When Arthur pulled the sword out of the stone to become king ... he became someone else in an instant ... because he overcame stone. This has remained one of the images of my life. Arthur was in charge of the stone though many had tried to set the sword free, it took it as a teenager. There was a place for ancient wisdom which is where Merlin comes from but ancient wisdom is only worthwhile after the impetuous acts of the young.
That's why I've tried to keep my "school boy heart."
Many years ago I wrote this song that I could never quite finish. "Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot, sailed off the end of the world. Looking for adventure another Camelot, just more dreams to unfurl ..."
And that is me. Or it's who I want to be. Sailing off the end of the world looking for new adventures should be the way we live. Once you've touched Camelot ... or love or perfection or holiness ... well then you so want it again. So once is never enough so you keep looking cause new dreams need places to grow.
"But Guinevere is sleeping now and Merlin's simply disappeared. And Arthur went and stuck the sword back in the stone ... when will the Holy Grail appear?"
That last ling about the Holy Grail came from my dear friends Mitch and Dedra. I could never figure it out by myself. They did it for me. In the end, it's about the search for what we want ... who we are ... what we want really.
When I wrote the lines though, I was at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and doing radical stuff. Homeless people lived in Sunday School rooms, Baptismal pools were their bathtubs, young kids from across the city of Louisville came and brought this energy and five little old ladies were the glue that held us all together. We were there at the beginning of homelessness, AIDS, the crumbling of access to the American Health Care System ... and like the young Arthur believed with everything in us that it doesn't have to this way.
But the stoned Southern Baptist faith didn't allow for such activity. They wanted the sword back in the stone ... NOW! ... God Dammit! And that is how I learned how religion is run.
It struck me as the height of hypocrisy as the first thing that Jesus did after he was killed and buried is have someone "roll away the stone" so he could get out. No that's wrong ... I suspect he did it himself. "Ain't no stone gonna hold me down," he said when he got up. "I've had enough of dead. I'm gonna live!"
And it amazes me all of the ways that people chose the stone. Stones are heavy things, blocking your way, hiding the sun, keeping the dead in their tombs. It's funny to me that graveyards have tombstones that seem to say "The stone won. You had a life once but ... stones win in the end. There's just out engraved faces here. Everyone else is buried."
What stones do of course is keep things the way that they are. They hedge you in. They force you to see things only one way. They are status quo ... the way it's always been ... "One way!"
One of my favorite pokes at the hypocrisy of religious rules is from Monty Python's "Life Of Brain". It is the stoning scene ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIaORknS1Dk ) where an old man is being stoned to death because he told his wife one night "that halibut was good enough for Jehovah." You're not supposed to say the name of God in Jewish religion so they stone him (well, the women dressed as men stone the enforcer of the rules in the end ... but it is hilarious and I love it). And it accurately reflect the ways of institutional religion. Which is why I love Bar Church.
But I know a lot of people who live under rocks. They're like flounders swimming along the bottom of the sea with two eyes on one side of their face because they only see things one way.
"We all started off as sand and dust," a friend wrote me last night, "I wonder what our bonding agent is?"
That's the question right? What is it that holds us together? What makes each of us ... us?
For a lot of people it is the stone that forms us. We grow up to be immoveable rocks. Sometimes we're thrown by others but most of the time we just do it the way its always been done. Live up to the expectations of everyone else.
Well I don't believe in any of that. Ask my Mom.
Stones are to be rolled away so that we can be born again ... and become something other than who we are ... to have the opportunity to become what we were created to be.
Sure ... sometimes crucifixions are involved ... marriages, careers, faiths, politics, religions ...
Those can be some pretty dark times.
But then the stone is rolled away ...
And sunshine burst into the once dark caves.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
My Carnival of Frienda
It has been brought to my attention that I have the strangest collection of friends.
Seriously!
People have started writing trying to book times to come to Tybee Island to meet them. "You should get your friend Trolly Joe to organize a tour of the life of Mike ... you know take people to the Breakfast Club to meet your extended family, watch Johnny O feed the squirrels, go to the Pier and Fannies-on-the-Beach for the Bored meeting, stop at Shirley's sad little holy dock, go to Bernie's to listen to Samuel Adams and Gordon play damn good live music, then end up on a beach swing at night. It would have to be a bicycle tour so that Whitley can give the tour of the combat zone (formally 16th Street but Shirley decided to change the name to Tybrisa Street for reasons only she understands). Can I come?"
