“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.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, June 6, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
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.
“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.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 30, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Building A Mystery
I love Sarah McLachlan’s music. “Building a mystery” is what we do as we manage ourselves through the inconsistent and crazy things that make up life. I don’t know about you but I never in a million years thought that I would end up where I am right now.
Sure there are things that I planned and they more or less worked out. I live where
I’ve always wanted to live, even as a child Tybee Island cast a spell on me.
Whenever I pass the “big curve” on Highway 80 and catch glimpse of the sun sprinkling diamonds on the ocean I’m still the little boy in the back seat of the car oblivious to my family sitting beside me. So I moved my family here one day and my kids grew up on the beach but I never considered that I would here alone.
How did that happen?
I planned to write books and that worked fine enough but where the book writing has taken me is far different from anything that I ever thought. I do it for me first. It’s kind of like praying. The holiness of words is haunting. They kidnap my thoughts and every day it ends up surprising me what comes out.
Most everything else has happened wasn’t planned by me. It makes me believe in God because somebody had to think this stuff up.
I’m blessed with three children, none of whom were planned, who turned into wonderful and enjoyable people. We create laughter together. I don’t know how but we do. Consistently so! Talk about blessings. Jeremy just stumbled out wearing shorts and sunglasses looking like a surfer when the last thing he can do is surf. Eight o’clock laughter is a wonderful gift and he’s already blessed my day as he curses the sun for being too bright.
He cracks me up.
Of course I’m near naked on the beloved back deck and all of my children are used to it. When Kristen blows into the house she yells, “Dad you got clothes on?”
I don’t think that there is a single picture of Chelsea and me where I’m wearing a shirt including her graduation pictures.
Then I fell into a career when four homeless men asked me to come inside one cold January morning in Louisville. Everything about everything changed that morning. I was born. Bruce, Pouchie, Chester and Mr. Jackson gave me life that day. Three of you are dead but there isn’t a day that you do not grace my life.
And all of these years later they still come to me and this new work is unfolding … presenting itself to me … but it remains rooted in what I’ve always done … just figuring out exaggerated ways of being … nice.
Treat others as you want to be treated. That really does sum up everything Jesus had to say.
I have no idea what is coming next. At the same time I’ve never been more certain.
Choirs of birds are singing hymns of praise while I stare at Fran’s thousands shades of green. I love you Fran. I always have. Thank you for coming back from the dead to light my heart again.
And there is this one. I’ve come to know that I’ve spend my entire life getting ready for her. She’s not even here yet. She comes in my dreams. Yet I know. She is everything.
A few weeks ago I was calling people that I haven’t talked with in a year. One was Skip. My last days at Union Mission were intense though I was burned out. Who plans for that? But I love Skip. He was the right person at the right time (though Joy is the one who really understands everything). I got his voice mail and left a message that I would really like for us to get together.
He didn’t call back.
I’m certain that there are a thousand and one excellent reasons why he hasn’t.
That’s life right?
Sometimes what you want isn’t what happens.
And it leaves you forever changed.
It’s all been a mystery. It still is.
“You’re so beautiful … a beautiful fucked up man,” Sarah sings.
“Yeah,” I say out loud to Fran and God and Jeremy and whoever else wants to listen.
I am.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Sure there are things that I planned and they more or less worked out. I live where
I’ve always wanted to live, even as a child Tybee Island cast a spell on me.
Whenever I pass the “big curve” on Highway 80 and catch glimpse of the sun sprinkling diamonds on the ocean I’m still the little boy in the back seat of the car oblivious to my family sitting beside me. So I moved my family here one day and my kids grew up on the beach but I never considered that I would here alone.
How did that happen?
I planned to write books and that worked fine enough but where the book writing has taken me is far different from anything that I ever thought. I do it for me first. It’s kind of like praying. The holiness of words is haunting. They kidnap my thoughts and every day it ends up surprising me what comes out.
Most everything else has happened wasn’t planned by me. It makes me believe in God because somebody had to think this stuff up.
I’m blessed with three children, none of whom were planned, who turned into wonderful and enjoyable people. We create laughter together. I don’t know how but we do. Consistently so! Talk about blessings. Jeremy just stumbled out wearing shorts and sunglasses looking like a surfer when the last thing he can do is surf. Eight o’clock laughter is a wonderful gift and he’s already blessed my day as he curses the sun for being too bright.
He cracks me up.
Of course I’m near naked on the beloved back deck and all of my children are used to it. When Kristen blows into the house she yells, “Dad you got clothes on?”
I don’t think that there is a single picture of Chelsea and me where I’m wearing a shirt including her graduation pictures.
Then I fell into a career when four homeless men asked me to come inside one cold January morning in Louisville. Everything about everything changed that morning. I was born. Bruce, Pouchie, Chester and Mr. Jackson gave me life that day. Three of you are dead but there isn’t a day that you do not grace my life.
And all of these years later they still come to me and this new work is unfolding … presenting itself to me … but it remains rooted in what I’ve always done … just figuring out exaggerated ways of being … nice.
Treat others as you want to be treated. That really does sum up everything Jesus had to say.
I have no idea what is coming next. At the same time I’ve never been more certain.
Choirs of birds are singing hymns of praise while I stare at Fran’s thousands shades of green. I love you Fran. I always have. Thank you for coming back from the dead to light my heart again.
And there is this one. I’ve come to know that I’ve spend my entire life getting ready for her. She’s not even here yet. She comes in my dreams. Yet I know. She is everything.
A few weeks ago I was calling people that I haven’t talked with in a year. One was Skip. My last days at Union Mission were intense though I was burned out. Who plans for that? But I love Skip. He was the right person at the right time (though Joy is the one who really understands everything). I got his voice mail and left a message that I would really like for us to get together.
He didn’t call back.
I’m certain that there are a thousand and one excellent reasons why he hasn’t.
That’s life right?
Sometimes what you want isn’t what happens.
And it leaves you forever changed.
It’s all been a mystery. It still is.
“You’re so beautiful … a beautiful fucked up man,” Sarah sings.
“Yeah,” I say out loud to Fran and God and Jeremy and whoever else wants to listen.
I am.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Paradox
My friend Dedra is wanting a pair of white overalls.
I don’t know why.
She lives in the country and wacks weed as a lot of country people do.
When we were talking this morning she couldn’t wait to stop so that she could go wack more weed.
I don’t understand country girls.
She’s also a teacher which is a paradox.
Weed wacking teachers just don’t seem right.
Then again, the teachers who meant the most to me in my life wacked weed ... Bill Herrin in High School ... Dr. Shriver and Dr. Pressley in college ... Dr. Owens and Dr. Francisco in Seminary … they were all weed wackers.
But none more so than Dedra.
She’s a weed wacking fool.
But I love her anyway.
How can I not?
I live on Tybee Island where weed is as common as salt air. All of my closest friends are weed wackers … none more than the incredibly famous Johnny O.
I worked at Union Mission all of those years and whenever I showed up to work sick, homeless guys would get all concerned.
