The Boy Is On Fire

"Can we walk outside for a moment," he says interrupting me, "you're filling up this room and I need to breath."

I don't know what to say and keep quiet as we walk out on the Beloved Back Deck.

Kyle places his hands on the railing, closes his eyes and takes deep breaths.

I plop in a chair to give him space.

It's a beautiful day with a bright sun, slight ocean breeze and everything is blooming brilliant blues, pinks, reds and whites. 

Taking my shirt off to work on my tan, I toss it on the table and watch him open his eyes and smile at the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes.

"Is that Fran?" he asks pointing at the wall of trees that canopy the privacy fence.

Nodding my head I watch his smile broaden and he turns towards me. He is very tall with long wavy brown hair cascading his shoulders. The flowing white shirt he wears gives the impression he's the ghost of a Shaman because his skin is very pale.

"Whew," he smiles sitting down, "you have so much energy it was overwhelming me and I need more space.

"I'd rather be out here," I shrug.

His smile is beatific and there is a sweetness about the man. Sarah and I had agreed to help him if we could and he was asking for it now.

"So as I was saying, I've done music my whole life. I've never worked a 9-5 job but I got a nice house, food in the Fridge and cable television!"

The way he says it is filled with wonderment and pride so it makes me smile.

"But I want more. I'm tired of the bars. And I have this chance," he explains. "I've been asked to combine my music with speaking in Churches and workshops across several states."

That's why he's here. I'm coaching him on getting his story together, doing it right and building an arsenal of antidotes he can whip out whenever he needs it.

That was a couple of months ago but yesterday I received a message from him on Facebook with a link to his most recent speech.

"The boy is on fire," he wrote.

Clicking the link, I listened to his marvelous story perfectly delivered to a group in Greensville, South Carolina as I sat in the same chair on the same deck without a shirt on perfectly beautiful day.
His speech made me smile. (Check him out at https://soundcloud.com/thespiritcenter/kyle-shiver-sel-realization !)

"The boy has indeed come a very long way in a very short period of time," I wrote him. "I'm proud of you."

And I sat there and kept right on smiling.
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My To-Do List

My list of things to do today.

• Open my eyes. Thank God they opened and I'm given another day.

• Roll over, listen to Sarah breath and watch her sleep and thank God for having her to share this day with.

• Quietly crawl out of bed, sidestep our dog Goddess sleeping on the floor beside the bed and stumble through the dark to the bathroom.

• Sneak down the staircase to the outdoor shower, stand under the hot water and look up at the sky to see exactly what kind of day we've been given.

• Get dressed, give the dogs treats, kiss the top of Sarah's sleeping head and ride my bicycle to the Breakfast Club for coffee served with friendship.

• Open the outdoor office on the Beloved Back deck by 7:30 and get to work.

• Immediately stop whatever I'm doing when the Managing Partner arrives so she is greeted appropriately.

• Return to my office, thank God again for the day and dive back into whatever it is I'm working on.

• Around 10ish, the Managing Partner needs a snack. Again I cease whatever I'm doing to determine if a coffee break is in order. Some days the Managing Partner grabs a snack and immediately returns to her office. A lot of times she lingers wishing to talk. This is a good sign that we will indeed have a break in the Board Room with the bed in it.

• It's back to work after that but everyone in the office is extremely happy about it!

• Soon after noon, I close up the computer and ask the Managing Partner if she wants to have lunch. Coffee breaks give us the munchies so we take an hour for lunch. Often we discuss work but sometimes we remind ourselves to actually buy coffee.

• Around 1:00 we're both back in our offices working on whatever it is and continue through the afternoon.

• Then Sarah's girls get home from school and all Hell breaks loose as it's one big blur of boyfriends, snacks, homework, playing games, singing songs, phone calls, changing clothes repeatedly while demanding to know what's for dinner.

• After dinner, I return to my office to finish up and plan for the next day. Some nights there are classes I teach, orchestrated discussions and lots of social media management.

• Then the work day is over, Sarah's clocked out from being Managing Partner and puts the girls to bed which takes a couple of hours. While she's doing this, I'm sipping wine on the Beloved Back Deck or watching a game on the porch trying to unwind from the day.

• Once the girls are asleep, Sarah and I cuddle on the couch and talk about things. Sometimes she goes back to work but I'm toast by 10ish and am pulling her towards the bedroom.

That's the list of things for me to do today.

I just noticed that tomorrow's list is the exact same as todays.
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The Road to Equality

Sitting in the sunshine of the immaculately landscaped private courtyard, Mills B. Lane IV and I munched M&M's from a Crystal Bowl that sat in his lap. We'd finished a lunch of left-overs inside of his lavish home on Pulaski Square --- half filled bottles of Champaign, cold duck, salad and pieces of French Baguettes --- as we talked business.

I was working to expand Phoenix Place, Savannah's residential facility for people with AIDS, and Mills had been a long term investor in the work.

Now that work was complete, we sat in the sunshine. I'd kicked off my shoes and he giggled.

"You know what I like about you Mike? You know how to dress for Savannah heat."