I swear! I actually got this from a friend who lives in South Carolina.
Hmmmm .... now that I think about it ... only South Carolina people would think of something like this. She must be a graduate of the state university there that rest in hole in the ground that is called Columbia.
But then another wrote asking me to have a picture taken on the beloved back deck with Fran's thousand shades of green behind us, with me with one arm around Goddess and the other around my drunken bicycle. She wants me to post it Face Book.
Seriously!
Then she asked for another that's a group shot of the above mentioned people along with my raised-from-the-dead college friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... my children Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea who are all good friends ... Stacy ... and the famous Dr. Jim Withers who lives nowhere near me. They also want to see what Conner looks like which is incredibly frightening! Hugh and Patti, Carlos and Verna, Nathalie and Ana and the St. Martin are also supposed to magically appear for the shot (which Hugh could take now that I think about it). Bill Berry (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one) is also supposed to be in it. It would be like a very warped Sgt. Pepper at the Beach picture!
I mean you can't make this stuff up! I really did get these requests!
Which got me to thinking ... my carnival of friends really is a strange bunch.
Let me give you a few examples.
Johnny O and Judy feed squirrels on their porch every day, take photographs of stuffed kitties smoking pot on a toilet seat to post on the Internet and Johnny really believes that he is Sinatra. Of course he still talks daily to Chicago Bob who is long dead. And Johnny O is regularly dropped as a columnist for "The Tybee Breeze" our ...I'm really not sure what it is ... not a newspaper or a magazine ... for Christ's sake Julia Pierce has a column ... explain that?
Then there is Whitley who wakes up every morning (that's a relative statement) to see if his traps have captured a raccoon (67 caught so far this year), rides his very drunken bicycle to aforementioned Shirley named street, then disappears for days until his very drunken bicycle needs me to throw it in the back of my car and give it a ride home.
Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... after spending thirty years ignoring one another we decided to throw caution to the wind and get back together. The result is we have formed a band ... "The Acoustic Savages" and we've already written one-and-a-half songs (soon to be released on the World Wide Web ... assuming we can come up with the other half ... or figure out Mark's role in the band).
But then Dedra went to a "Back Street Boys" concert and threw granny panties on the stage suffocating two of the "Back Street Boys" so we're re-thinking her existence.
My kids ... we're an odd lot. Put us all together and we laugh a lot. Individually we're just a little strange. Jeremy and Marie are kind of like Star Trek darting in and out of the universe at warp speed. Kristen is the mystery of the universe and likely the reason why Jeremy and Marie dart in and out as Kristen beams in-and-out of reality at any given moment. Chelsea and her fiancee Sam bring me a bobble head doll of Pope Benedict XVI as a gift after spending six months in Europe. Need I say more?
I could on.
In fact, I've scratched the surface.
Conner called me last night to ask if we have enough duct tape for next week's return trip to St. Martin. Now that we understand that Nathalie is not inviting us to her apartment or can cook anyway, he thinks that duct tape is necessary for the group massage that we're having (oh yeah ... Hugh and Patti you're involved).
I could keep going.
Franklin, who is brown, works at the Breakfast Club, and takes steroids collects "cougars" and told me today he has five.
I wouldn't trade them for anything. And I love them all. Individually are wonderful. Collectively we are a carnival.
But there is this one ...
out there ...
I'm waiting on you ...
Don't rush ... it'll happen when it happens.
Soon.
But not soon enough.
Seriously!
People have started writing trying to book times to come to Tybee Island to meet them. "You should get your friend Trolly Joe to organize a tour of the life of Mike ... you know take people to the Breakfast Club to meet your extended family, watch Johnny O feed the squirrels, go to the Pier and Fannies-on-the-Beach for the Bored meeting, stop at Shirley's sad little holy dock, go to Bernie's to listen to Samuel Adams and Gordon play damn good live music, then end up on a beach swing at night. It would have to be a bicycle tour so that Whitley can give the tour of the combat zone (formally 16th Street but Shirley decided to change the name to Tybrisa Street for reasons only she understands). Can I come?"