“Rev? You ok? You sick? Hold on! I’ll be right back. I’ve got something that will make you feel better right now.” And a homeless guy would go running towards his locker and bring me stuff. Actually several homeless people would and I would stand there coughing my head off surrounded by hands full of … weed.
My friend Mitch is learning how to play bass guitar. You got to wack weed to do
that. His eyes droopy anyway. You can tell.
Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on the island, and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie are here with me now. He’s starting work on his Ph.D. and is a tenured professor at a college. I haven’t asked but I know … they’re weed wackers.
My daughter Chelsea remains in London, held in captivity by a student at Georgia Tech, who is studying abroad because of a history of wacking weed.
My dear Shirley has weed growing all over her yard.
Goddess eats it.
Which brings me back to Dee’s white overalls.
She wants to wear them without a bra.
I don’t know why.
I’ve never understood country people.
I don’t know why.
She lives in the country and wacks weed as a lot of country people do.
When we were talking this morning she couldn’t wait to stop so that she could go wack more weed.
I don’t understand country girls.
She’s also a teacher which is a paradox.
Weed wacking teachers just don’t seem right.
Then again, the teachers who meant the most to me in my life wacked weed ... Bill Herrin in High School ... Dr. Shriver and Dr. Pressley in college ... Dr. Owens and Dr. Francisco in Seminary … they were all weed wackers.
But none more so than Dedra.
She’s a weed wacking fool.
But I love her anyway.
How can I not?
I live on Tybee Island where weed is as common as salt air. All of my closest friends are weed wackers … none more than the incredibly famous Johnny O.
I worked at Union Mission all of those years and whenever I showed up to work sick, homeless guys would get all concerned.
“Rev? You ok? You sick? Hold on! I’ll be right back. I’ve got something that will make you feel better right now.” And a homeless guy would go running towards his locker and bring me stuff. Actually several homeless people would and I would stand there coughing my head off surrounded by hands full of … weed.
My friend Mitch is learning how to play bass guitar. You got to wack weed to do
that. His eyes droopy anyway. You can tell.
Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on the island, and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie are here with me now. He’s starting work on his Ph.D. and is a tenured professor at a college. I haven’t asked but I know … they’re weed wackers.
My daughter Chelsea remains in London, held in captivity by a student at Georgia Tech, who is studying abroad because of a history of wacking weed.
My dear Shirley has weed growing all over her yard.
Goddess eats it.
Which brings me back to Dee’s white overalls.
She wants to wear them without a bra.
I don’t know why.
I’ve never understood country people.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Anger
I got angry yesterday.
It doesn’t happen often but yesterday Aretha pissed me off.
Many years ago when she first came to work for Union Mission, Aretha was the golden child. She first grabbed my attention when she was the only person to pass a Health Department required test. No one at the Health Department passed. It was hard to not be impressed.
We went on to work together for well over a decade. She continued to excel and garnish promotions. She now runs the J. C. Lewis Health Center which Archie Davis, Ben Barnes, Bob Colvin and I started. The United States has the best health care in the world but the worst access to it. The primary entry point for most people is a hospital emergency room. So people go to the emergency room and costs goes up for everyone else and an aspirin cost $78. It’s just a terrible screwed up system.
So we built a better mouse trap.
I’ve always been a big believer that people should have access to what they need; even if they can’t afford it. If they choose not to take advantage of it, I have no control over that. But we should all have the choice.
And very few things make me angry. If a mother is yelling at her kid in Wall Mart and hurting her, I have no problems walking up and saying “What in the hell are you doing to your child? She’s a baby for God’s sake. Are you an adult?”
I’ve done that many times.
Or in Congress, once the door is closed, and the cute little intern is taking notes, while the pompous Senator drips promises he has no intention of keeping … the same one I got drunk with years ago … I never mind asking, “Really? You expect me to believe that shit?”
Or when a waitress in a bar is crying standing in front of me. We embrace as tears roll from her cheeks onto my shoulder because the J. C. Lewis Health Center says that they can’t help with her gall bladder. She should just go to the emergency room and eventually it’ll be fixed.
Assuming she doesn’t die.
So I text Aretha, who responds: “the patient is being cared for appropriately.”
Really?
Now I understand that Union Mission is not what it was when I left. It’s Union Mission Lite. Watered down!
Hell, the J. C. Lewis Health Center isn’t even a part of Union Mission anymore. They gave it away for fearful and silly reasons.
But none of that makes me angry.
What does is a waitress with no health insurance, sobbing and getting my shoulder wet because the place that was built to take of people like her … no longer does.
It pisses me off.
But in the world of health care, the patient is being cared for appropriately.
Meaning she’s passed off.
And that just makes it worse for everybody.
It doesn’t happen often but yesterday Aretha pissed me off.
Many years ago when she first came to work for Union Mission, Aretha was the golden child. She first grabbed my attention when she was the only person to pass a Health Department required test. No one at the Health Department passed. It was hard to not be impressed.
We went on to work together for well over a decade. She continued to excel and garnish promotions. She now runs the J. C. Lewis Health Center which Archie Davis, Ben Barnes, Bob Colvin and I started. The United States has the best health care in the world but the worst access to it. The primary entry point for most people is a hospital emergency room. So people go to the emergency room and costs goes up for everyone else and an aspirin cost $78. It’s just a terrible screwed up system.
So we built a better mouse trap.
I’ve always been a big believer that people should have access to what they need; even if they can’t afford it. If they choose not to take advantage of it, I have no control over that. But we should all have the choice.
And very few things make me angry. If a mother is yelling at her kid in Wall Mart and hurting her, I have no problems walking up and saying “What in the hell are you doing to your child? She’s a baby for God’s sake. Are you an adult?”
I’ve done that many times.
Or in Congress, once the door is closed, and the cute little intern is taking notes, while the pompous Senator drips promises he has no intention of keeping … the same one I got drunk with years ago … I never mind asking, “Really? You expect me to believe that shit?”
Or when a waitress in a bar is crying standing in front of me. We embrace as tears roll from her cheeks onto my shoulder because the J. C. Lewis Health Center says that they can’t help with her gall bladder. She should just go to the emergency room and eventually it’ll be fixed.
Assuming she doesn’t die.
So I text Aretha, who responds: “the patient is being cared for appropriately.”
Really?
Now I understand that Union Mission is not what it was when I left. It’s Union Mission Lite. Watered down!
Hell, the J. C. Lewis Health Center isn’t even a part of Union Mission anymore. They gave it away for fearful and silly reasons.
But none of that makes me angry.
What does is a waitress with no health insurance, sobbing and getting my shoulder wet because the place that was built to take of people like her … no longer does.
It pisses me off.
But in the world of health care, the patient is being cared for appropriately.
Meaning she’s passed off.
And that just makes it worse for everybody.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
When Things Fall Apart
Sometime during the last year my friend Ana gave me a book When Things Fall Apart. I was in St. Martin and apparently wasn’t doing as well as I thought. I was walking alone from Le Boutique when she stopped her dirty black SUV in front of me. Jumping out, she hugged me, then scolded me for taking care of everybody except myself and gave me the book. Then she jumped back in and with tears in her eyes and drove on to her work giving massages.