I was wearing my summer work clothes of Cargo pants, a black tee shirt and loafers with no socks. Mills had on seersucker pants, a white cotton shirt and brogans.

Shrugging my shoulders I didn't know what to say and remained quiet. He smiled, closed his eyes and tilted his head into the sun. I stared at him.

He'd been a good friend to the work and to me. In addition to funneling money to expand the AIDS program, Mill's included me at the many parties he threw, introducing other potential supporters and at events he privately sponsored throughout the city.

Savannah was still in the closet in those days and I was helping knock the door open. We provided office space to "First City Network", the emerging gay and lesbian organization. When Phoenix Place opened it was a coming out party for the city's gay community and ended up being quiet the celebration.

As the Supreme Court works through the process of recognizing marriage for anyone who happens to be in love, regardless of their sex, I find myself remembering Mills and those days.

I always thought the AIDS work would be highly controversial in sleepy old "Slow-vannah" as it had been when we opened Glade House in Louisville, Kentucky a few years earlier. But it never was.

It took me forever to understand why. The city's gay population was huge and so many families had already been touched by AIDS. So Phoenix Place was accepted from the start and Mills wrote a check for $30,000 to help finish it.

Today "First City Network" is an established and thriving organization. Savannah's gay and lesbian community is no longer hidden and openly celebrates the diversity of this community. Phoenix Place is the regions dominate provider of services for people now living with AIDS.

Like many other things in Savannah, these things wouldn't have happen without Mills.

A few weeks before he died at the age of 59, I received a note from him instructing me to take his name off the mailing list and thanking me for everything we'd done together. Typical Mills, he didn't want me to waste a newsletter.

On this eve of historical movement towards equality, I'm going to find a half empty bottle of Champaign and toast Mills B. Lane IV, proud of how far we've come.

Another not-so-great idea?

I've had a lot of brilliant ideas that turned out to be not-so-great.

Driving to Union Mission one morning I heard the Red Cross begging people to donate blood. There was a critical shortage.

I'm a helper at heart and this got me to thinking. At Union Mission I was in charge of housing several hundred mostly homeless people. What if they all donated blood at the same time? Certainly that would get the Red Cross through the crisis! Homeless people would contribute to society. Everybody would feel good.

I called some friends and a couple of days later a bus was in the parking lot with nurses, chairs designed for blood donors, orange juice and fruit. A few hundred were excited to roll up their sleeves and give (which is no small feat for homeless people who often sell their blood to make ends meet when they have no ends).

Then I was told by the Chief Nurse that it was against their policy to accept blood donated by homeless people. It could be compromised.


I had a fit but it didn't matter. After a few hours the bus pulled out of the parking lot and the opportunity was lost.

Another great idea gone bad.

In a similar vein I thought it would be a good idea if homeless people voted. Everyone else seems to have a political block so why not them? I didn't care if they were Republicans or Democrats.

It is far easier to get homeless people registered to vote than it is to donate blood. A few hundred were registered and the local press covered it liberally.

Several days later I was with then Mayoral candidate Otis Johnson who was in a close race. At a political forum hosted by the Chamber-of-Commerce, there were lots of business folks present. Otis asked for our support so I told him I could deliver the homeless vote.

He received this information with a mixture of gratitude and bewilderment.

A few weeks later he won the race by a few hundred votes. Every time he saw me afterwards, the Mayor thanked me for the homeless vote. For those who understand how politics actually works, this came in quite handy several times.

Another great idea gone not-so-bad!

The point is I keep trying.

So should you because you never know if its really a good idea until you try.

Hugs

Sarah and I are hugging in the kitchen. It is one  of those romantic and heartfelt embraces that comes in the middle of a deep conversation. Goddess growls before barking and is watching us intently. Raising her left front paw she scratches the leg of the table. Never taking her eyes off of us she barks again. Her tail is wagging the entire time.

She does this every time we hug. Her beautiful brown golden eyes stare at Sarah then at me. She takes a step back and looks at both of us at the same time.

"What?" we ask, pulling back from one another yet still connected.

She steps closer, wanted to be a part.

Reaching down with one hand, Sarah scratches her rear. Goddess' full attention is on her.

I take a step away and Goddess moves her head so I can rub behind her ears while Sarah continues on her body. Suddenly content, Goddess strolls away to her water bowl before meandering outside to lay in the sun on the beloved back deck.

For seven years she has been my companion. Through major transitions, the worst of times and now, the best of times, she's given her all. I don't know what I will do when her time is up ... I can't fathom it and my eyes grow moist if I dwell on it so I try to just enjoy her now.

She obviously enjoys us. She adores Sarah. She's gleefully excited when the girls get home from school. Should my kids stroll in she leaps with joy. Goddess loves Shirley's sad little holy dock, marsh hens, stopping at our neighbor Art's for treats. And she loves it when Sarah and I hug.

When I write she sits under my feet. She loves laying under the fire in the Chimenia. She and Winston, the little gay dog, love to play and steal one another's food. When visitors arrive she barks when they knock then greets them warmly when its opened. Should the living room be full of company she'll promptly fall asleep in the middle of the floor.