I swear! I actually got this from a friend who lives in South Carolina.
Hmmmm .... now that I think about it ... only South Carolina people would think of something like this. She must be a graduate of the state university there that rest in hole in the ground that is called Columbia.
But then another wrote asking me to have a picture taken on the beloved back deck with Fran's thousand shades of green behind us, with me with one arm around Goddess and the other around my drunken bicycle. She wants me to post it Face Book.
Seriously!
Then she asked for another that's a group shot of the above mentioned people along with my raised-from-the-dead college friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... my children Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea who are all good friends ... Stacy ... and the famous Dr. Jim Withers who lives nowhere near me. They also want to see what Conner looks like which is incredibly frightening! Hugh and Patti, Carlos and Verna, Nathalie and Ana and the St. Martin are also supposed to magically appear for the shot (which Hugh could take now that I think about it). Bill Berry (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one) is also supposed to be in it. It would be like a very warped Sgt. Pepper at the Beach picture!
I mean you can't make this stuff up! I really did get these requests!
Which got me to thinking ... my carnival of friends really is a strange bunch.
Let me give you a few examples.
Johnny O and Judy feed squirrels on their porch every day, take photographs of stuffed kitties smoking pot on a toilet seat to post on the Internet and Johnny really believes that he is Sinatra. Of course he still talks daily to Chicago Bob who is long dead. And Johnny O is regularly dropped as a columnist for "The Tybee Breeze" our ...I'm really not sure what it is ... not a newspaper or a magazine ... for Christ's sake Julia Pierce has a column ... explain that?
Then there is Whitley who wakes up every morning (that's a relative statement) to see if his traps have captured a raccoon (67 caught so far this year), rides his very drunken bicycle to aforementioned Shirley named street, then disappears for days until his very drunken bicycle needs me to throw it in the back of my car and give it a ride home.
Dedra, Mark and Mitch ... after spending thirty years ignoring one another we decided to throw caution to the wind and get back together. The result is we have formed a band ... "The Acoustic Savages" and we've already written one-and-a-half songs (soon to be released on the World Wide Web ... assuming we can come up with the other half ... or figure out Mark's role in the band).
But then Dedra went to a "Back Street Boys" concert and threw granny panties on the stage suffocating two of the "Back Street Boys" so we're re-thinking her existence.
My kids ... we're an odd lot. Put us all together and we laugh a lot. Individually we're just a little strange. Jeremy and Marie are kind of like Star Trek darting in and out of the universe at warp speed. Kristen is the mystery of the universe and likely the reason why Jeremy and Marie dart in and out as Kristen beams in-and-out of reality at any given moment. Chelsea and her fiancee Sam bring me a bobble head doll of Pope Benedict XVI as a gift after spending six months in Europe. Need I say more?
I could on.
In fact, I've scratched the surface.
Conner called me last night to ask if we have enough duct tape for next week's return trip to St. Martin. Now that we understand that Nathalie is not inviting us to her apartment or can cook anyway, he thinks that duct tape is necessary for the group massage that we're having (oh yeah ... Hugh and Patti you're involved).
I could keep going.
Franklin, who is brown, works at the Breakfast Club, and takes steroids collects "cougars" and told me today he has five.
I wouldn't trade them for anything. And I love them all. Individually are wonderful. Collectively we are a carnival.
But there is this one ...
out there ...
I'm waiting on you ...
Don't rush ... it'll happen when it happens.
Soon.
But not soon enough.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Five Skin Tears
For years I’ve written. Sermons first and then journals, books, newsletter articles, press releases, lots of grants, letters to the editor, Judy’s term papers cause she could add (until the end) but couldn’t write anything if her life depended on it, arguments for funding, letters, drafts of divorce settlements and … now blogs.
For as long as I can remember I’ve written every day.
These days I mostly freebase.
