more than I ever have and it's becoming blurry with St. Martin which is the other island that I love so much.

It all started when I was a kid and Mom and Dad would stuff us in the car and bring us to the island and I can still remember the excitement of seeing the ocean as we rounded the big curve ... diamonds sprinkled from the sun danced on the sea. The little boy in me remains very much alive over such sights.

Years later, I would visit my folks from Louisville where I was living and leave everyone to drive out to Tybee. I would go to the old "Veranda Restaurant" with its view of the ocean and the "Texas Tower", drink coffee and write. Those first books came from a journal that I'd started but the ocean taught me to turn stories into song like things.

At this time Mom and Dad lived at "The Landings" which is like yuppie/retiree Disney Land for golfers, yachting and tennis players. Everything about the place is wonderful. I would leave it at daylight every morning and drive to Tybee or the Redneck Reveria as it was called then. People dress really nice at "The Landings" ... or 598'ers as they are referred to here but there are girls in bikinis on Tybee. There was no competition whatsoever for me.

When I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" it was really just a love letter to this place. Matt Hutton gave Tybee the best description ever ... which I stole and used it throughout the book ... "it's Mayberry on Acid".

Gordo, of the Samuel Adams band ... who play damn good live music on the island ... calls it "Mayberry by the beach" which is true ... but there is some sprinkling of fairy dust of some kind that transforms it all into something else.

There is a craziness to the place. I know ... most islands have it ... as my friend Jane Fishman once told me "Micheal it's an island, everybody is either running to, or running from, something."

I've been to a lot of islands. Tybee is different from them all!

These days a lot of people ... the Tybee City Manager, the City Council and other reprobates are trying to change it. For example, another city went out of business and we bought all of their stop signs at bargain prices. There are frigging Stop Signs every three feet on this island! You can no longer camp on the beach. Building a fire will get you a life sentence. Taking your dog on the beach is a $300 fine. The police no longer drive you home if you drank too much and they will even arrest YOU if your bicycle got drunk.

But in spite of such things ... well ... it remains magical.

Last night I sat with arms of love wrapped around me, surrounded by people I love dearly, with Chelsea my daughter freshly back from Europe (and styling white). Stars danced on the water. Italian shots made us all fill warm. Sam Adams played music. A harmonica appeared out of nowhere and Dedra sang the blues.

It was all ... spectacular.

An incredibly wonderful evening!

When I came home I was warm and tingly from the night.

Then it rained.

And I walked out on the beloved back deck, blew Fran's thousand shades of green covered in the blankets of darkness a kiss ... and danced.

The Universal Question

Life gets in the way sometimes.

"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans," John Lennon said.

Life is messy.

It's freaking wonderful.

Sometimes life is unbearable.

Occasionally you just laugh at it.

I've settled into this routine. Wake up ... fall in the shower ... ride my bike to the Breakfast Club ... walk Goddess .... run the beach ... walk Goddess again drinking Gator-aid while I cool down ... water the flowers ... baptize myself in the holiness of the outdoor shower ... move to the beloved back deck and write ... post ... go to work in a virtual world ... take a break for the Bored meeting (if I'm not in town or traveling) ... go back to work in a virtual world ... wait for Goddess to nudge me that it's time to take her for another walk (unless Dedra's on island then it is afternoon delight swim time now that she has upgraded her accommodations) ... take Goddess for aforementioned walk ... contemplate dinner ... take a bike ride ... go back to work in a virtual world ... then sit on the beloved back deck into the night.

Today ... that all got messed up.

Actually it started last night. Rocky disrupted my bike ride but we sat and talked as friends do so it was good. Then Tracy Thompson who was my partner in SABHC, health care and she rose from the dead and called me and we talked and talked catching one another up as good friends do. As I was falling asleep Esther called and we talked until 1:30 in the morning. I normally don't do stuff like that but I love Esther.

This morning it continued. Dedra suddenly remembered all ten commandments and how many she's broken. Chelsea my baby girl came back from six months in Europe and is still on London time where it's two in the afternoon so she's actually up in the morning wanting to talk. Carlos from St. Martin texted to talk. Esther calls back, and like Chelsea, I'm stunned that she's awake. This all happens at the same time!

It's all cool.

I'm having a good time. These are the people I love.

Then Dave Buck calls. This is work intruding on my personal time. The universe is suddenly off kilter.

I'm being punished for my sins! (Actually I've broken far more commandments than Dedra has ... some repeatedly!)

We talk for an hour about ... work!!!!

I stare at the clock. I'm supposed to be at Bar Church. God needs me. Dave Buck won't let me go.

Hmmmm... God? Dave Buck? God Dave Buck?

I ask myself the universal question repeatedly.

Then Dave Buck hangs up and I immediately ...

call Esther ...

We finish.

I'm late for Bar Church.

God forgive me.

Wait!

Never mind God ...

You're the one who sent all of this other stuff anyway...

Thanks.

I think you're great!

The Waves of Creation

Once I get to the southern most beach, the sand turns soft because the tide no longer comes that high. It used to flood this entire area to the sand dunes but, sand dunes move and they are now way out in the Back River. Running on wet dried compacted sand is pretty easy. Running through the soft stuff is one hell of a work out!

It's been this way for months now ... until today. The tide found its way back to the dunes and the run was easier. The ocean is calm, the sky is deep blue, a breeze blows from the north lessening the heat dripping from the sun. It is a Chamber of Commerce picture post card day.

I find myself staring at how the beach has changed. I find it amazing that the beach changes a little bit every single day yet somehow remains more or less the same too. The sun and the sea are forever sculpting and molding the beach as though it is an almost finished painting that is not quite done. Today the artist has wiped out an entire corner of the canvas and thrown up something entirely different from what it was yesterday.

"We know," St. Paul says, "that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of child birth right up until this present time ... Not only so, but we ourselves ..."