After watching her drive away, I stared at the book written by Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun. Alice Walker endorsed it and I love Alice Walker’s stuff so I figured that it couldn’t be too bad. It took me forever to read it because I was in a pretty rotten place emotionally in dark contrast to the Caribbean paradise I was strolling through.
Pema says that most of us spend our lives trying to escape suffering when it is simply a part of life. It is better if we would approach our painful situations with friendly curiosity. There, in the middle of our chaos and groundlessness we discover that truth and love are indestructible.
“How very Buddhist,” I thought to myself. “Nothing is real.”
I threw it in my bag and half a year later pulled it out and started it.
The first time that things fell apart for me was when I snuck out of the house to go dancing and was run over by four college kids their way to Florida. At 14 I had a shattered leg, lying in traction in a hospital bed, discovering what a bedpan is. My world had completely fallen apart.
Then in college I discovered birth control … or what it isn’t. All of my friends went mountain climbing while I changed diapers.
At the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel I had my first taste of fame and discovered temptation, succumbed to it and immediately was thrown out by the Christ loving Baptists.
A couple of years ago I came home from an out of town work retreat, very excited only to be told that I’m no longer loved in “that way” and then I was left alone.
A few months later I woke up with nothing else inside of me to give. The work that I’d done for three decades had taken it all. There was nothing else, including anything for me.
It’s right after this that Ana gave me the book.
So that’s my list of when things fell apart in my life. Sure there were other time when things went wrong or the day was really bad, but those were aberrations to mostly good times, success, and happiness.
But there have been five occasions when everything about who I am as person, how I lived my life and the future that I’d planned … fell completely apart.
And I was left … groundless.
It makes me think of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He’s sweating prayers to God, “I don’t want to drink from cup” but God pours it down his unwilling throat anyway. I didn’t want any of these things to happen but they did.
And they all contributed to who I am now. In the past, I was merely different incarnations of who I am today.
How very Buddhist!
I told a friend who I love recently, “Just wait, things will present themselves to you in their time.” And they have.
Talk about Buddhist! Or God’s will or timing or whatever you want to call it. Most things happen when they’re supposed to. But Pema’s got that part right, the $64,000 question is what do we do when the moments present themselves? Do we run and hide? We ignore them? We pretend that we don’t have choices to make? We withdraw and hide like little children?
Or … we fight like hell to accept what is.
Over the past few years, I’m done a lot of fighting. It grew weary but I’m finally done. I’m just accepting now. It is what it is. I am who I am. And I’m ok with it. Finally!
How very Buddhist!
After watching her drive away, I stared at the book written by Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun. Alice Walker endorsed it and I love Alice Walker’s stuff so I figured that it couldn’t be too bad. It took me forever to read it because I was in a pretty rotten place emotionally in dark contrast to the Caribbean paradise I was strolling through.
Pema says that most of us spend our lives trying to escape suffering when it is simply a part of life. It is better if we would approach our painful situations with friendly curiosity. There, in the middle of our chaos and groundlessness we discover that truth and love are indestructible.
“How very Buddhist,” I thought to myself. “Nothing is real.”
I threw it in my bag and half a year later pulled it out and started it.
The first time that things fell apart for me was when I snuck out of the house to go dancing and was run over by four college kids their way to Florida. At 14 I had a shattered leg, lying in traction in a hospital bed, discovering what a bedpan is. My world had completely fallen apart.
Then in college I discovered birth control … or what it isn’t. All of my friends went mountain climbing while I changed diapers.
At the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel I had my first taste of fame and discovered temptation, succumbed to it and immediately was thrown out by the Christ loving Baptists.
A couple of years ago I came home from an out of town work retreat, very excited only to be told that I’m no longer loved in “that way” and then I was left alone.
A few months later I woke up with nothing else inside of me to give. The work that I’d done for three decades had taken it all. There was nothing else, including anything for me.
It’s right after this that Ana gave me the book.
So that’s my list of when things fell apart in my life. Sure there were other time when things went wrong or the day was really bad, but those were aberrations to mostly good times, success, and happiness.
But there have been five occasions when everything about who I am as person, how I lived my life and the future that I’d planned … fell completely apart.
And I was left … groundless.
It makes me think of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. He’s sweating prayers to God, “I don’t want to drink from cup” but God pours it down his unwilling throat anyway. I didn’t want any of these things to happen but they did.
And they all contributed to who I am now. In the past, I was merely different incarnations of who I am today.
How very Buddhist!
I told a friend who I love recently, “Just wait, things will present themselves to you in their time.” And they have.
Talk about Buddhist! Or God’s will or timing or whatever you want to call it. Most things happen when they’re supposed to. But Pema’s got that part right, the $64,000 question is what do we do when the moments present themselves? Do we run and hide? We ignore them? We pretend that we don’t have choices to make? We withdraw and hide like little children?
Or … we fight like hell to accept what is.
Over the past few years, I’m done a lot of fighting. It grew weary but I’m finally done. I’m just accepting now. It is what it is. I am who I am. And I’m ok with it. Finally!
How very Buddhist!
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Waastin' Away ... Again
Today's daily musing is engulfed in a cloud of fog that began developing last night at a Jimmy Buffett concert. I haven't danced that much in the United States since ... I don't know when!
I could have been a Nautical Wheeler! Whew good times!
OK, there's something about grapefruit and Juicy Fruit that I'm now trying to remember.
Well, back to Tybee Island now where evidently I will hear that I was in town.
Oh yeah, I'll be driving. If the phone doesn't ring it's me.
But Come Monday I'll be back in full force.
Unless I go to Margarettaville.
Which is always a very real possibility because there is this one particular harbor there.
Next to the Volcano.
It's above the bay full sharks ... you can see their Fins.
I have to also track down God's own drunk, Jeremy my son.
I could have been a Nautical Wheeler! Whew good times!
OK, there's something about grapefruit and Juicy Fruit that I'm now trying to remember.
Well, back to Tybee Island now where evidently I will hear that I was in town.
Oh yeah, I'll be driving. If the phone doesn't ring it's me.
But Come Monday I'll be back in full force.
Unless I go to Margarettaville.
Which is always a very real possibility because there is this one particular harbor there.
Next to the Volcano.
It's above the bay full sharks ... you can see their Fins.
I have to also track down God's own drunk, Jeremy my son.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Restoring my Soul
A few years ago I was visiting a project in Orlando, Florida that was trying to prevent kids from being accepted into gangs. I was with Ted Hardgrove of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and we met for dinner the night before the visit. Over grilled fist and white wine we compared notes.
Both of us had shot holes through the program based on the proposals that we’d read. Agreeing on just about everything wrong with the program, Ted concluded that we have to go through the motions of the visit but he didn’t see any way this program would be funded.
We arrived the next day and they simply blew us away. They may have been poor writers but they were doing incredible work! They went on to receive half-a-million from the Foundation.
I remember Ted saying as we made our way back to the hotel “What a difference a day makes.”