With sermons you have to work God into it eventually (though I remain stunned at the number of clergy who don’t) … in books you have to have chapters that all fit together somehow … newsletter articles have to tug hearts to open checkbooks …press releases have to get the attention of the paper or television to do the story … letters to the editor have word limits … Judy’s term paper was like seventh grade stuff … arguments for funding were always fun because you have to dummy down the writing so the Congressman or City Official could understand it (kind of like Dr. Seuss needs money and will make up words to impress you) … letters are great cause they’re from the heart but hearts can’t be confined to paper … drafts for divorce leave you humbled …
BUT BLOGS … are freebasing … like mixing your drugs and breaking all the rules!
I love it!
You can do whatever you want. Write about anything. Go long. Go short. Whatevs …
Yesterday I wrote about sitting by myself with my feet dangling in a swimming pool, staring at the Back River of the Ocean, being at one with it … smelling it … feeling it … being it …
Thinking about the things I’ve lost and the things I’ve gained …
And of course God was present … she made all of this anyway … and I was thanking her for it … saying prayers … celebrating creation and the fact that I have friends who let me show up at their house to use their pool on days so hot they make your believe in hell …
But feelings of things I want and don’t have yet … led to me saying the word “Dammit” as I slapped the water.
Later while freebasing God and Dammit came together … in a holy way I think … at least that is the way that I think about it … God gave us this life … Dammit! Sometimes it doesn’t always go right …
So I wrote it out of me (as my son Jeremy describes it) and posted it … and it was amazing.
The phone started ringing. People wrote me asking me to call them. Others wrote asking me to write them … a couple texted wanting to come to Tybee to sit on Shirley’s sad little holy dock with Goddess and me talk.
I was busy all day. I was working hard and there is stuff being done to the house … and major distractions seemed to just lie on my couch as I tried to get things done …
Then towards the end of the day a friend of mine wrote saying that she didn’t like God and Damn being so close to one another. I say what I want every day and it doesn’t bother me in the least when people say what they want in response. I think it’s healthy and can cause dialogues if you remain open minded about it all. So she wrote and I read and thought well… that is that.
But through the miracle of technology we fell into an instant message chat. She asked if I was upset. I said no. She asked how I was. I asked how she was. This is the stuff that eventually leads to “community” if we’re lucky.
Then she told me that she had a day full of Five Skin Tears.
“What?” I replied. “Five Skin Tears?”
And she told me about it. You needed five layers of skin to get through that sad anger.
“Righteous indignation,” is what the Bible calls it, I told her. “Sometimes being pissed can be a very holy thing.”
We talked and were closer because of it. But Dammit God … sometimes things like that shouldn’t happen … why are people sometimes so cruel to one another … especially when frail innocence is involved?
Then we both had to go … but we’re closer because of it all … rain fell outside and we’ve all been praying for it for months … and God delivered just in the nick of time …
Dammit! It’s amazing what God does … and when … and how …
For as long as I can remember I’ve written every day.
These days I mostly freebase.
With sermons you have to work God into it eventually (though I remain stunned at the number of clergy who don’t) … in books you have to have chapters that all fit together somehow … newsletter articles have to tug hearts to open checkbooks …press releases have to get the attention of the paper or television to do the story … letters to the editor have word limits … Judy’s term paper was like seventh grade stuff … arguments for funding were always fun because you have to dummy down the writing so the Congressman or City Official could understand it (kind of like Dr. Seuss needs money and will make up words to impress you) … letters are great cause they’re from the heart but hearts can’t be confined to paper … drafts for divorce leave you humbled …
BUT BLOGS … are freebasing … like mixing your drugs and breaking all the rules!
I love it!
You can do whatever you want. Write about anything. Go long. Go short. Whatevs …
Yesterday I wrote about sitting by myself with my feet dangling in a swimming pool, staring at the Back River of the Ocean, being at one with it … smelling it … feeling it … being it …
Thinking about the things I’ve lost and the things I’ve gained …
And of course God was present … she made all of this anyway … and I was thanking her for it … saying prayers … celebrating creation and the fact that I have friends who let me show up at their house to use their pool on days so hot they make your believe in hell …
But feelings of things I want and don’t have yet … led to me saying the word “Dammit” as I slapped the water.
Later while freebasing God and Dammit came together … in a holy way I think … at least that is the way that I think about it … God gave us this life … Dammit! Sometimes it doesn’t always go right …
So I wrote it out of me (as my son Jeremy describes it) and posted it … and it was amazing.