I've always loved this. Creation isn't done yet ... it groans as though a baby is being born ... it hurts like hell sometimes and no matter how you breath ... you end up screaming. And it's not just that way at the beginning of our lives ... it's right up to this present time.

We are still being created.

We are still creating ourselves.

In Hebrew (I know the New Testament is in Greek but they thought in Hebrew and wrote in Aramaic) it reads "Creation groans for its completion ..."

I think that's closer to the truth. We all want to be completed.

But we're not.

Life is messy. We rock and roll along then the tides change and chunks of what we believed, what we did or who we were are washed away. And we are left ... changed ... changing ... always in the present tense.

We groan for completion but we're never complete.

I read once that the first step a baby takes is away from the parent who loves her so. She may turn around and come back but ... it's only to leave again. As time passes, the steps become more confident, the walks longer, the destinations greater. Then the child is gone and the mother is left alone.

Quite the analogy huh?

If we're not forever participating in the ongoing creation of ourselves ... well ... we get left behind. Alone. Forget about the rapture and those silly people forever setting dates for Jesus to come riding down on a cloud pissed off because he was crucified and now ready to take revenge ...

Being left behind is when you stop participating with God in your creation. God doesn't do it if we're not participating. Today we need to be more than we were yesterday.

I know lots of people who are stuck in yesterday. They want to keep things the way that they were ... or are ... but that is not life. Life is forever being molded and sculpted. We're either participating or we're not.

So this morning I stopped my run, took my shoes, headband and I-pod and left them in the sand. Then I rode the waves helping to mold the sand into whatever it's going to become today. Just like I'm working with God as "WE" mold my life.

It was cool and refreshing.

Like creation always is.

The Love of Charles

"Do you need to get in?" the large black man asked me from inside of the courtyard at Grace House last night. It's been painted since I built it all of those years ago. Savannah's big on private courtyards in the historic district and I thought homeless people deserved their own so got a $30,000 grant and had it built. I remember someone wrote a letter to the editor wanting to know if I would be using tax payer dollars to build homeless people a swimming pool next ... I always meant to do that.

"That would be helpful," I replied.

"I'll have to get the manager," he said as though he could care less.

A tall, handsome black man with glasses came swinging keys. I used to call them "Night Nazis" back in the early days because the power of being in charge went to their heads and they often took advantage of people.

"We're full," he said still swinging the keys.

"Really?," I replied. Tell me something that I don't know. Grace House has been full since we built it in 1987.

"What's your name?" I asked and he seemed startled.

"Keith Black," he said loudly.

"Hey Keith, I'm Micheal Elliott," and this obviously meant nothing to him.

"I'm actually here to see Charles," I told him.

He looked me over more carefully. Wearing black running shorts, a "St. Martin Drinking Team" tee shirt, flip flops and a UGA baseball cap, I could have passed for homeless ... but I wasn't acting homeless. I was acting like I owned the place.

"I'll get him for you Mr. Elliott," he said disappearing inside leaving me outside of the locked gate.

I looked over my shoulder at Dedra who was driving my convertible. We'd taken Jim Withers to the airport and on the spur of the moment driving back I decided to show her some of Union Mission which she's heard about but never seen. She gave me a thumbs up. I shrugged my shoulders.

Then I made another spur of the moment decision. I needed to see Charles, my former bank robbing, African-American, mentally ill adopted son. For ten years we'd taken care of one another. We love one another dearly and I've only seen him a few times in the past year though he sends me messages through other people. They are all formal but they end the same ... "I miss you," he says ... like I miss him.

Then he stumbled out of the glass doors that I had put in because the last thing homeless people need is more darkness in their lives. He looked like shit! He always looks bad but I was not prepared for what I saw.

He duct tapes his pants but has now discovered safety pins and there must have been a thousand of them in the same dirty green pants that he wore when I left. His hair hasn't been cut in months. Every three months we would send him to get a haircut, meaning it got shaved. Every quarter I would also give him $100 and send him shopping for new clothes. He didn't always wear them but he had them and always showed me the receipts.

He walked out with his eyes half-closed like he always does with his hand on top of his head. Someone wanted to see him. When he got to the gate his eyes opened wide.

"Hello Sir," he said in his deep voice and I though I would cry.

"Hey Charles," said. "Open the goddamn gate," I told Keith.

He fumbled for keys and did. Charles came out and we hugged one another. I introduced him to Dedra.

"Hello Mam," he said. "Is this your fiancee Sir?" he asked.

"No Charles, she's my friend," and I reached up to put my arm around his shoulders and we walked down the sidewalk that I'd demanded the city put in because homeless deserve sidewalks too.

"What's up with your hair Charles?," I asked rubbing my fingers through the puffy soft black curls.

"I'm growing an Afro Sir," he said.

"Seriously?" I said now with his hair grease on my hand. "They don't send you for haircuts anymore?"

"Ms. Andrea Holmes handles my money," he said as way of explanation."Do you know her?"

"Joy doesn't," I asked. "I know Andrea."

His eyes half closed again and his hand went to the top of his head and he shook his head from side to side.

He reached down and hugged me. "I love you Sir," he said loudly.

I cried.

"I love you too Charles," I said on my tiptoes trying to hug him back.

Then the visit was over. He went back inside and Keith locked the gate. Dedra drove me back to Tybee. I was quiet and emotional. On the beloved back deck I talked on the phone but was having a tough time with it. My friend was too. She told me that I needed a hug and she was right but there were no hugs last night.

I said on the phone last night that he may have been a mistake to see him but in the light of today ... it wasn't. I told someone who I love dearly that I love him. And he told me too.

And none of us do that enough.

Intentional Friendship

On Friday I had lunch with my dear friend Ben Barnes and Herb McKenzie. Ben has been relentless in tracking me down, pinning me down for a date and forcing me to leave Tybee and drive to Johnny Harris’ Restaurant. Ben is in his nineties, a retired God of the Banking industry, former Chairman of the Board of Union Mission and my friend. Herb is retired from the pharmaceutical industry, is a bear of a man, and also a former Board chair.