I’m sitting in my room at the Holiday Inn in Athens. The sun is bright, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I feel good.
I woke up and the memory of Ted came to mine and I applied it to myself. What a difference a year makes.”
I told my son Jeremy that I really don’t even remember last football season.
“Trust me Dad,” he replied, “there isn’t a lot to remember about the University of Georgia’s last football season.”
But what I meant is that I remember being here, going through the motions, trying to have a good time, but mostly feeling lost and left behind. I was living alone for the first time in my life, had left my career with no clear idea of what I wanted to do next, was worn out and tired from all of those years of trying to save people from themselves, and all of this was overwhelming. I had launched myself on a Sabbatical but didn’t know it yet.
“Yeah,” I said to Jeremy, “I really don’t remember much of anything about any of it.”
“We had some fun,” he replied but as much as I rack my brain I can’t find those memories.
I blew into town yesterday because I wanted to recapture my love for Athens and having fun here. It’s a continuation of the pilgrimage I’ve been on to restore my soul.
I am with friends whom I love, hooked up with my sister Age for cocktails and we laughed and told stories, returned to “East/West” for dinner and strolled around the campus last night. It was a day that erased all of those memories that I cannot excavate from last year.
Later today we’re hooking up with more friends and plan on celebrating the night away in Atlanta, another city that lost every bit of luster that I ever had for it.
Aside from a handful of friends who are trudging away trying to save Atlanta from itself I grew weary of the pompous politics and a city that believes it is the center of the universe. I grew bone tired of forever being the outsider from Savannah representing people that no one really cared about anyway.
But today I refuse to let that part of my journey define who I am. There is joy to be found everywhere … even in Atlanta and I plan on dancing in it tonight.
Little by little, I watched people destroy themselves in my work. They lost a tad more hope with each day that passed. They drank a bit more, shot up with increasing regularity or just continued to lose faith in everything. Then I watched them die.
There were times last year when I cared less about or dying. I was merely existing and somehow got through those months. Unlike my homeless brothers and sisters somehow … though the tenderness of friends …I gained a bit more hope every day, my faith in the future grew, energy increased and … “He restoreth my soul”.
Today I plan to continue the celebration of now and the anticipation of the future. To quote my friend Joe Buck quoting the Bible, “This is the day that the Lord has made. Rejoice and be glad in it.” That’s the plan Joe!
What a difference a year makes!
Both of us had shot holes through the program based on the proposals that we’d read. Agreeing on just about everything wrong with the program, Ted concluded that we have to go through the motions of the visit but he didn’t see any way this program would be funded.
We arrived the next day and they simply blew us away. They may have been poor writers but they were doing incredible work! They went on to receive half-a-million from the Foundation.
I remember Ted saying as we made our way back to the hotel “What a difference a day makes.”
I’m sitting in my room at the Holiday Inn in Athens. The sun is bright, there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and I feel good.
I woke up and the memory of Ted came to mine and I applied it to myself. What a difference a year makes.”
I told my son Jeremy that I really don’t even remember last football season.
“Trust me Dad,” he replied, “there isn’t a lot to remember about the University of Georgia’s last football season.”
But what I meant is that I remember being here, going through the motions, trying to have a good time, but mostly feeling lost and left behind. I was living alone for the first time in my life, had left my career with no clear idea of what I wanted to do next, was worn out and tired from all of those years of trying to save people from themselves, and all of this was overwhelming. I had launched myself on a Sabbatical but didn’t know it yet.
“Yeah,” I said to Jeremy, “I really don’t remember much of anything about any of it.”
“We had some fun,” he replied but as much as I rack my brain I can’t find those memories.
I blew into town yesterday because I wanted to recapture my love for Athens and having fun here. It’s a continuation of the pilgrimage I’ve been on to restore my soul.
I am with friends whom I love, hooked up with my sister Age for cocktails and we laughed and told stories, returned to “East/West” for dinner and strolled around the campus last night. It was a day that erased all of those memories that I cannot excavate from last year.
Later today we’re hooking up with more friends and plan on celebrating the night away in Atlanta, another city that lost every bit of luster that I ever had for it.
Aside from a handful of friends who are trudging away trying to save Atlanta from itself I grew weary of the pompous politics and a city that believes it is the center of the universe. I grew bone tired of forever being the outsider from Savannah representing people that no one really cared about anyway.
But today I refuse to let that part of my journey define who I am. There is joy to be found everywhere … even in Atlanta and I plan on dancing in it tonight.
Little by little, I watched people destroy themselves in my work. They lost a tad more hope with each day that passed. They drank a bit more, shot up with increasing regularity or just continued to lose faith in everything. Then I watched them die.
There were times last year when I cared less about or dying. I was merely existing and somehow got through those months. Unlike my homeless brothers and sisters somehow … though the tenderness of friends …I gained a bit more hope every day, my faith in the future grew, energy increased and … “He restoreth my soul”.
Today I plan to continue the celebration of now and the anticipation of the future. To quote my friend Joe Buck quoting the Bible, “This is the day that the Lord has made. Rejoice and be glad in it.” That’s the plan Joe!
What a difference a year makes!
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Left Behind
I was left behind yesterday when the Rapture took place.
In fact, I hosted a Left Behind party last night at my house. I invited all of my friends who were bound to be left behind. This is not to say that this collection of people are not good, nice, or don’t believe in God.
They are just likely people to be left behind.
(John and Judy)2 were there (Johnny O and Judy an O Johnny and the other Judy). Ohio Bob and Margaret came and brought that a strobe light. Rebekah brought burgundy hair. Dedra brought religion.
Artie, who was clean shaven, brought Wanda. Artie only shaves if he has to go to town or gets laid. Wanda brought cookies so it was apparent that Artie had been to town to buy them.
Sandy and Dave were there and brought 100% Peach Cider. Rocky brought a glass of clear liquid. Somebody left a bag of clothes on my bed.
Whitley and Cheryl rode drunken bicycles but were late. Naturally we assumed that they had been raptured which led to speculation that God had lost her mind.
Esther brought wine and if you’re going to be left behind then you definitely need wine.
Phil, Katy and Gloria were really raptured and never showed at all. I did see Phil this morning and he looked like hell. Rapture is evidently not everything that it’s cracked up to be.
Roma didn’t come either. Apparently she was busy telling God who to take and who had no business in heaven. The Tybee City Manager got a “Do not pass go” card to hell.
Dedra just got a phone call from Denise her sister who was left behind too.
Goddess was also left behind. I’m a little taken aback by this as Goddess is the most pure creature that I’ve ever encountered. She seems ok with it though lying there in front of the fan peacefully sleeping.
The entire staff of the Breakfast Club was left behind as were all of the people standing in line to get inside.
The entire Tybee Island Police Department was left behind as was the entire staff of Fannie-On-The-Beach.
The entire congregations of the Tybee Island Baptist Church, Catholic Church, Episcopal Church and Methodist Church were left behind.
I went to the Wind Rose Café and every single member of Bar Church is missing.