Goddess has never met a pair of socks she didn't want. At night she sleeps in the floor on my side of the bed though when Sarah wakes she rushes over to tell wish her a good morning.

She's a rescued dog having been thrown away when she was born. This has been the only home she's ever known. It is a home full of cluttered joy and she is restfully content.

She meanders back inside and walks close to where I'm perched in the kitchen so I'll rub her as she passes. Then makes her way to where Sarah sits at the desk in the front room and lays down beside her, very much a part of us.

Just between you and me

There is nothing to do except sit and wait.

It can be hard work waiting on the words to come.

Sometimes they come in the middle of the night and the morning is jump started. Some stories can't wait to be told. Occasionally its a line from a song (always playing in the background of my life), a phrase from a book I'm reading or a Michael Ruffin prayer that bring them to me.

On rare occasions I close my eyes and place my fingers on the keyboard and see what happens.

Then there are days like today. I sit and wait. I've learned to not rush it.

Watching the sun rise I'm surrounded by "the holy host of others" ... Fran and her thousand shades of green ... the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt ... a "Clothing Optional" sign that Conner gave me ... Winston, the little gay dog and Goddess of course.

Sarah sleeps and I'm dutiful about checking to make sure she's not interrupted. Her three little girls can wear your ass out.

Staring out the sliding glass doors, these things go in and out of focus. My mind races with images. Brynn Grant and I saw each other yesterday and she sprinkles delight even while pumping gas.

My mentor Ben Barnes, white napkin stuffed under his chin and pants pulled high around his waste, talking to me at lunch about how the older you get the more people forget about you.

Suzanne Mendonsa speaking to Ben and then warmly recognizing me, "Oh Micheal, it's been so long. How are you?" and the way she said it warmed my heart while unleashing many memories of her and her late husband Don.

Watching Sarah's parents meet my son Jeremy for the first time as they crawled out of bed and he and I stood in this kitchen looking like Hippies making each other laugh. Sarah's youngest Cassidy hauls herself out bed, blond hair askew from the pillow, ignores her Mom and grandparents to walk straight to Jeremy and lay her head against his stomach.

Getting a phone call from one of my illegitimate kids, Mary Catherine Berry, yesterday as to tell me that Bill's father had died. My heart broke for Bill, Micah, Kathy and Amber and I drove the car, sailing across the marsh in bright sunshine. I can still hear Mr. Berry on the phone when he discovered it was me, "Mike Yes! You need to talk to Bill. Bill needs to talk to you," and the rustling and excitement until Bill was on the phone.

The glaze washes away from my eyes. They are now moist as I wipe them.

There are no stories today.

No great inspiration.

There are these prayers just between God and me.

Divine Reasons

Sitting at the large oak conference room table on the second floor of Auburn Avenue in Atlanta, Georgia, I stared at the bookshelf and it struck me these were his books. Martin Luther King used to have meetings here and though he was long dead, these were things he held. It was humbling.

I have no recollection of why I was there. A long haired, twenty something, blue jean wearing hippy preacher from Louisville had been invited for some reason so there I sat. The rest of the table was filled with black folks and I remember Joseph Lowery was one.

I also remember quoting Malcolm X a lot though I don't know why. In Seminary I'd become a devotee of Liberation Theology much to the chagrin of the Southern Baptists.  The writings born in third world poverty had led me to Malcolm and, of course, Martin. I'm sure I quoted him arrogantly.

Later I sat in the Ebeneezer Baptist Church and decided to leave the service and explore the building. So I got up from the wooden pew where people flocked to hear Martin Luther King preach and wandered into a hall.

"Hello," said a surprised but incredibly poised Coretta Scott-King.

I'm not certain I said anything though she shook my hand warmly.

A few years later I would be with her again though I have no recollection why. She wore a black dress and we actually talked. I asked her a lot of questions and she smiled at young enthusiasm. I remember her smile.

I don't know why, or how, I've gotten to do so many things in my life. For divine reasons I suppose, I've ended up in the right places at the right times. I spent hours sitting in Will D. Campbell's cabin in Tennessee, in the pulpit of Mack Jones Church in St. Louis, and conducting services with Ron Bobo.

Guy Salyes and I once spent an afternoon in the home of Florence Jordan, wife of Clarence, the only prophet Southern Baptist have ever produced.

Milliard Fuller was a friend of mine.

Every year on this day, these things come to mind. I count myself blessed. I don't know why I got to do these things and be with these people.

"Anybody here, seen my good friend Martin?"

I never did though I walked over hills with friends of his.

And I'll tell you what they've me.

"Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious ..."

What Sundays are for

The sun erupts from the sea as a lone bird sings solo unseen in Fran's thousand shades of green. The ocean breeze has died and it seems warmer than it really is. Staring in prayerful contemplation through the sliding glass doors it is a Silent Morning, Holy Morning ... all is calm, all is bright.

My morning routine has been disrupted though. I swung by and picked up my son Jeremy for coffee at The Breakfast Club. We enjoy hanging out and I view it as a gift when we have the opportunity which grows rarer as life gets in the way. He'll be back in a bit to say goodbye to Sarah and the girls before he heads home to Marie.