We greeted one another with hugs and smiles.

Herb and I drank a beer while Ben ordered iced sweet tea. We talked about what each of us has been up to, Union Mission of course, and then a bunch of old stories of things that we’d done. It was a wonderful time in Savannah when I’m not really into leaving the island these days except to drive to the airport.

And it was intentional on Ben’s part.

His friendship with me … and with Herb … is very … intentional.

I think that all friendships are intentional.

They take work. Someone initiates. Someone reacts. Then it flips and ends up being equal.

Most have life spans. They might last forever but not in the same way.

We change as individuals and it ends up impacting the relationships that we are in.

My dear friend Guy and I haven’t actually spoken in years though we keep on with one another because of the miracle of Face Book and the Internet. I would not be me without Guy. He’s the one who “called” me to go to Seminary. We were very intense with one another in college and during the first part of Seminary. Then he went on to become who he is and I went on to become who I am. We love one another for the contributions we made to one another but we are no longer intentional about our friendship.

I can say the same thing about a lot of other friends who were very significant to me but our lives have taken us away from one another. For whatever reason … we are no longer … intentional about our friendship.

At the same time you throw Guy and I in the same room unexpectedly in a room at the same time and after a few awkward moments we would fall right back into the ways that we used to be with one another.

I really learned this with my friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch. We all went to college together then took several decades apart before hooking back up on Face Book. I hosted a reunion at my house and within one hour we were all the way that they were in college. Over the past year we have become very intentional with one another … communicating most every day ... seeing one another often ... enjoying us again.

Today my friend the famous Dr. Jim Withers is sitting across the table from me. Earlier he was at the Breakfast Club with me and met my extended family there along with Dave and Sandi. When we left I was explaining to Jim how we’re all very intentional with one another.

“Intentional friendship?” he asked.

And it made me stop dead in my tracks.

“They really are aren’t they?” I answered.

Back home we took Goddess for a walk and he was commenting about how everyone on this clump of sand seems to be good friends.

I laughed. “Well we all know one another.”

In a bit, a group of us are going to get in the water of the Back River and float to the Crab Shack. I will be with the very famous Dr. Jim Withers, Dedra from college and Jodee and Cheryl from the island … a strange collision of friends from different times and places … who are all together now.

Very intentionally so.

A Would be Stalker

The famous Dr. Jim Withers is a tremendous human being for many reasons but his ability to plan is not one of them; Hence his decision to fly into the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) at 9:40 on a Friday night to come visit me. It is a 45 minute drive to and from the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) from Tybee Island where Sam and Gordon play damn good live music on Friday nights. Hence my decision to have the famous Dr. Withers take a cab to my house.

I waited on the famous Dr. Withers with Goddess on the beloved back deck. Around 11:00 he showed up and we talked and caught up as good friends do. Then I told him it was passed my bed time and left him on the beloved back deck and went to sleep.

When I got up, he got this morning.

“You going running?” he asked.

I don’t know why he would ask such a stupid question. Just because I wore running shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes is no reason to jump to logical conclusions … but he’s a doctor … they do such things.

“No,” I scoffed, “I’m going to the Breakfast Club.”

“It’s too early to eat,” he said scratching his head still trying to wake up.

“Who’s eating?” I replied. “Come on.”

So he got ready and we stumbled in the door marked “Exit-Only” and took our seat at the Counter. A bit later the place opened, quickly filled and this dark haired woman in a bathing seat took the stool next to mine.

Philip, who has red hair, is seven feet tall, and is the master of toast and garnishment at the Breakfast Club said hello and asked me who my friend was.

“This is the famous Dr. Jim Withers,” I announced to the counter. “He is the subject of the movie ‘One Bridge to the Next.’”

“Really,” Philip said as though he was impressed. “I love paying taxes to build bridges so that people can have homes under them.”

Jim looked at him, then looked at me and then looked at him again. “That’s pretty good,” he laughed.

(In truth, Phil and I planned this whole exchange last night when I stopped into the Club and visited with him while he prepped for this morning.)

“You are in a movie,” bikini girl asked between bites of a cheese omelet, grits and dry toast?

Jim nodded then told the counter that it’s about providing health care to people who live under bridges. Philip and I were laughing at one another’s incredible senses of humor.

Then Jim went on to have a serious discussion with those to his left. I sat to his right. Bikini girl sat right of me.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I help him,” I answered.

She asked several questions about street medicine, homelessness, and health care.

Then she told me that she’s from Atlanta, loves God, and thinks that our ministry is great.

“You should call it ‘Bridges of Hope’” she told me.

“Thanks,” I said.

Then she went on to explain how the world is coming to an end in 2020 but most people don’t know that because the stars and planets are going to align in 2003.
This will result in tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, and uncooked Chicken McNuggets. But you have to add the Holy number 7 to it and that’s how you know when the master plan is really going to be finished.

She is a very attractive bikini clad woman sitting there talking to me. She is also an idiot.

My friend Nance the waitress heard all of this, slams her ticket in front of her and says “You’re finished!”

Then Nance looks at me and mouths, “You owe me.”

“You live here?” attractive bikini idiot asks.

“I do.”

Where?

Pointing my thumb over my over my shoulder I show her that way.

“Do you have a place to rent? I’m sick of staying in a hotel,” she says.

“I don’t.”

“Do you ever let people stay with you?” she asks leaning into me.

“I don’t,” I tell her.

“Here’s my name and phone number,” she says writing it on a napkin before paying and leaving.

Nance grabs the napkin. “I’ll take care of that for you,” she explains, “you have enough stalkers.” Then she throws it away.

Jim looks at me.

I shrug my shoulders and the day begins.

Tomorrow

“Does it seem like a year,” she asked me.

I pressed my index finger to my lips which is something that I do when I think. My hair’s getting long enough in the back again where I can also tug on it. I ponder her question.