So I took a walk on the beach. The dolphins were left behind. Fran and her thousand shades of green are still here. The sun is dancing on the ocean and exudes happiness and joy. There are lots of girls in bikinis who were left behind and I whisper a prayer of Thanksgiving for this. Shirley was apparently raptured but the sad little holy dock remains. The beloved back deck withstood the weight of the Left Behind crowd that stood on it last night.
It is a celebratory day as far as I’m concerned.
OK I need to call my Mom.
I pray that she was left behind too.
In fact, I hosted a Left Behind party last night at my house. I invited all of my friends who were bound to be left behind. This is not to say that this collection of people are not good, nice, or don’t believe in God.
They are just likely people to be left behind.
(John and Judy)2 were there (Johnny O and Judy an O Johnny and the other Judy). Ohio Bob and Margaret came and brought that a strobe light. Rebekah brought burgundy hair. Dedra brought religion.
Artie, who was clean shaven, brought Wanda. Artie only shaves if he has to go to town or gets laid. Wanda brought cookies so it was apparent that Artie had been to town to buy them.
Sandy and Dave were there and brought 100% Peach Cider. Rocky brought a glass of clear liquid. Somebody left a bag of clothes on my bed.
Whitley and Cheryl rode drunken bicycles but were late. Naturally we assumed that they had been raptured which led to speculation that God had lost her mind.
Esther brought wine and if you’re going to be left behind then you definitely need wine.
Phil, Katy and Gloria were really raptured and never showed at all. I did see Phil this morning and he looked like hell. Rapture is evidently not everything that it’s cracked up to be.
Roma didn’t come either. Apparently she was busy telling God who to take and who had no business in heaven. The Tybee City Manager got a “Do not pass go” card to hell.
Dedra just got a phone call from Denise her sister who was left behind too.
Goddess was also left behind. I’m a little taken aback by this as Goddess is the most pure creature that I’ve ever encountered. She seems ok with it though lying there in front of the fan peacefully sleeping.
The entire staff of the Breakfast Club was left behind as were all of the people standing in line to get inside.
The entire Tybee Island Police Department was left behind as was the entire staff of Fannie-On-The-Beach.
The entire congregations of the Tybee Island Baptist Church, Catholic Church, Episcopal Church and Methodist Church were left behind.
I went to the Wind Rose Café and every single member of Bar Church is missing.
So I took a walk on the beach. The dolphins were left behind. Fran and her thousand shades of green are still here. The sun is dancing on the ocean and exudes happiness and joy. There are lots of girls in bikinis who were left behind and I whisper a prayer of Thanksgiving for this. Shirley was apparently raptured but the sad little holy dock remains. The beloved back deck withstood the weight of the Left Behind crowd that stood on it last night.
It is a celebratory day as far as I’m concerned.
OK I need to call my Mom.
I pray that she was left behind too.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Beach Bum Revolution
The 25th Annual Beach Bum parade took place yesterday evening. This used to be Tybee Island's celebration of itself before tourist season. Then Carl Haaisen wrote a book called "Tourist Season" and all hell broke loose. Tourists decided that anytime is a good time and about the only time that they're not on the island is the last two two weeks of January and the first week of February. Otherwise, they are here and Tybee no longer has the place to itself.
Well ... there is the "Bored Meeting" the daily celebration of life on the island in front of Fannie's on-the-beach but that's going to hell too and it's Roma's fault! She and O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) got into "merchandizing" selling hats, T-shirts, koozies and even underwear. It's disgusting.
Roma hosts something called "Romatherapy" on Monday's which is girls day. I am not a girl though I attend. I may as well be a hermit crab crawling into a pink shell to get in touch with my feminie side. As I said even the Bored meeting is going to hell.
In fact, Johnny O and Trolley Joe started an alternative Bored Meeting on the Pier. So far it is men only and Dean who runs the Pier and the Mafia on Tybee, hires really good looking girls with obvious natural assets to bartend so that we keep coming back.
Jenny Orr who runs Fannie-on-the Beach counters this by bringing "Boo" back. Boo is like greatest bartender ever invented. Boo's assets are also natural though they are very different from the ones of the girls on the Pier. Meaning that Boo has both brains and a personality. And she does an incredible imitation of Roma!
None of this has anything to do with the 25th Beach Bum parade.
Last year there were 20,000 people who showed up for the annual water fight. I remember my friend and her daughters were here, as was Jeremy and Marie and we all strolled from my house to Butler Avenue with our water guns. When we were about ten feet from the parade, I just stopped and said out loud "Hell no!" and I turned around and went back home.
The whole thing had been taken over by tourists.
But last night my same friend showed up with her daughters asking if we could order a pizza.
Nobody can drive anywhere on Tybee when the Beach Bum parade is happening (or Piratefest, St. Patrick's Day, the Christmas parade or whatever other parade Tybee is having that week).
"No," I told her. "We have to go to Nick and Val's for food."
So I returned to the Beach Bum parade for the first time in years. I was wet before I walked outside of the house. I was wetter with each step that I took. By the time we made it to Nick and Val's we were soaked. But the food was really good!
Afterwards we came home and Dedra had broken into my house. She is fleeing "up country". She has something to do with the country's educational system but I'm too frightened to ask about this. She may be a terrorist.
All of this got me to thinking.
What needs to happen is that the Beach Bums need to get back together and start a new revolution. We need to succeed from Chatham County (they're broke anyway). We need to succeed from Georgia (who in the hell is this Nathan Deal guy and seriously ... we elected a Congressman to be Governor?). We need to succeed from the United States (too many people are moving here from everywhere else).
I was an almost original Beach Bum for like three weeks. Jack threw me off the team because I tried to actually play softball one night. Jiggs couldn't spell my name right for the roster so he seconded Jack's motion. Nancy, Jack's wife, tried to intervene on my behalf but none of the other "original" Beach Bums cared.
So I turned my attention to more important things though I can't recall any of them at this moment. Oh yeah ... I became Chaplain of the Breakfast Club around this time.
Anyway I think that we need to have a called meeting of the Beach Bums to discuss all of this stuff.
That wouldn't work. The City Manager would send Hodad to put a "Stop Work" order on the gathering which is "Standard Operating Proceedure" on Tybee. Tybee now stops most everything ... except parades.
Then again it might.
Beach Bums don't work anyway.
Well ... there is the "Bored Meeting" the daily celebration of life on the island in front of Fannie's on-the-beach but that's going to hell too and it's Roma's fault! She and O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) got into "merchandizing" selling hats, T-shirts, koozies and even underwear. It's disgusting.
Roma hosts something called "Romatherapy" on Monday's which is girls day. I am not a girl though I attend. I may as well be a hermit crab crawling into a pink shell to get in touch with my feminie side. As I said even the Bored meeting is going to hell.
In fact, Johnny O and Trolley Joe started an alternative Bored Meeting on the Pier. So far it is men only and Dean who runs the Pier and the Mafia on Tybee, hires really good looking girls with obvious natural assets to bartend so that we keep coming back.