Last night we were at my daughter Chelsea's engagement party. It's even rarer that she and I spent time together as she's busy building her own life. "Life's a gift," I'm fond of saying and I'm proud to have been part giver in hers.

Kristen brought Sterling and I'm always mindful when I'm with all of my kids at the same time because it happens less and less.

To make it better, my Mom was there and Jodee and Cheryl and Chelsea's friend Busby whom I love.

Topping it off were oysters, cooked the old fashion way over a fire pit and under a wet croaker sack. Steam was rising while stars winked and laughter bubbled around.

I hide these things in my heart this morning as Sarah still sleeps. Her parents are downstairs visiting from New York and the girls are with them. I'm trying to be quiet out of respect but still am listening to The Pirate out of Key West where my friend Joey Finch lives. It is my Sunday morning tradition and I am warmed on winter days.

I don't know what today holds.

It's a gift that I plan on enjoying.

Goddess wanders in and lays under my bare feet dangling from the table. She sighs loudly which makes me laugh.

"Let it out and let it in," I think, quoting The Beatles.

That's why God made Sundays. Let everything in the past go. Let everything in the now in.

"Amen," I say out loud as I hear little girls whispers down stars.

It All Works Out

Everything has a way of working out. 

I don't profess to understand "why" and I certainly can't comprehend the "how" but it all works out somehow.

I've got a lot to do today and sitting here contemplating how to get it all done before all hell breaks lose this afternoon. 

In case you don't know, hell breaking lose transpires in the following order: (1) The girls come from school. (2) Jeremy comes from home from Athens and we plan on having fun. (3) Sarah's parents show up tonight and we have terrific mutual relationship --- I don't say much to them and they don't say much to me. (4) Chelsea and Sam show up and there's a party. (5) Someone turned the wind on so drinking on the back is no longer an attractive option.

If that isn't enough I'm scheduled lunch at The Landings, an exclusive gated community that's an hour drive from here. It was with someone I couldn't say no to ... so I' staring out the window contemplating how to get through everything.

The phone rings and it's the person I can't say no to. He has to cancel. Suddenly I'm gifted four hours back.

Hanging up, I whisper a prayer to no one in particular ... "Thank you."

Strolling to the sliding glass doors in the kitchen I stare outside. Bright sunshine glows through the wind is bitterly cold and Fran's thousand shades of green violently dance as though processed by Satan. Large flower pots lay on their sides. I hate it.

Goddess though seems to be in heaven. Her golden coat blows in the wind as she lays there contently, the sole proprietorial owner of the deck.

My mind takes me back to school, illness, marriages, awful times and grand accomplishments. I think of my friends and the things they've been through and their current struggles. People I've known who are no longer on earth lead me to others who are here now though their time is short. Everything I've done, everyone I've known and all that I am now hits me all at once.

"It all works out," I say out loud.

If you believe that ... then it really does.

If you don't ... then hell is always breaking lose. 

Before my funeral

Life is a gift none of us asked for yet each of us share.

Some of us were planned though a lot of us weren't. The fortunate had good parents, a nice place to live, enjoyable friends and a lot of nurturing. More likely had one good parent, a place, friends and there were some good times. Way too many didn't even have these.

Many lives are long while others are tragically short. It's one of the funny things about life ... you never have any certainty whatsoever how long its going to last.

Make the most of it while you've got it. Enjoy the hell out of those you share it with because they're a changing cast of characters.  Other people's lives drop in and out of yours. Some only make camio apperances.

You only get it once so do your best to take advantage of it!

I'm fond of saying these things at funerals.

Funerals are reminders that all good things come to an end. Bad things come to an end too. Nothing last forever and when the funeral is over its best to get on with your life ... and what's left of it.

There is no funeral today.

Sitting on the beloved back deck on an unusually warm mid-January day, my bare feet dangle from the chair at the table under the umbrella. Sarah's inside on the phone. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are inside with her. This weekend all of my kids will be in the same at the same time. Sarah's girls are begging me to both take them and pick them up from school because all of their friends think I'm cool. I have a lunch date with friends later. Tonight, I'm grilling dinner because the weather supposed to turn cooler tomorrow so ... I only have today.

We all only have today.

We'll do good things and bad things and things that cannot possibly be explained. We'll get it done or we won't. If we're lucky, we'll laugh a little, cry a little or at least find something to hold onto.

The truth of the matter is I have no clue how ... or why ... I'm still here. Death has kissed me three times in my life though I walked away each time.

There's a reason though.

I'm very grateful today of everything and every one I have in my life. Friends I love, children's laughter, kids who talk to me most every day, and a wife and best friend who I get to spend more time with anyone. I don't deserve it though I can sure as hell make a case that I do.

But I don't.

Life is gift that I didn't ask for and I get to share with an incredible family and wonderful friends.

Before I attend my funeral, I hope to understand why.

Today's News

It's been a couple of years since I've been in the Newspaper. For over twenty years I was mentioned in it almost weekly. They always used old photographs though which is why I never minded doing television interviews because they at least accurately portrayed what I looked like that day.