“No,” I finally answered. “It’s funny because the Sabbatical seems likes its been a year but the resignation from Union Mission doesn’t.”

“Why’s that?”

My fingers go back to my lips and I take my time. “Probably because there are still unresolved issues that I have with certain people associated with it all.”

There was a story in yesterday’s Savannah Morning News about me. It was one year since the last story they did on me. Obviously they didn’t want me to know because my paper wasn’t delivered yesterday.

I did get all of these strange texts yesterday morning congratulating me though I had no idea what they were cheering about. Then I called my Mom for something and she said, “Nice story.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me.

At lunch with a friend, there was a discarded newspaper on the bar. She grabbed it and there I was … as I looked twenty years ago.

I’m old new so they used an old photograph.

We busted out laughing at the headline; “Pastor Goes Nationwide” like I’d sold my soul to an insurance company.

I don’t know who chooses the headlines for the Savannah Morning News but I figure that marijuana is involved. There have been some great ones! But … the fact of the matter is I haven’t pastored a church since the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel a few decades ago. I do have the “Rev” title in front of my name so I image whoever it was took a toke while writing his insurance check and came up with the headline.

We really didn’t read the article because we were laughing so hard. Apparently I had a heyday which is passed. Then the last thing you do is always the one thing that anybody remembers so the story ended with that. I’d lost my mind and decided to reform behavioral health in the state of Georgia. Who knew the whole damn system is run by crazy people? Mean crazy people!

Anyway they whipped my ass and that was the last part of the article.

Later I read the online version where marijuana use is obviously not involved in the choosing of headlines; “Elliott to tackle health care nationally.” That’s closer to what I’m actually doing these days.

“If you want to get together to talk about the future,” said the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … Jerry Rainey,” fine otherwise I have no interest in the past.”

It made me think of Jim Jones and his Kool-Aid. “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Of course the Board member who chooses to remain anonymous, Jerry Rainey, did go to Auburn.

I was in St. Martin last year when that last article came out. Nothing about the way I left Union Mission was handled right but … it happened that way. Personally I was burned out and was long overdue for a Sabbatical which the leadership didn’t want me to take. I made the mistake of listening to them … when they were wrong.

Priests and Nuns take Sabbaticals. They rotate the military so that you’re in the front lines too much lest you crack up (our military leadership seems to have forgotten this). Teachers need breaks from the students.

For thirty one years I was in the front lines with only one break and that was when I was in a serious accident and had many broken bones.

I only have one regret of my years at Union Mission. I didn’t take that Sabbatical when I knew I was sliding into burn-out. I listened to the wise men and sages. Because I didn’t listen to myself, I went from burn out to crash-and-burn which really sucks. And if you’ve never been there … you will one day … be it a marriage, a job, a lifelong commitment going sour ... it’ll happen.

Then everybody disagreed about everything and anyone is replaceable at any given time and it was time for me to go anyway … so I went. Keller Deal extended my stay. Conner threw a party. Joe Daniel called demanding to know “what in the hell was going on”? Skutch called wanting the last interview. I spent a lot of time snorkeling to the reef reminding myself that God created this order.

The fish and the stingrays do things in certain ways. They listen to themselves … eating when they need to … swimming in certain formations … reacting to the tides … scurrying from humans.

But we humans … we don’t listen to ourselves to good. We listen to others … one another … wise men and sages who are not really wise and don’t really think … about anything other than themselves … at our expense.

But you know what?

It’s all good. I like what I’m doing and know that it is going to make a difference to a lot of people. The house I’ve lived in is becoming another kind of home. I know who my friends really are and who just pretends.

But I don’t forget the past. It is what it is. I’ve done what I’ve done.

Tomorrow however, I will be what I will be.

Rdesurrection Stuff

The four of us sat on the beloved back deck as Fran’s thousand shades of green grabbed their blanket of darkness and prepared for sleep. Birds chirped their good-nights to the setting sun and the warm evening took on a coziness that made us all comfortable. Steaks were on the grill, potatoes with butter and cheese were in the warmer and salad-lite was prepared at the special request of one. Patty Griffin’s “1000 Kisses” provided the provided the background music.

We were gathered to share and celebrate our respective spots on the journey of lives that can just go crazy sometimes. Life rolls merrily along seemingly going according to plan and then, it suddenly swerves in directions we never thought possible.

We abruptly find that we are left behind as our lovers go on to find themselves.

Or we know that we have to leave to find ourselves because we’ve given everything away and desperately need

ourselves back again.

We’re frightened to make the first move because that breeds insecurity, fear of change, and the temptation to keep things as they are because it’s too damn scary to envision being … alone.

I had the privilege of bring WAY ahead of the others on these topics. Therefore, I did my best to stay away from them washing the dishes as they found the incredible insights that come in early evening if vodka, white wine and water are involved. Moments of genius are born here.

But, recognizing that I was the senior member on the journey of surviving transitions one broke into my kitchen and drug me outside to participate with them.

I was also the only male. In and of itself, this does not intimidate me. I’ve long been in touch with my feminine side, listening to David Bowie when he was a gender bender, took my son to an Indigo Girls concert where we were the only boys there, and don’t mind crying when I feel like it.

Nevertheless, this was a collection of strong women … hence the steak.

But we sat there as the darkness came. I was listening to them encourage one another, laugh, and challenge themselves to do … better. Then Fran’s thousand shades of green were asleep, the birds had grown quiet, the sun had pulled the blanket of clouds over its head and the moon acted like a street lamp.

But these women glowed.

Three entirely different personalities. Three entirely different looks. Three entirely different women. Individually they glistened. Collectively they glowed.

“Things are always worse at night time,” I was once told and I believed it with everything in me because of who told me.

But last night … things looked better in the dark. They were gorgeous in the night. The lamp shade of the moon

illuminated their beauty.

They took my breath away.