The phone started ringing. People wrote me asking me to call them. Others wrote asking me to write them … a couple texted wanting to come to Tybee to sit on Shirley’s sad little holy dock with Goddess and me talk.
I was busy all day. I was working hard and there is stuff being done to the house … and major distractions seemed to just lie on my couch as I tried to get things done …
Then towards the end of the day a friend of mine wrote saying that she didn’t like God and Damn being so close to one another. I say what I want every day and it doesn’t bother me in the least when people say what they want in response. I think it’s healthy and can cause dialogues if you remain open minded about it all. So she wrote and I read and thought well… that is that.
But through the miracle of technology we fell into an instant message chat. She asked if I was upset. I said no. She asked how I was. I asked how she was. This is the stuff that eventually leads to “community” if we’re lucky.
Then she told me that she had a day full of Five Skin Tears.
“What?” I replied. “Five Skin Tears?”
And she told me about it. You needed five layers of skin to get through that sad anger.
“Righteous indignation,” is what the Bible calls it, I told her. “Sometimes being pissed can be a very holy thing.”
We talked and were closer because of it. But Dammit God … sometimes things like that shouldn’t happen … why are people sometimes so cruel to one another … especially when frail innocence is involved?
Then we both had to go … but we’re closer because of it all … rain fell outside and we’ve all been praying for it for months … and God delivered just in the nick of time …
Dammit! It’s amazing what God does … and when … and how …
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
God and Damn
Sometimes you just stare ... off in the distance ... the distant past or the distant future ... but somewhere other than where you are ...
Somewhere where you long to be ...
Not here ....
My feet dangle in the water of the swimming pool overlooking the marsh with the Back River way over there. I'm alone listening to John Mellencamp sing "Your Life is Now" ...
but I mostly stare off in the distant somewhere ... fingers of my hands laced between my knees ... feeling the ocean breeze ... the sting of the chlorine on the oyster shell cut that just won't heal from a month ago ... and apparently I'll have good health insurance again ... after a career of giving other people health coverage when they had no chance in hell of getting it ... the glass of wine that I'd brought is long gone ...
It's just me ... water ... sky ... breeze ... God ...
And my hands folded between my knees on top of the water ... with ocean breeze kissing my face ... salt water tingling my nostrils ... missing what I don't have ... longing for what will be ... cursing the past ...understanding how God and Damned go together so perfectly sometimes ...
"Goddamned," I say as I slap the water ... then I'm off in the distance again ... future distance ... past distance ... somewhere else ... not where I am at ...
It's not God's fault.
And she doesn't give a Rat's ass that I said "Goddamned" because that is not taking the name of the Lord your God in vein.
What is ... is to say that you believe in God and you don't really ... or to say that you're a Christian and you just go to Church and don't really take on the things of Christ ... or you don't give a shit about people suffering around you ... or you just care about you and yours while you usher and take money like tax collectors (like Board Chairs who choose to remain ... well ... he's not even worth the effort ...)
But ... the things God cares about ... well ... that's different.
Today I had all of these homeless guys at my house doing work. I wanted to pay them ... to say thanks ... as they were saying thanks ... everything took too long ... they wanted to talk about the old times ... I wanted to work ... I pondered my baby sunflower seeds ... I kept mediating stupid arguments ... it was a crash collision that was going to happen ...
Then it did ...
So I hopped on my bike and rode ....
Now I sit, with broken feet in chlorine water, hands between my knees, staring at Pine Trees dancing in the ocean breeze, wondering ...
There is an old black saying ... "I'm tied of being tired" ...
Me too!
So it's time to stop. To hell with what ever makes me stare.
My life is now! Whatever I have left of it anyway.
I've done good ... lots of good ... and I've done bad ... lots of bad ...
But I did the best I could ...
I'm ok with it ...
It's just me ...
The way God and me made me ...
And whatever I did in the past is done ...
My life is now ...
Moving forward to the future ....
Goddammit!
Somewhere where you long to be ...
Not here ....
My feet dangle in the water of the swimming pool overlooking the marsh with the Back River way over there. I'm alone listening to John Mellencamp sing "Your Life is Now" ...
but I mostly stare off in the distant somewhere ... fingers of my hands laced between my knees ... feeling the ocean breeze ... the sting of the chlorine on the oyster shell cut that just won't heal from a month ago ... and apparently I'll have good health insurance again ... after a career of giving other people health coverage when they had no chance in hell of getting it ... the glass of wine that I'd brought is long gone ...