But today I'm in the newspaper again. I wrote a letter to the editor. It's far easier than it used to be. Back then I'd actually send a letter, a week later someone would call to verify it was me who'd submitted it and a  week later it would be published as "Old News."

Last week, I had lunch with Shirley Sessions (who actually runs most of Chatham County) and Skutch (who is a reporter who looks like an actor in a B-movie playing a reporter). They'd been after me for months to get off the island so I finally relented and met them at the Crystal Beer Parlor. We laughed a lot as we ate.

Sometime during the conversation, Skutch mentioned two articles on homelessness coming out. That used to be my life so I listened as he explained that no one seems able to explain why things are such a mess. Everybody says they're doing the best they can but it's all gotten worse.

On Sunday and Monday, I read his articles and quickly learned I had no idea how worse things have gotten. No one's in charge and it's tough to have a war on homelessness if nobody's in charge.

It's as my friend Father Vernon Robertson once told me.

"Mike, every successful organization needs one Son-of-a-bitch. That's why the Catholic Church has the Pope! He says all of the things we can't do and keeps us in line."

"Uh-huh," replied.

"The problem with you Southern Baptist is that there a hundred thousand Sons-of-bitches all believing they're the one."

That's how it is in Savannah's reactions to homelessness these days.

It broke my heart which has been broken several times over. Nobody remembers the things that worked. Fewer are keeping up with things working elsewhere. People merely seem to be chasing money. I've tried to stay away from it all but felt moved to do something so I wrote a letter.

Letters to the Editor are far easier now. I e-mailed it. The next day it's published. (The online version of the Savannah Morning News sucks! If you stay with it though, you can read the letter if you want at http://savannahnow.com/opinion/2013-01-14/letters-editor-tuesday#.UPVigR083_M )

Skutch did call to verify it was me who had sent it.

Beginning with a Noun followed by a verb he said, "Why don't you tell it like it is son ...?"

I thought he was going to keep going with the Son part but he stopped.

"I did," I answered.

There was silence followed by muffled laughter.

"Yeah," he said drawing the conversation to a conclusion. "We miss that."

Sunday Postludes

There we were sitting and standing in Doc's Bar, commonly known as "The Geriatric Ward" on the island, listening to the "Savannah Singer/Songwriter Series."  Four talented musicians told stories, played and sang their songs which is a wonderful way for a Sunday to draw to a close.

I like Sunday nights when they're done right. Too many of mine were wasted getting ready for Monday morning. For year's I dreaded Mondays through this came after decades of loving them. Both perspectives define what your Sunday evenings are like.

If you love your work and what you do, Sunday evenings are enjoyable preludes building up to a crescendo of action, intensity, comradeship and fulfillment.

If you don't love what you do, Sunday evenings become dreadful reminders that you're getting ready to give up the things you love as you sacrifice yourself again for the almighty dollar, working for the Man or simply trying to stay half a step ahead of the wolves snapping at your heals.

I've lived both and much prefer the former to the later.

Throw in Sunday night Cheeseburgers and it just gets better!

Way back in college we would go home for the weekends and return late on Sundays. The Western Sizzlin in Statesboro came up with clever promotion of 99 cent Cheeseburgers for returning students so we'll hook up there before hauling the clean laundry back to the dirty Dorms where we lived.

Those were great celebrations! We'd share what our weekends had been like as we basically had a party to conclude the end of another weekend while sliding into another Monday.

That's what we did last night.

After the music ended we strolled down the sidewalk to The Rock House ordered cheeseburgers and acted like we were still in college. We laughed, made fun of each other, challenged things and acted like kids.

"I believe if I refuse to grow I can stay young till I die," is one of my favorite lines from the musical "Pippin".

I do too.

Music, cheeseburgers, beers and friends on a Sunday night is the best Postlude to a worshipful day.

Before falling asleep I kissed Sarah, thanked my lucky stars, and said "Amen."

Oh ... and Monday!

Kiss my ass!

Party On Dudes

First we had a Toga party and sure enough everyone showed up wearing one! The last couple to arrive were non-Tybee people and were not dressed in Togas so they felt naked and uncomfortable. The rest of us felt sorry for how silly they looked in long pants and sweaters.

Then we had a Saran Wrap party. Everyone had to wear Saran Wrap though it could be in any way or fashion they chose. Mine had a Christmas theme though Sarah's took the cake.

We've been talking about what to do next.

We went to "Drag Queen Bingo" in Key West so there's the possibility of a replicating such an event at our house. The guys will come dressed as girls and the girls dressed as guys. Johnny O and Judy O have already been trailblazers in this so it would be pretty easy to pull off. The rest of us could simply follow their lead.

Sarah normally comes up with the theme and while she hasn't asked my opinion I normally give it to her anyway. I have a couple of ideas.

I think an "Anything But Clothes" party would be a huge hit. Attendees could wear a box, wrap themselves in feathers, or glue pages from books on them. If they're in a hurry they can merely show up al' natural and still have a good time.

You can see why she doesn't ask my opinion I still give it to her.