Now I am a child of the sun. I adore the quietness of morning. The birth of a new day representing the chance to start over again … regardless of how much you may screwed yesterday up … the rising sun announces to the world …

“Let’s try again shall we? Try to do a little better this time. Learn from yesterday and try not to do that again.”

I’m very fond of having my prayer time after laughter and coffee at the Breakfast Club these days. I get up, fall through the shower, dress for a later run, climb on my very sober bicycle and peddle to the Club. We laugh, hug and celebrate or curse the rising sun. I’m dispatched to buy cigarettes which I do and deliver back to everyone.

Then I peddle down Tybrisa Street. The ocean glistens at the end and of course only women glisten … Mother Ocean indeed. It is quiet. On the sidewalks on either side are women and men sitting alone … staring either into the sun or the nothingness in front of them. Some smoke taking long thoughtful drags. Others rub their hands between their knees and have the innocence of a child on their face but they are long past childhood. Some stumble … not quite sure if they’ going to … or leaving home.

This is my prayer time. I love these people. I know many of them by name. They see me and give half-hearted waves or with gravely voices whisper, “Morning Rev.” Cigarette butts, plastic cups and beer cans litter the street. The remnants of last night are ugly in the light of the day.

At the end the street just stops and there is the sun rising over the ocean. Resurrection stuff. The dead come back to life. Broken hearts love again.

“Thank you God,” I say out loud.

Then I peddle back the same way that I came.

Groves High School Greasers Appreciation Society

My brother David has taken to posting pictures from High School Days. It all started innocently enough with Groves High School trivia questions, then photographs of himself, followed by a recounting of his successful football season but now he has apparently run out of his own material and has broken into mine.


On Face Book and the World Wide Web is a photograph that has nothing to do with David. He was nowhere near when it was taken and didn’t know anything about it until the Annual came out documenting the one and only meeting of the 1950’s Greasers Club at the Root Beer Drive Inn in Garden City.

I was called in to Gretchen’s room yet again … this time to be told that I was not participating in enough extracurricular activities. Gretchen was always getting onto me for something. I think she stayed up nights thinking up things to get on to about. Now I apparently wasn’t doing enough at school.

This made absolutely no sense to me as I was already giving them four-and-a-half hours most days. I arrived on time to spend an hour and-a-half in the parking lot behind the chorus room. We had to catch one another up on whatever had happen since yesterday. Plus we were listening to Alice Cooper and trying to determine the cause of the blanket of strange smelling smoke that filled certain vehicles.

Then I attended a couple of classes before hopping in the car and going over to Joe’s Drive-In for lunch. We’d stay in the car with aforementioned strange smelling smoke and order cheeseburgers and fries. Once my Mother parked across from us and also ordered something. Gene and I found it difficult to finish our food from the floorboard of the car. It was amazing how long it took Mom to finish her meal.

After lunch I would attend another class then it was off to the stadium for football practice. Gretchen evidently did not feel that this was enough and wanted me to do something else.

“Wha?” I asked.

“You should join the chess club or maybe aim for the National Honor Society,” she calmly replied.

Shaking my head I left her there sitting at her desk. Gene was waiting for me in the hall and had heard everything.

“You’re not going to take this shit, are you?”

Gene was my best friend and always brought a sense of logic to whatever we did. It was hard not to admire him especially when we went to the beach. He’d rip off his shirt, grab the lotion and go from girl to girl asking for help in applying it his back which he could not reach. He was great at that kind of stuff though he never did get a tan on his back.

“Hell no!” I said once we were far enough away from Gretchen.

At the time I was really into 1950’s Rock-n-roll. The Beatles had broken up and Led Zeppelin didn’t have a new album so I was listening to Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis and the Doo Wop groups. This is really good music when you’re driving around in a car full of strange smelling smoke. It makes you mellow. It makes you hungry too.

So Gene and I formed the 1950 Greasers Club to study the aforementioned effects of 1950 Rock-n-roll. We met once.

One Saturday morning around fifty fellow lovers of 1950s Rock-n-roll gathered at the “Root Beer Drive In” which was behind Joe’s Drive-In. Now that I think about it, it took Garden City several decades before it realized that the 1950s were over.

We’d arranged for a photographer to document the fact that there was actually a club and that we had met. Everyone dressed like we were at a casting call for the movie “Greese” … except the black guys. I still can’t quite figure out what they thought they were dressing for.

It was my club so I sat on the roof of the car with my arm around Debbie Hendrix and shot a bird at the camera. Not to be outdone, Mark Stewart stood above me and did the same. If we’d had another meeting there would have been disciplinary action taken against him.

There were also several bottles and cans in brown paper bags which are in plain view. I don’t recall if anyone actually had a Root Beer.

When the Groves High School Annual came out our club got a full page spread. The Chess Club got a tiny eight-of-a-page picture and I’m not certain that Groves has ever actually had a National Honor Society.

So that is how the picture came about. I must say it’s a fabulous picture! You stare at it for hours trying to figure out who is who, who’s copping feels, and who’s wearing what. It’s right up there with the Sgt. Pepper album cover.

Again David had nothing to do with this and was home counting his baseball cards or something like that.

Just saying.

Rain Kissed

The sun drips heat over a flat and glassy ocean. The blue sky is burned to brown. Nothing moves. Birds don’t have the vitality to do anything so they stand in the sand. Even the early morning people fishing sit on their coolers with their heads in hands staring at the flat gray sea. It is though the collective energy of the beach has been swallowed under the water.

I run through the soft sand with sweat pouring off of me, chomping gum and listening to the Barenaked Ladies “break into the old apartment.” I can’t help but notice the stillness of the setting contrasting with me working my way through it. It is symbolic of where I’ve been and where I’m at now.

A year ago today I was in St. Martin sitting in the bow of a boat beside a beautiful reef, Tropical breezes and surrounded by good friends. I was responding to almost 300 emails on my Blackberry. Technology has stolen vacations from the way they were intended to be.