It's just me ... water ... sky ... breeze ... God ...
And my hands folded between my knees on top of the water ... with ocean breeze kissing my face ... salt water tingling my nostrils ... missing what I don't have ... longing for what will be ... cursing the past ...understanding how God and Damned go together so perfectly sometimes ...
"Goddamned," I say as I slap the water ... then I'm off in the distance again ... future distance ... past distance ... somewhere else ... not where I am at ...
It's not God's fault.
And she doesn't give a Rat's ass that I said "Goddamned" because that is not taking the name of the Lord your God in vein.
What is ... is to say that you believe in God and you don't really ... or to say that you're a Christian and you just go to Church and don't really take on the things of Christ ... or you don't give a shit about people suffering around you ... or you just care about you and yours while you usher and take money like tax collectors (like Board Chairs who choose to remain ... well ... he's not even worth the effort ...)
But ... the things God cares about ... well ... that's different.
Today I had all of these homeless guys at my house doing work. I wanted to pay them ... to say thanks ... as they were saying thanks ... everything took too long ... they wanted to talk about the old times ... I wanted to work ... I pondered my baby sunflower seeds ... I kept mediating stupid arguments ... it was a crash collision that was going to happen ...
Then it did ...
So I hopped on my bike and rode ....
Now I sit, with broken feet in chlorine water, hands between my knees, staring at Pine Trees dancing in the ocean breeze, wondering ...
There is an old black saying ... "I'm tied of being tired" ...
Me too!
So it's time to stop. To hell with what ever makes me stare.
My life is now! Whatever I have left of it anyway.
I've done good ... lots of good ... and I've done bad ... lots of bad ...
But I did the best I could ...
I'm ok with it ...
It's just me ...
The way God and me made me ...
And whatever I did in the past is done ...
My life is now ...
Moving forward to the future ....
Goddammit!
The Pope and me
Chelsea was giving out presents on her birthday last night. She and her fiancee Sam had brought everyone gifts from the past six months they spent in Europe. She gave me a bobble head doll of the Pope. She got it at the Vatican where they are really into merchandizing as a way to help pay their legal bills.
That sounded cynical.
It is I guess. I'm not a fan of the Pope. Before he was Benedict XVI he was Joseph Ratzinger and I really didn't like him then. Back then I was really into Liberation theology, a political belief that seeks to continue Jesus' liberation of people from economic, political and social injustice. I was in Seminary and living and working with homeless people and Liberation theology gave me the framing I needed to not grow depressed by the poverty that surrounded me.
My heroes were all Priests (Gutieerez from Peru, Boff from Brazil, Sobrino from El Savador) who were all doing incredible things including overthrowing third world dictators that U. S. politics propped up. They also wrote incredible books about loving the poor because that is where God is ... with those who hurt, suffer, starve and are oppressed. Jewish theologian Eli Wiesel says the same thing when he talks about God being among the prisoners at Auschwitz, the concentration camp in Poland.
I was so enthralled and a solid convert to this way of thinking that I stood up in class in the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary one day and announced that I no longer gave a damn about "western theology" which only cares about why there is evil in the world. I was only going to base my study on Liberation theologians ... those Priests and nuns who were sick of "the way things had always been" and were doing something about it.
Of course this didn't go over real well with the Southern Baptists. I got called into Dean Ann Davis' office and she ripped me a new one. I held my ground and she threatened to kick me out of Seminary. We stopped liking one another. It was at this point that I discovered that lawyers really can be useful.
Ann had recruited me for the social work school which she was launching. I'd been working on a Ph.D. but social work was more in keeping with Liberation so I changed. We had to negotiate all of the classes I'd already taken for the doctorate and determine what classes I would need for a Master in Social Work. It was a contract. My lawyer ate Ann's lunch ... that's how I got my Master in Social Work.
At the time, Joseph Ratzinger was in charge of keeping the Priests in line with the doctrines of the Church. Liberation theology Priests were straying far away from doing it the way that it had always been done. So Ratzinger had them all silenced ... one by one.