Should you all wish to start a write-in campaign for the idea then I encourage you to let her know your support of the A-B-C's or simply click yes to this so I can show her the overwhelming world-wide support for us to host this party.

Though we ran out of time we contemplated hosting a "Burning of the Grievances" party. Everyone would write down the hurts, injustices and bad things that happened to them on a piece of paper. Then we'd all gather, have cocktails and food before burning our grievances in the Chimenia on the beloved back deck.

Then I wrote my list of grievances and it was thirty-seven pages long. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) is the world's biggest grievance I can think of and it got me to wondering if needed stakes rather than the Chimenia.

This got me to thinking about how long everyone else's list would be. Such a party would have to be hosted by Jodee and Cheryl as they have one of the world's largest fire pits in their backyard. The heat from our collective fire could heat the entire island and the light it would cast would likely draw Wise Men from the East.

It's an inconsistent concept though. It's easy to connect the dots between Togas, Saran Wrap and "Anything But Clothes". There's simply no place for grievances in such parties.

Neither is there in life.

Party on Dudes!

Another Day at work

It is a beautiful January day! Sitting in shorts and a tee shirt with bare feet dangling from the high chair at the table under the umbrella on the beloved back deck, I am trying to work.

It is hard!

Waves crash into the shore continuing an opera they began yesterday. It is mesmerizing music accompanied by a choir of birds sitting in Fran's thousand shades of green.

A couple of red Hibiscus blooms are hanging on but the green leaves have turned yellow. Two marsh hens are wandering around the front yard. The sun is burning a hole through light fog throwing enough glare that I'm wearing sunglasses.

Who in the hell can work under these conditions?

I search for "Beach Music" on Rhapsody and the Beach Boys inform me that "I can hear music! Sweet, sweet music."

Staring at the screen I read an email from someone in China named Lin JianFa informing me that his company wishes to use the domain that I own. I dash off a quick two word reply utilizing only a verb and a pronoun.

The Palm Tree with the oyster shell face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles as I do so. Behind her are signs I've hung on the wooden fence. One says "Fish Naked."

Beside it is another. "It's 5 o'clock somewhere."

I google what time it is in China and it's 10:30 at night.

"Damn," I say to Goddess. "I've missed 5:00!" as I turn off the computer and close down the office for the day.

One of those nights

The waves crash onto the shore sounding like an opera.

Fire burns in the Chimenia casting shadows on the wall.

Ocean breezes blow lightly.

Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the dark.

My bare feet dance on the wooden planks of the beloved back deck.

Winston, the little gay dog, prances around my feet.

Goddess snores underneath the fire.

Orion shoots an arrow overhead in a pitch black sky though it is diamonds he is shooting.

Sarah is chasing girls, hair askew, exhausted and ready for bed.

I've just hung up the phone with Jeremy, now back in Athens missing his wife Marie who is in Valdosta so he needed a touch of home.

I'm saying prayers for Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one ... the one who has been so instrumental in me turning into me.

Taking a break from reading my friend Nanci Hartland's book "True Confessions of a Reluctant Giraffe", I ponder a few of the lines.

An old woman tells her, "Nanci dear, when you are old and your mind has quite forgotten the details, the troubles, the pain and even the soup burning on the stove, your heart will always remember love, if you have opened your heart. What has your heart forgotten? What is it you want? Open your heart to it."

I like that.

Sitting down, I prop my feet on the railing and try to take notice of the things God is up to tonight.

It's extremely warm for January and the forecast calls for it to continue for days.

I sip the wine I'm drinking now wondering what Orion is shooting.

Turning, I look inside the house through the sliding glass doors and Sarah blows me kiss as she falls on the sofa.

My open heart catches it and I turn back to God's holy night for a bit more prayer as Winston, the little gay dog, prances, Goddess snores, the fire glows and the ocean sings an opera.

Creating New Things

Three years ago today was my last major accomplishment at Union Mission. Dutch Town Villas, a forty something unit apartment complex was Savannah's initial Housing First program taking people directly from the streets and moving them into their own homes.

I posted a Tweet that I was "off to the opening of the Dutch Town development, a home for the homeless. Not a shelter. Shelters are not the answer!" A home is.


The brand new construction sits on five acres on the city's south side and is beautiful. Hundreds of people showed up for the opening. The Mayor, County Commission Chair, state legislators, were present. Pastor Ricky Temple of Overcoming Faith Church delivered the invocation. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) was the Master of Ceremonies.

I sat on the second row, off to the right beside a wife who had already made up her mind to leave me for something better. The next time I would see her she'd inform me of our impending divorce.

Also unbeknownst to me was that my trusted Chief Financial Officer was misappropriating hundreds of thousands of dollars. It would be another few weeks before I found that out.

Nor did I know that members of the staff were formulating complaints against me primarily because I was making significant changes to the way the company was running.

A behavioral health collaborative I'd been instrumental in starting had begun to unravel because people were resistant to change, entrenched in politics and greedy to keep things the same. It would soon blow up and be front page news leaving me the bearer of the blame.