Jenny Orr who runs Fannie-on-the Beach counters this by bringing "Boo" back. Boo is like greatest bartender ever invented. Boo's assets are also natural though they are very different from the ones of the girls on the Pier. Meaning that Boo has both brains and a personality. And she does an incredible imitation of Roma!
None of this has anything to do with the 25th Beach Bum parade.
Last year there were 20,000 people who showed up for the annual water fight. I remember my friend and her daughters were here, as was Jeremy and Marie and we all strolled from my house to Butler Avenue with our water guns. When we were about ten feet from the parade, I just stopped and said out loud "Hell no!" and I turned around and went back home.
The whole thing had been taken over by tourists.
But last night my same friend showed up with her daughters asking if we could order a pizza.
Nobody can drive anywhere on Tybee when the Beach Bum parade is happening (or Piratefest, St. Patrick's Day, the Christmas parade or whatever other parade Tybee is having that week).
"No," I told her. "We have to go to Nick and Val's for food."
So I returned to the Beach Bum parade for the first time in years. I was wet before I walked outside of the house. I was wetter with each step that I took. By the time we made it to Nick and Val's we were soaked. But the food was really good!
Afterwards we came home and Dedra had broken into my house. She is fleeing "up country". She has something to do with the country's educational system but I'm too frightened to ask about this. She may be a terrorist.
All of this got me to thinking.
What needs to happen is that the Beach Bums need to get back together and start a new revolution. We need to succeed from Chatham County (they're broke anyway). We need to succeed from Georgia (who in the hell is this Nathan Deal guy and seriously ... we elected a Congressman to be Governor?). We need to succeed from the United States (too many people are moving here from everywhere else).
I was an almost original Beach Bum for like three weeks. Jack threw me off the team because I tried to actually play softball one night. Jiggs couldn't spell my name right for the roster so he seconded Jack's motion. Nancy, Jack's wife, tried to intervene on my behalf but none of the other "original" Beach Bums cared.
So I turned my attention to more important things though I can't recall any of them at this moment. Oh yeah ... I became Chaplain of the Breakfast Club around this time.
Anyway I think that we need to have a called meeting of the Beach Bums to discuss all of this stuff.
That wouldn't work. The City Manager would send Hodad to put a "Stop Work" order on the gathering which is "Standard Operating Proceedure" on Tybee. Tybee now stops most everything ... except parades.
Then again it might.
Beach Bums don't work anyway.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Gift of First City Network
I’d promised Roma and the members of the “Bored” I would attend the Sunday afternoon bar-b-q at Marlin Monroe’s. It starts around three and has live music, good food and a lively crowd. Besides, Marlin’s is right on the ocean with great views and lots of girls in bikinis.
But I had guests who made for a very enjoyable afternoon so it wasn’t until six that I hopped on my bicycle and made my way. Walking through the indoor seating to the outdoor deck, Jill Knight was putting her guitar away. I’d missed it. People started calling my name and in no time I was surrounded.
And they are all gay. And we all go way back.
“Remember when we started First City Network,” I was asked. Not that I started it … that was Laurence Marley and others. But I did give them free office space at Union Mission. And their first public recognition was at the grand opening of Phoenix Place, our residential facility for people living with AIDS.
Phoenix Place would have never happened with First City Network. They literally built the place! In fact, they named it. Phoenix rises from the ashes. We’ll beat AIDS!
After a homeless man died from HIV complications living in a closet at Union Mission’s Grace House, we were approached about doing something. Someone mentioned the old “Catholic Worker House” so Joe Daniel, chairman of the Union Mission Board, and I went to look at it. It was late afternoon and entering we interrupted a really great “crack” party. It was Joe’s first.
The house was owned by Joe Fogerty, a very devote Catholic retired in Miami. Calling I said we were interested in his property. He was very excited as it had been vacant since the Catholic Workers went out of business. He asked me what kind of arrangement we were looking at.
“I’d like the same deal that you had with the Catholic Worker House,” I explained.
“What!” he bellowed into the phone. “They had it free!”
“Exactly,” I replied then rushed on to explain what we intended to do.
He was great. After hearing me out he was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I’ll tell you what. If you fix it up and this thing works, you can have it free for two years. After that you have to buy it. I’ll sell it to you at its current value.”
So that’s how it started.
We had no money to renovate the place but … First City Network had been born and they are an incredible group of people. In many ways Phoenix’s birth was like a barn-raising. Gay workers descended upon the place every afternoon and every weekend. We gained control of the house in February. By April it was completely renovated. Talk about miracles! Nobody else would have to die in a closet.
Joe had gotten a member of the Lane family (one of Savannah’s wealthiest!) to give us $30,000 to buy stuff. First City Network did everything else. Well … there was one staff person at the Breakfast Club whose nickname is Bear. Bear showed up to do the design and heavy lifting. He was great!
At the grand opening, Mayor John Rousakis showed up having no idea that Phoenix Place was for people with AIDS as you could easily see on his face when he learned this. Over two hundred people showed up for the opening. Every media outlet was there. City Manager Don Mendosa and I spared with one another and he one up’d me good, as only he could do.
I played a practical joke on Joe by presenting him with a plaque in front of everyone that read “Fag of the Year.” He read it silently to himself in front of everyone, looked at the crowd, said “Thank you” and sat down.
I’d gotten him. Of course, he got me over thirty times after that.
Then it was First City Networks moment. I talked about how Phoenix would have never happened without them. How amazing they are as people. What incredible workers they are. How the entire city of Savannah is a better place because of them. And we had plaques for them.
What I remember most though is as I said these things I watched people who had become my friends listening and they started crying … which of course got me to crying. So this coming out party for Savannah’s gay community was baptized in tears of happiness. There is no baptism so holy.
So fast forward twenty years, and these are the people that I’m standing with beside the ocean on the deck at Marlin Monroe’s. Except for Laurence of course who is the master of coy. Outrageous coy! But coy nevertheless!
It was a wonderful unexpected gift on a Sunday afternoon as the sun set. We hugged and talked and drank. My heart was happy until I asked …
“What happened? You all look old.”
Yeah ...
I should have never said such a thing to such wonderful friends.
But I had guests who made for a very enjoyable afternoon so it wasn’t until six that I hopped on my bicycle and made my way. Walking through the indoor seating to the outdoor deck, Jill Knight was putting her guitar away. I’d missed it. People started calling my name and in no time I was surrounded.
And they are all gay. And we all go way back.
“Remember when we started First City Network,” I was asked. Not that I started it … that was Laurence Marley and others. But I did give them free office space at Union Mission. And their first public recognition was at the grand opening of Phoenix Place, our residential facility for people living with AIDS.
Phoenix Place would have never happened with First City Network. They literally built the place! In fact, they named it. Phoenix rises from the ashes. We’ll beat AIDS!
After a homeless man died from HIV complications living in a closet at Union Mission’s Grace House, we were approached about doing something. Someone mentioned the old “Catholic Worker House” so Joe Daniel, chairman of the Union Mission Board, and I went to look at it. It was late afternoon and entering we interrupted a really great “crack” party. It was Joe’s first.