Back at Union Mission, things were still a mess though not as badly as they’d been several months earlier. I’d over-invested in the development of a state-of-the-art behavioral health center and we’d accumulated a $2 Million debt. It was unfortunate though things like that just happen sometimes. Then our CFO decided to manage funds without anybody else’s input and doubled the debt. It was a mess … kind of like the current federal debt situation!

We came up with good plans and cut the debt in half. We’d also figured out how to produce a minor but important positive cash flow position. I’d been working crazy hours coming up with plans and strategies to finish the process. A couple of million more was still needed to retire the remaining debt and we needed additional cash reserves.

So while I was worn out and tired … sorely in need of a vacation … I sat in the bow of that boat answering emails and making phone calls when I could get reception. Conner kept sticking his head in to hand me a beer, announce that all of the women were naked and I should drop my Blackberry in Caribbean Sea.

It’s hard not to love Conner.

A few days later I dropped it all the Caribbean Sea after all … and resigned from Union Mission. Then everything just stopped. I was finally taking the break that I’d been begging for … though of course nothing ever happens quite the way you think it is.

The first thing that I did was extend my stay in St. Martin. Then I ran up a $4000 phone bill for the month talking to funders, reporters, co-workers and friends. There was an insane amount of time talking to the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, Jerry Rainey. Of course My Mom wanted to know what I was up to now.

Conner thought this to be a great turn of events and decided we should have a party.
When the unexpected or unwanted happens … have a party! So we did.

Then everything stopped and my life became as quiet and as still as the day is this morning. For the longest time, I relished in it. I became one with the stillness. I made no movement.

Some told me that I needed to climb on another horse and ride as I have too much to offer to simply stop. Others wrote me off because I was no longer who I had been and obviously wasn’t valuable anymore. A tiny handful showed up to share the stillness with me. Words were few, encouragement was unspoken but their love was apparent.

It mostly stayed this way for months though these friends kept coming, realizations came next, then a journey to discover me again without all of the expectations of others. Quiet became the norm. Solitude was the practice prayer. I was like the sculptor who chiseled daily at the slab of marble until he eventually discovered what was inside.

Then I found me again.

And movement began. The stillness that had engulfed me for so long was suddenly interrupted by … me.

Over the past few weeks I’ve had parties. First were those who are closest to me. Then my kids showed up the next week ... my college friends this past weekend. Conner and I will commence again in a few weeks back in St. Martin.

I make the turn from Back River onto south beach and there is the slightest of breezes coming out of the north which normally doesn’t happen this time of year. How winds blow from the south during the summer. Because I’m moving I run into it and it is refreshing.

I remember that planes take off because they head into the wind and do not go with the flow. I feel myself taking off.

A small purple cloud, hardly formed is in front of me and drops of moisture hit my face and body. I am rain kissed on a scorched summer day.

The life that used to be mine is back there behind me in the stillness of the past.

I run, rain kissed, to my future.

Next Time

John Lennon once did a concert in New York City to raise money for John Sinclair. At one point he stops singing, pans the crowd and says, “Listen. Apathy isn’t it! We can do something. Flower Power didn’t work. So what? We start again.”

Ah, Flower Power … the belief that love conquers all … love trumps hate …people in love always stay together … the just always prevail … good things come to those who wait … flowers are more powerful weapons than guns.

“Bullshit!” is what George Carlin says in response. “Bullshit is what holds this country together. We believe this stuff anyway though we know ... its bullshit!”

But, John Lennon is wiser in the end. He preempts the response with “So what? We start again.”

You gotta love John.

All around me are people picking up the pieces of their broken dreams and relationships. They find themselves suddenly single or in relationships that are nothing but co-habitation because both are afraid to make the first move.

Or … the one you love most simply died and you don’t know what to do so you lose the ability to do much anything.

Or anger becomes the defining characteristic of living in the same house so you spend all of your energy figuring out ways to let it out … as though it’s a heat seeking missile aimed directly at the head lying on the pillow next to yours.

Jobs have ended, careers been packed away, or burnout has overtaken productivity. We show up uninspired with the monotony of the work or are overwhelmed by the incompetence of the person telling us what we do wrong every day. What we do becomes time we just get through.

Homes are lost, oak trees smash into living rooms, you miss the rent one time too many, or the Power Company opts to throw you into the category of requiring assistance of the extra dollar they ask everybody to contribute to those whose electricity is going to be cut off for non-payment (Because they aren’t going to spend any of their own money to keep us out of the dark).

Yet … these things happen every day.

We end in the dark anyway.

We sit on porches or decks or concrete stoops late into the night pondering what to do only to find ourselves locked out … of the lives we believed would be ours.

Then one of two things happen ...

We grow cynical and say its bullshit anyway. There’s no such thing as one pure love. We work to put a shirt on our back … to provide for our family … to have money to forget why we’re working. We become so enamored with everything that has gone wrong it becomes this weight we wear on our faces and shoulders so we stumble through life instead of … dancing.

Then there are others who say … so what? We start again.

I sit here knowing I still believe in Flower Power with everything in me. I’m starting again!

I wish I wasn’t starting so many new things at the same time, but starting again is starting again.

What do you do?

In spite of the failed loves or the number of people I’ve slept with looking for it … there is this one so pure and true … that it overwhelms … baptizing me in joy …where anybody who knows me can’t help but say, “Christ! That’s one happy Dude.”

The new work exceeds the joys of the old work so that you can’t wait to get back to it.

Old houses become new homes full of peaceful celebration, rest and sanctuary and the knowledge that you know you’re returning to it when you leave gives you confidence in whatever you’re leaving for.

I know.

A lot of people think such beliefs are bullshit and I’m the first to admit that I lived through my fair share of it.

But … I’m starting again.

And to quote John Lennon again, after he butchered “Instant Karma” at Madison Square Garden one night. “We’ll get it right next time.”

I believe in next time.