I didn't know any of these things sitting there proud of the million dollar development. It was the latest, and last, in a series of grand developments we'd orchestrated. A million dollar hospital for homeless and poor people, a behavioral health center costing the same and now Dutch Town.

I was riding high.

So when all of these things happened in pretty quick succession, my fall was far and fast.

When the air cleared, I walked away from it all. Truth be told, lots of people wanted me to, praying for it and doing anything they could to make it so. At the end, the door slammed shut behind me.

If you've never spent time wandering in the wilderness, it's quite the experience. I bounced between Tybee Island and St. Martin, maintained relationships with a very small group of friends, did some work throughout the country with the International Street Medicine Institute but mostly spent time hurt and wounded on the beloved back deck of my house.

The world I'd happily lived in was no more and I was overwhelmed by the loss.

Today I can still feel some of the feelings. The sudden loss of love, the brutal act of betrayal and the abandonment of people you believed in are things you never completely get over. All of the scars are on the inside.

I got through it though. Actually a lot of little things that got me through it. A tiny collection of friends formed themselves into my personal church, believing in me when I no longer believed in  myself. They strung together little acts of kindness and my healing began to happen. I am forever indebted to them.

Looking at it today in the rear view mirror, I'm proud of it all. Great things are never accomplished without controversy. Some grow to hate if you're more successful than them. Though there is only the slightest tinge of regret, I can't think of much I would have done differently. I gave it all my best.

Today my eyes are ahead, no longer looking back. "It's time to create new things," I used to tell people I worked with, "so go! Create!"

If anyone cares, that's what I've been doing. New love has been born. My family is bigger than it was.The routines are all different. It's a slower life though no less intense. I've held on to places and things I love but they're all different now too. I'm not the same. I've been reborn.

"No one puts new wine in old wine skins ... new wine calls for new" ... things. I'm focused on creating new things, a new me, a better one because "old things are passed away, behold, all things become new."

I like new.

Tomorrow's Prayer Today

In our house are three framed postcards of old Tybee. The first is a painting of sand dunes, Palm Trees, sea oats and wisps of white clouds in a blue sky. It is not a photograph, looking more like a painting and has a surreal aspect to it.

Below it is the "Hotel Tybee", a grand wooden structure, four stories tall with a pale green paint and numerous white columns. Ladies in long flowing gowns stand on the porch and in the yard. In 1906 it was purchased by A.M., whoever that is, and sent to Mr. John Martin at 9112 May Avenue, S.E. in Cleveland, Ohio. There is no zip code in the lead pencil script.

"Hello John how would you like to be in the excellent hotel on Tybee from A.M." all in one sentence.

The last is of the ocean between the old Tybee Boardwalk and Pavilion and hundreds of men in black tank top bathing suits wade in the low tide. None appear very happy and for the life of me I can't find a woman in the picture. In 1923 it was mailed to a Ross McFerres in Medina New York.

Whoever wrote it mailed it from Augusta, Georgia on March 26, 1923, a Saturday morning.

"Arrived here ... hot at Florida ... hope to find cooler weather soon as we've suffered from the heat yesterday. Car running fine."

I assumed whoever wrote the unsigned card was in a hurry to get away from the heat.

My Mom had them all framed and presented to me when I returned from Louisville for home on Tybee. I've gone through lots of things though this remains one of my favorites. It's a funny reminder of things that used to be.

Long before me, people came to Tybee Island finding either excellence or insufferable heat. Everyone here is either running to, or running from, something. It's beauty with a beastly side, a salty serenity sprinkled with wet wisdom, all aglow in bubbling sunrises and blazing sunsets.

Of course A.M., John and Ross are long dead now though evidence of their pictures, postcards, platitudes and problems remain. I wonder if they ever made it back to the island and feel bad for them if they never did. But at least they were here the once.

This is my 26th year as a full time resident of this clump of sand though I've been coming here all of my life. While I never saw the Hotel Tybee, I did go to the Pavilion before it burned down in 1967. It seems that half of my life has been spent with my toes dug deep in the sand, in the sun or in the sea.

I don't know how long I get to keep living here, doing the things I do, enjoying where the river meets the sea. There's something holy about the place though. It hits you like Scripture and once you've been baptized in Holy Water, you just pray to God every single day that you can do it again tomorrow.

Touching Heaven

"Time crumbles things; everything grows old under the power of Time and is forgotten through the lapse of time."

So said Aristotle.

"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven," says whoever wrote Ecclesiastes.

George Harrison said it better. "All things must pass. None of life's strings can last. So, I must be on my way and face another day."

Over the past several days The Savannah Morning News has reported on the crumbling of the Chatham-Savannah Authority for the Homeless of which I helped conceive and found spending a decade of my life helping to build it into the nations most effective and prestigious community response to homelessness.

Then it started slipping and has now dissolved into a dysfunctional mess.

I spent the better part of twenty-five years helping build Union Mission into the nation's most effective organization. By attacking the root causes in a compassionate yet firm way, people overcame their homelessness. We were the first to embark on such an approach and were emulated throughout the world. When all was said and done we had solved more than half the problem, more than anybody else has accomplished.