The house was owned by Joe Fogerty, a very devote Catholic retired in Miami. Calling I said we were interested in his property. He was very excited as it had been vacant since the Catholic Workers went out of business. He asked me what kind of arrangement we were looking at.
“I’d like the same deal that you had with the Catholic Worker House,” I explained.
“What!” he bellowed into the phone. “They had it free!”
“Exactly,” I replied then rushed on to explain what we intended to do.
He was great. After hearing me out he was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I’ll tell you what. If you fix it up and this thing works, you can have it free for two years. After that you have to buy it. I’ll sell it to you at its current value.”
So that’s how it started.
We had no money to renovate the place but … First City Network had been born and they are an incredible group of people. In many ways Phoenix’s birth was like a barn-raising. Gay workers descended upon the place every afternoon and every weekend. We gained control of the house in February. By April it was completely renovated. Talk about miracles! Nobody else would have to die in a closet.
Joe had gotten a member of the Lane family (one of Savannah’s wealthiest!) to give us $30,000 to buy stuff. First City Network did everything else. Well … there was one staff person at the Breakfast Club whose nickname is Bear. Bear showed up to do the design and heavy lifting. He was great!
At the grand opening, Mayor John Rousakis showed up having no idea that Phoenix Place was for people with AIDS as you could easily see on his face when he learned this. Over two hundred people showed up for the opening. Every media outlet was there. City Manager Don Mendosa and I spared with one another and he one up’d me good, as only he could do.
I played a practical joke on Joe by presenting him with a plaque in front of everyone that read “Fag of the Year.” He read it silently to himself in front of everyone, looked at the crowd, said “Thank you” and sat down.
I’d gotten him. Of course, he got me over thirty times after that.
Then it was First City Networks moment. I talked about how Phoenix would have never happened without them. How amazing they are as people. What incredible workers they are. How the entire city of Savannah is a better place because of them. And we had plaques for them.
What I remember most though is as I said these things I watched people who had become my friends listening and they started crying … which of course got me to crying. So this coming out party for Savannah’s gay community was baptized in tears of happiness. There is no baptism so holy.
So fast forward twenty years, and these are the people that I’m standing with beside the ocean on the deck at Marlin Monroe’s. Except for Laurence of course who is the master of coy. Outrageous coy! But coy nevertheless!
It was a wonderful unexpected gift on a Sunday afternoon as the sun set. We hugged and talked and drank. My heart was happy until I asked …
“What happened? You all look old.”
Yeah ...
I should have never said such a thing to such wonderful friends.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Book(s) of Life
All of my life I’ve been a voracious reader. As a kid there weren’t many books in our house but the Bible was there so I read it several times. There was also an encyclopedia set so I read it several times too. At some point my parents took pity on me reading the same things over and over so Mom started picking up “The Hardy Boys” series. I only read them once.
I found the library and discovered Graham Greene. God what I writer! It was with him that I developed the habit of reading an author’s entire catalogue once I discovered one. So I read every one of his books. Not in succession but I read him out and still do that if I like somebody.
Next came Hemingway and his goal to write the one true sentence. And to live the one true life! Everything about Hemingway influenced me …the way I write, live, lust and travel. “There’s no one true thing. It’s all true.” Ernest did it all and I want to do it all too.
In Seminary I overdosed on books. C.S. Lewis once wrote, “There is an old Puritan saying ‘ Sellyour bed and buy a book” to which I add, “’just make sure it’s a good book.” I sold everything I had to buy more books, hocking my High School ring, guitars, clothes, whatever.
And Seminary gave me Frederick Buechner my all-time favorite writer. Mixing religion and literature in ways similar to Graham Green, Buechner took religion much further. Green explored how tarnished religion is, Buechner saved it by exploring how blemished holiness is anyway.
It was at the end of my Louisville days that I started writing. My first book came out during the move from there to Tybee. And I discovered something about myself. I can’t write and read at the same time. Somewhere I learned that Hemingway couldn’t either so I felt ok about it.
I was in Daytona Beach when “The Society of Salty Saints” arrived. There is a photo somewhere of me sitting on the beach, brown and tan, grinning like a fool and holding it beside my face. Over the next decade the books poured out of me. Seven bookswere published in ten years. That’s a lot.
When I wasn’t writing I continued to read but I really lightened up. I’d drag my chair, cooler, Chelsea and a book to the beach most every day on Tybee. This time it was John McDonald introducing me to “Travis McGee” and Carl Hiaasen presenting “Skip Whiley and Skink”. I loved the outrageousness of the writing.
I wrote my last book “Tour of Homes” proving to myself that I can a big one. It’s big. Too big really, but it gives a fictional account of the first ten years of Union Mission. I don’t like the cover much but publishers choose those things
more than writers do. I like the book though.
Then something happened.
My work got big. I was spending too much time writinggrants, appeal letters and newsletter stories. I loved the work so I didn’t mind much but looking back Union Mission kidnapped my writing and reading like it eventually did a great many other things.
Those last years the only things that I read were studies, the stupid stuff Congress puts out and everything I could on
fundraising because if you’re not raising money you’re dying in the non-profit world which is all about stopping people from dying.
But if I wasn’t reading these other things, creativity was slipping away. And Union Mission gladly took it.
Then something else happened. I discovered blogging and Facebook. I started writing again. At first it was all business but then I started “freebasing” again. I was
writing about the things that were really happening to me … the ridiculous and the sublime … the humorous and the holy …the hurt and joy of living.
Jerry Rainey, the Board chair who chooses to remain anonymous, came to see me to why I was blogging about changing a flat tire in my drive way with Goddess licking my face. He demanded to know how that helped Union Mission?
I remember thinking of Hemingway’s line “It’s all true” before answering him. “Because it’s what happened Jerry.”
Then I left and this Sabbatical happened and I kept writing.
Last Friday night I was having dinner with Bob and Margaret Handleman and she and I started talking about Hemingway. She’d just finished a new novel on Hadley Richardson, Ernest’s first wife in Paris. The next day Bob brought me the book.
And a miracle happened.
For the first time in a couple of years, I’m reading again.
I’m also writing every day and will eventually get around to making them books again.
But it feels good to be back, reading the truths of others.
And writing my own.
I found the library and discovered Graham Greene. God what I writer! It was with him that I developed the habit of reading an author’s entire catalogue once I discovered one. So I read every one of his books. Not in succession but I read him out and still do that if I like somebody.
Next came Hemingway and his goal to write the one true sentence. And to live the one true life! Everything about Hemingway influenced me …the way I write, live, lust and travel. “There’s no one true thing. It’s all true.” Ernest did it all and I want to do it all too.
In Seminary I overdosed on books. C.S. Lewis once wrote, “There is an old Puritan saying ‘ Sellyour bed and buy a book” to which I add, “’just make sure it’s a good book.” I sold everything I had to buy more books, hocking my High School ring, guitars, clothes, whatever.
And Seminary gave me Frederick Buechner my all-time favorite writer. Mixing religion and literature in ways similar to Graham Green, Buechner took religion much further. Green explored how tarnished religion is, Buechner saved it by exploring how blemished holiness is anyway.