Yep

“You know,” Philip said after I was left alone at the Counter at the Breakfast Club,

“you three are Counter Intelligence.”

“Aren’t you funny?” I replied.

He was talking about John, Whitley and I having coffee every morning together sitting at the counter. We’re an odd bunch. Whitley is to the far right of Attila the Hun. John is the real life Steven Cobert. I’m the liberal though Whitley disputes that but I never understand any of his reasoning about anything.

Every single day they want to discuss politics and how screwed up everything is.
They have the right answers to everything but choose not to share them with anybody … except for me.

I beg them not too but they do anyway. For the most part, I ignore everything they say.

For example today’s topic was what’s wrong with grocery stores. You show up to the same grocery every week knowing exactly where everything is until one day … it’s been moved. The Campbell’s soup is not where it was last week. Dixie Crystal sugar isn’t either. And what in the hell happened to the wine?

Upon further investigation Campbell Soup is now on the left side of the aisle and not the right. The sugar is on the bottom shelf instead of at eye level. They both burst into tears when they found the wine is now beside the beer rather than across from it.

Of course this is President Obama’s fault.

And the liberal Media like the Savannah Morning News which they refuse to read.

Then John is approached by one of the supervisors at Publix and demands to know why the world is coming to end because everything had been moved?

She explains the marketing team told them to move things around so that shoppers will spend more time in the store looking for their items. They’ll likely discover new items that they simply must try. Profits will rise.

“Right,” John counters. “I knew it was President Obama fault and those damn liberals.”

I stare at them in disbelief.

“Alright,” I reply “let’s talk about your boy Mitch McConnell. Yesterday he said ‘No more borrowing until we cut spending’ which I assume means once they cut spending they borrow more money.”

“We didn’t see that,” they exclaim. “It wasn’t on FOX News.”

Then they leave, I linger in an attempt to recapture logical thinking … which is challenging in that environment.

I am a very positive person with an optimistic view of most everything ... to a fault my friend Tracy Thompson once told me. “You give everybody the benefit of the doubt,” she chided me. “You’re gonna get screwed because of it.”

She was right but … I remain who I am ... a very positive person … with an optimistic view of most everything and …I do indeed give everybody the benefit of the doubt. I think that things work out for the best in spite of how hard and hurtful the journey can be. “Believe it and it will come true,” sings Jimmy Buffett and as usual he’s right on.

“Yep,” remains my mantra.

It’s all going to work out as it should in spite of the very difficult roads of loss, uncertainty, missed chances and people who ended up screwing me … when I wasn’t screwing myself.

Yesterday was a crazy day. I worked. I played. I was bored because I wanted more work but couldn’t make things line up right. People who were supposed to call didn’t. My Mom even yelled at me.

Then the night ended up being … glorious.

I stayed up very late which is so out of my norm and turned the television on (also very out of the norm unless it’s college football season) and Jay Leno was interviewing Steven Tyler of Aerosmith (though apparently he’s doing something else now).

“You did a lot of drugs,” Leno says. “You write about that pretty honestly. How does that make you feel?”

Steven Tyler, who remains one of the coolest guys ever born, nonchalantly looks at Leno and answers.

“Hey I wouldn’t be me now if I hadn’t done all that stuff. It all worked out. It’s good.”

“Yep,” I said out loud.

Then I went to bed and slept like a baby.

Digging Deeper

Yesterday was full of wonderment and work … so I didn’t water the flowers. Late afternoon I was returning from taking Goddess for a walk and noticed them drooping and dying in the summer sun. I’d been very aggressive taking care of them they need watering daily and in return they bring me joy.

I let Goddess run around the yard while I grabbed the hose and showered the fifty or so plants and bushes that are spread around the front and back yards and on the beloved back deck. It takes about fifteen minutes and it has become this reflective time. I stare at the reds, violets, orange and greens watching their leaves dance under the spray. The water puddles and I watch the ground quickly suck it into itself like lovers who kiss breathing one another in at the same time.

Today I am taken aback at how quickly all of the plants have recovered. They are standing proud showing off their colors bringing me joy. I grab the hose and start their day with the way that yesterday ended for them … bathed in the nourishment of being cared for.

As I do this, deep thoughts erupt in the analogy of constantly caring for the things that give me joy.

“People eventually grow to despise the things that made them first love someone,” I was told once told.

I didn’t believe it when I heard these words but in the end I suppose that, in this case anyway, she was right.

But I am a hopeless romantic. If this past year has taught me anything, it’s taught me that. It also let me know who showed up to sustain me when my heart was dry, brittle and broken. Nourishment must be given and received in equal proportions. For many years I gave far more than I received and it left me like dying flowers in a hot summer sun … that which was once beautiful and joyous was wilted and brown.

I have color in cheeks again. Hell I have color on my chest. And I’m mostly this reddish, golden color from spending so much time outside and at the beach. My soul is nourished. My heart’s watered by many and though the scars are evident it seems to be working fine. The blueness of my eyes has returned after going gray for a while.

“You seemed distracted,” I was told.

For the first time in years … I’m not.

I’m focused.

So one of the ways that God made me … is that I can take big ideas and ponder the
hell out of them … eventually figuring out how to turn them into concrete action steps. She peppered this with a heavy dose of a caviler, throw caution to the wind, attitude about … trying. Somehow she mixed in discipline … too much intensity … a thick cup of humor …overdosed the pot with music … and forgot to add boundaries. But … that’s how she made me.

I got it.

So I spend a lot time focused on things that people around me don’t think about. How do people get good health care when they have the shitty stuff? Why can’t people with AIDS have really good places to live? Who decided that homeless families should be split up so they can have shelter on a cold winter night (that would be the Army of Salvation)? What do you mean addicts can’t learn culinary arts and get jobs like the rest of us? And who in the hell gave politicians so much power (that would be themselves)?