Union Mission is now a shell of what it used to be.

It runs in my life I suppose. When I left the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville where I was the "Professional Christian" in charge, the Southern Baptist kicked the church out literally onto the street.

Throw in my failed marriages and I'm really looking good.

You know what?

I wouldn't change it. I've been blessed to be part of incredible things. I've been to mountain tops and, though I was either kicked off or fell, I got to see it all. I've touched heaven a few times and wouldn't trade those experiences for anything. I've also seen hell ... it's not all that.

On one hand it's sad to watch glorious things you were part of crumble. I suppose its because the right people are no longer in the right place nor is it the right time.

Yet I've been blessed because on multiple occasions to have been with the right people doing the right things in the right place at the right time.

It's a lot like sex ... you want it again.

These days I stand with a tiny group of friends on a beach and look at the burning cities and the ominous clouds throwing lightening on the mountain tops. The sea is calm, the Palm Trees smile, choirs of mussels sing and things still bloom. After years of battling in the darkness it's nice to be quiet in the light.

But I'll tell you one more thing.

There's another mountain or two for me to climb.

And you can bet your ass I'm touching heaven again.

Happinesss

"Are you as happy as you seem or do you find happiness in what's dealt?"

The question came out of the blue and caused me pause. Staring out of the window of McDonald's, waiting on Sarah to pick me up, I watched hungry people order at the Drive-In window being impatient, digging for change and appearing as they really needed coffee.

"I think it's both," I finally typed into my Netbook.

There was time to kill as I'd drop one girl off at school and then my car at the repair shop. Sarah would arrive an hour later after she'd dropped the other two girls off.

"I tend to take the 'find' Avenue," came the response.

"I am very happy," I wrote, "but I also seek it in what I have in my life right now ... I think if you stop looking then you stop finding but that has to be balanced with appreciating what you've got when you've got it."

That was pretty much the conversation.

She wrote that she wished there was an APP on her computer so she could push it and I'd be thumped on the head because of things I write,

I'm glad there's no such APP. My head would be blue on black from the constant thumping people want to give me.

Like everyone, "I've had good days and bad days and going half mad days."  Happy days far exceed hopeless ones. I try to learn from the bad days and just do my best to get through the going half mad times.

I count my blessings a lot. I try to find joy in the people I'm with, in our home and on the clump of sand we live on. Daily I celebrate Palm Trees, ocean breezes, the smell of the Marsh and the choirs of birds. Sometimes I can't comprehend why I deserve this or even how I'm still here but its a gift I worry about losing but can't stop appreciating.

I pray Thanksgiving for the love in my life, the opportunities that remain and the fact that most people still take my phone calls. Sometimes they want to meet for lunch or a drink and its always nice to be wanted. I try to enjoy these times.

Happiness is a lot of little things, I think, and in some ways its like holding sand. If you're not always replenishing it, pretty soon you're only left with a minuscule amount. Afterwards there's just the memories and the desire for more.

I woke up happy today in spite of the happiness I've lost but am determine to celebrate that which I do have and then my best to grow it like the Hibiscus plants on the beloved back deck. And I'll keep looking for more because if you stop renewing it ... then it's gone. 

Happy Day Everyone!

Bouncy, bouncy will not always come bouncing back to you

This blog contains graphic material and is of sexual orientation. Children under 17 require accompanying parent or guardian. Ministers, Republicans and member of the NRA should grab hold of themselves if they choose to read.

Winston, the little gay dog , got whacked yesterday.

There's no easy way to say it.

It hurts.

His load is not as heavy, he's lighter on his feet, his eyes are bigger than they were, he's walking a little slower though his ass is a bit higher than it was this morning.

His tail is between his legs.

He looks scared.

Goddess seems concerned but keeps going outside and returning smelling like medical marijuana. She loves her little gay brother and hurts for him.

We all do.

He has brought so much happiness to our blended family by blending us even more. He loves the girls and he adores Sarah. He sleeps under her side of the bed every night. She dresses him every day in his cute little dogie sweaters with cute little sayings like  ... "I can't even think straight" ... and he loves to sit in her lap.

Through, the gay little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) runs from me and for the life me I don't know why. I give him treats along with Goddess. I take Goddess for walks and then come home to take him for his prance. He licks me when I get out of the shower in the morning.

Anyway, the Health Department and other manners of Government are happy now because Winston has been nurtured.

Like a rolling stone, they are gone.

The great balls of fire have been extinguished.

His AC DC has experienced a ball breaker.

The ball and chain have been severed.

Rubber ball is not coming bouncing back to you (bouncy, bouncy, bouncy).

But it had to be done. He's been traumatized by the Tybee Island Police Department for weeks. They've accused him of every crime on the island, blamed him for bring his hoodlum Coyote friends and now say that two Great White Sharks hang around the beach waiting on him.

So I'm pleaded with you to say a little prayer for Winston, the little gay dog, today. The poor guy is hurting and I feel really bad for him.

Click like so he can see that you care.

I'm going to pet him now so I have to stop typing with one hand as I'm protecting myself with the other.

Poor little guy.