It was at the end of my Louisville days that I started writing. My first book came out during the move from there to Tybee. And I discovered something about myself. I can’t write and read at the same time. Somewhere I learned that Hemingway couldn’t either so I felt ok about it.
I was in Daytona Beach when “The Society of Salty Saints” arrived. There is a photo somewhere of me sitting on the beach, brown and tan, grinning like a fool and holding it beside my face. Over the next decade the books poured out of me. Seven bookswere published in ten years. That’s a lot.
When I wasn’t writing I continued to read but I really lightened up. I’d drag my chair, cooler, Chelsea and a book to the beach most every day on Tybee. This time it was John McDonald introducing me to “Travis McGee” and Carl Hiaasen presenting “Skip Whiley and Skink”. I loved the outrageousness of the writing.
I wrote my last book “Tour of Homes” proving to myself that I can a big one. It’s big. Too big really, but it gives a fictional account of the first ten years of Union Mission. I don’t like the cover much but publishers choose those things
more than writers do. I like the book though.
Then something happened.
My work got big. I was spending too much time writinggrants, appeal letters and newsletter stories. I loved the work so I didn’t mind much but looking back Union Mission kidnapped my writing and reading like it eventually did a great many other things.
Those last years the only things that I read were studies, the stupid stuff Congress puts out and everything I could on
fundraising because if you’re not raising money you’re dying in the non-profit world which is all about stopping people from dying.
But if I wasn’t reading these other things, creativity was slipping away. And Union Mission gladly took it.
Then something else happened. I discovered blogging and Facebook. I started writing again. At first it was all business but then I started “freebasing” again. I was
writing about the things that were really happening to me … the ridiculous and the sublime … the humorous and the holy …the hurt and joy of living.
Jerry Rainey, the Board chair who chooses to remain anonymous, came to see me to why I was blogging about changing a flat tire in my drive way with Goddess licking my face. He demanded to know how that helped Union Mission?
I remember thinking of Hemingway’s line “It’s all true” before answering him. “Because it’s what happened Jerry.”
Then I left and this Sabbatical happened and I kept writing.
Last Friday night I was having dinner with Bob and Margaret Handleman and she and I started talking about Hemingway. She’d just finished a new novel on Hadley Richardson, Ernest’s first wife in Paris. The next day Bob brought me the book.
And a miracle happened.
For the first time in a couple of years, I’m reading again.
I’m also writing every day and will eventually get around to making them books again.
But it feels good to be back, reading the truths of others.
And writing my own.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Future is Coming to me
I was standing holding my broken brief case on a crowded subway car in Chicago. A lot of things broke in my life over the past few years so why not the strap on my twenty year old brief case. Luckily Rebekah had a rolling case so I’d slid my stuffed defunct one on top of hers.
Every brand of humanity is jammed into the subway with us. My butt’s literally in the face of the Indian dude listening to his I-pod with his eyes closed. Jim Withers is standing beside me talking and our noses were almost touching. Black kids gyrat to hip-hop, an old man carrying a new rug takes up a lot of space and a group of Asian students are awed by everything.
It’s been a while since I’ve done urban.
It’s always been a constant in my life. Watching people dumpster diving looking for food … Homeless men sleeping on subway grates ... Women pushing grocery carts piled high with their “belongings” ... lines of people outside of soup kitchens … the musty smell of mildewed apartments … aggressive panhandlers … the smell of urine …
I’ve done urban and for the day I was doing it again.
It didn’t take me long to get my bearings straight, to remain focused on everything that was going on around and to keep my guard up. That was normal for so long.
For the past year though, it’s been island living … laid back and casual … clear blue skies … miles of white sand … pelicans … the pungent smell of the marsh (which is the smell of sex in the tropics) … ocean waves … flat seas …lush shades of green … and a sad little holy dock.
I was struck by the contrast as we were making our way from the offices of the BeCause Foundation on West Randolph Street back to O’Hare.
It had been a series of very successful meetings and I suddenly have more opportunities than I did before. I’d had conversations and made presentations with a group of doctors, philanthropists, lawyers, and a homeless Vietnam vet with no legs in a wheelchair (the guy is amazing riding it down an escalator).
Everything about everything had clicked.
The night before the meeting I could hardly sleep. I was excited about the possibilities and the work. The future is coming to me.
Last night I got home at midnight after leaving at six a.m. but was wired. I didn’t go to bed until one. After a few hours of hard sleep, I lay there again, hardly able to sleep because of excitement. The future is coming to me.
Unlike the past, I’m determined to find a better balance this time. Urban and island should be in equal proportions. Give and take should be identical. Ying should match yang.
Now I sit on the beloved back deck talking to Fran’s thousands of green about all of this. It’s early morning and I sit here waiting, full of anticipation, joyous, and content. Goddess has her head under my foot as I write. The wind blows salt air my way.
And I smile.
The future is coming to me.
Every brand of humanity is jammed into the subway with us. My butt’s literally in the face of the Indian dude listening to his I-pod with his eyes closed. Jim Withers is standing beside me talking and our noses were almost touching. Black kids gyrat to hip-hop, an old man carrying a new rug takes up a lot of space and a group of Asian students are awed by everything.
It’s been a while since I’ve done urban.
It’s always been a constant in my life. Watching people dumpster diving looking for food … Homeless men sleeping on subway grates ... Women pushing grocery carts piled high with their “belongings” ... lines of people outside of soup kitchens … the musty smell of mildewed apartments … aggressive panhandlers … the smell of urine …
I’ve done urban and for the day I was doing it again.
It didn’t take me long to get my bearings straight, to remain focused on everything that was going on around and to keep my guard up. That was normal for so long.
For the past year though, it’s been island living … laid back and casual … clear blue skies … miles of white sand … pelicans … the pungent smell of the marsh (which is the smell of sex in the tropics) … ocean waves … flat seas …lush shades of green … and a sad little holy dock.
I was struck by the contrast as we were making our way from the offices of the BeCause Foundation on West Randolph Street back to O’Hare.
It had been a series of very successful meetings and I suddenly have more opportunities than I did before. I’d had conversations and made presentations with a group of doctors, philanthropists, lawyers, and a homeless Vietnam vet with no legs in a wheelchair (the guy is amazing riding it down an escalator).
Everything about everything had clicked.
The night before the meeting I could hardly sleep. I was excited about the possibilities and the work. The future is coming to me.
Last night I got home at midnight after leaving at six a.m. but was wired. I didn’t go to bed until one. After a few hours of hard sleep, I lay there again, hardly able to sleep because of excitement. The future is coming to me.
Unlike the past, I’m determined to find a better balance this time. Urban and island should be in equal proportions. Give and take should be identical. Ying should match yang.
Now I sit on the beloved back deck talking to Fran’s thousands of green about all of this. It’s early morning and I sit here waiting, full of anticipation, joyous, and content. Goddess has her head under my foot as I write. The wind blows salt air my way.
And I smile.
The future is coming to me.
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