Books, articles, programs, buildings, relationships … I spend a lot of time pondering these things ... Focused on them ... Pulling abstract ideas and taking the time to wonder … how do you do that?

And making them work.

Like a painter staring at a blank canvas, an inventor in his garage, a musician contemplating an unknown feeling, a teacher determined to break through a trapped talent … the occasional minister trying to listen to God … and the rarest of elected officials who gives a shit about anything but themselves …I dig deeper.

Like a child on the beach digging to find water in the sand, I keep digging once I start.

It’s funny how that pisses a lot of people off. They think that it’s against the rules to dig too deep. They prefer … superficial … status quo … the way things are ... people kept in their places … conformity rather than creativity.

Over the past year one of the things that I’ve learned is that we don’t like each other much … I like those who dig … the deeper the better … all of the way to themselves.

Because if God made us … that is where she is ...

Creating …

Us …

Where the colors live ...are watered and … bloom.

Makews you believe in God

I’d promised Randy “Hatman” Smith that I would say a few words at yesterday’s Memorial Day celebration on the Tybee Pier. There were bands playing throughout the day and the beach was of course packed beyond belief. Hatman and I go way back so I wandered onto the Pier at noon when the “Bored” meeting commences anyway.

When he saw me he asked if I would speak at 4:00.

“Damn,” I thought to myself.

“Yes,” I told him.

So there I was at 4:00 watching the drummer throw his sticks into the air, catching it while still playing and never missing beat. The two guitar players were really tearing it up and it was apparent that they’d played together for a long time. The bass player stood behind them with long black hair swaying back and forth.

A crowd of over 300 were dancing away and singing along to classic rock-n-roll. It was a perfect Memorial Day party. American flags were everywhere and collections were being taken for the Tybee Veterans Memorial fund.

I sat on the edge of heavy wooden picnic table watching all of this but not feeling a part of it. I was there alone and feeling it.

“Good loving gone bad,” they sang.

Tell me about it.

The holiday weekend also coincided with my wedding anniversary but I lost that in the divorce. Now it’s just an empty weekend. Some days you just wait for tomorrow to come. It was one of those days.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw her walking towards me. Rita is a bartender on the island and I’ve known her for years. She had a smile on her face and without saying a word threw her arms around me.

“You OK Rev”?

And the concern and sincerity in her voice, the empathy and understanding that filled her arms and the warmth in her eyes … a holiness was suddenly born in the midst of a wild party celebrating war … both the survivors and those not so lucky.

When things like this happen, it makes you believe in God.

Then Hatman introduced me and I took the stage and was surprised my Dad popped into my mind. He was a Korean War veteran who really didn’t like recognitions like this. He’d been captured twice and wounded once. He didn’t have much good say about it.

When Savannah built a Korean War Memorial we had to drag him kicking and screaming to the dedication ceremony. Once he got there he cried like a baby.

These are the images that floated through my brain as I stood on the stage and said a few things. Rita of all people stood there as a surrogate significant other. And emotion came into a day that hadn’t had any for me.

It’s funny how holiness works.

Feeling Good

He sat in my kitchen wearing a tie which cracked me up. White long sleeve shirt, green tie, kaki pants and brown loafers. With a pen in one hand and a steno pad spread before him, he looked like a reporter.

On the other hand I didn’t have a shirt on, wore no underwear and was barefoot.

“Alright,” he began in earnestness, “before we start, you cannot blog about this interview.”

“Seriously” I asked. “The press cares what I blog about”?

He rolled his eyes. “Listen just don’t go blogging about me interviewing you.”

“Whatev” I reply rolling my eyes back at him.

“What’s whatev mean?” he asked. He’s a cracker jack reporter.

“It’s Canadian for whatever,” I explained.

“You speak Canadian?”

“Just the non-French kind.”

“OK, let’s get started,” he said focusing his eyes on me.

“Sure,” I said.

“Just what in the hell are you doing?” was question number on.

“About what?” was answer number one.

Rolling his eyes again with a smirk on his face he continued his probing
interrogation ... “For a living smart ass.”

“Oh. I’m a writer. And a consultant ... And a motivational speaker … I also buy cigarettes for the people who work at the Breakfast Club. On a lot of Sundays they send me out for milk.”

He put his pen down and stared at me.

“This is a story” he asked?

“I told you there is nothing to interview me about.”

“Listen people want to know what you’re doing,” he fired back.

“They do not. You want a screwdriver?”

“No I got to go write this story … yeah.”

“Is this going to be a front page, above the fold story” I asked while I fixed our drinks.

“I have no control over that,” said.

“Well then I’m not doing the interview,” I said handing him his glass.

“You have to. People want to know.”

“They do not.”

So we went back and forth for about half an hour like this. I don’t know why he wore the tie. The last interview that I did was with him though. I was St. Martin and had just resigned from Union Mission. It was front page, above the fold news though I didn’t get around to reading it a couple of weeks, though I was a Tom Barton column and a Mark Streeter cartoon at the same time. Jerry Rainey, the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous hates this kind of stuff. I didn’t care. I was in St. Martin. Keller Deal kept extending my stay.

“This is no story,” he said.

“You telling me?”

“Just don’t blog about it.”

“Ok.”

So I tell you that to tell you this.

I was with my dear friends Terry and Brenda last night. At one point Brenda looked
at me and asked “What are you doing”?

“About what” I replied.

She rolled her eyes looking like a reporter. “Seriously,” she said.

So seriously, I’m gotten my life back after giving it away. It was all mostly wonderful but there are angels and assholes in everything. I’ve had my fill of the later and long for more of the former. And continue to be surprised at who is who.

But I am happy. Content ... Looking forward to the future ... Can’t wait for the girl! Growing flowers … mystified that Johnny O is suddenly more responsible than I am … discovering the things that Shirley leaves when she breaks into my house at night … taking Goddess for walks.

“You look good,” Terry chimed in. “It’s good to see you look good again.”

And I stared at him. Feeling good. Not wearing underwear.