And I still hate him for it.
When he became Pope, I remember hearing the news on the radio and pulling the car over to the side of road. I was cussing loudly. I called my friend Mary Ann Beil who crying over where the puff of white smoke blew.
Ratzinger? Seriously?
My dear friend Father Vernon Robertson defended him rigorously but concluded by saying "Popes aren't all they're cracked up to be." It was hard not to love Vernon. I would do the readings at noon day Mass and he would preach on Wednesday nights at the church that I was inexplicably in charge of.
In the end though Joseph Ratzinger killed off Liberation Theology. That allowed American Fundamentalism to gain the upper hand ... so Jerry Falwell, Jim and Tammy Baker, Kenneth Copeland and those people gained influence. Now it's T.D. Jakes and Pope Benedict XVI.
And things remain the same as they've always been.
The poor get poorer. The rich get richer. We spend more on prisons than we do educating kids. Half of the country doesn't have health insurance ... the military still buys $500 hammers ...
And the thinking goes on and on ... stay in a rotten bad marriage because God believes in marriage more than happiness ... have another baby when you can't afford the ones that you have now and you're too ignorant to understand birth control ... condemn people who are different from you because God only likes things one particular way ... or color ...
I walk up to my bobble head doll of Pope Benedict and ask him "You really believe all of this shit?"
And I slap his head so that it shakes from side to side. Then it starts going in circles. Then it ends up shaking up and down.
I laugh.
"Of course you do," I say out loud. "What you believe is more important than ... freedom ... happiness ... wellness ... discovery ... Love!
I remain a believer in Liberation. Damn what anybody says! Or which way their head shakes.
That sounded cynical.
It is I guess. I'm not a fan of the Pope. Before he was Benedict XVI he was Joseph Ratzinger and I really didn't like him then. Back then I was really into Liberation theology, a political belief that seeks to continue Jesus' liberation of people from economic, political and social injustice. I was in Seminary and living and working with homeless people and Liberation theology gave me the framing I needed to not grow depressed by the poverty that surrounded me.
My heroes were all Priests (Gutieerez from Peru, Boff from Brazil, Sobrino from El Savador) who were all doing incredible things including overthrowing third world dictators that U. S. politics propped up. They also wrote incredible books about loving the poor because that is where God is ... with those who hurt, suffer, starve and are oppressed. Jewish theologian Eli Wiesel says the same thing when he talks about God being among the prisoners at Auschwitz, the concentration camp in Poland.
I was so enthralled and a solid convert to this way of thinking that I stood up in class in the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary one day and announced that I no longer gave a damn about "western theology" which only cares about why there is evil in the world. I was only going to base my study on Liberation theologians ... those Priests and nuns who were sick of "the way things had always been" and were doing something about it.
Of course this didn't go over real well with the Southern Baptists. I got called into Dean Ann Davis' office and she ripped me a new one. I held my ground and she threatened to kick me out of Seminary. We stopped liking one another. It was at this point that I discovered that lawyers really can be useful.
Ann had recruited me for the social work school which she was launching. I'd been working on a Ph.D. but social work was more in keeping with Liberation so I changed. We had to negotiate all of the classes I'd already taken for the doctorate and determine what classes I would need for a Master in Social Work. It was a contract. My lawyer ate Ann's lunch ... that's how I got my Master in Social Work.
At the time, Joseph Ratzinger was in charge of keeping the Priests in line with the doctrines of the Church. Liberation theology Priests were straying far away from doing it the way that it had always been done. So Ratzinger had them all silenced ... one by one.
And I still hate him for it.
When he became Pope, I remember hearing the news on the radio and pulling the car over to the side of road. I was cussing loudly. I called my friend Mary Ann Beil who crying over where the puff of white smoke blew.
Ratzinger? Seriously?
My dear friend Father Vernon Robertson defended him rigorously but concluded by saying "Popes aren't all they're cracked up to be." It was hard not to love Vernon. I would do the readings at noon day Mass and he would preach on Wednesday nights at the church that I was inexplicably in charge of.
In the end though Joseph Ratzinger killed off Liberation Theology. That allowed American Fundamentalism to gain the upper hand ... so Jerry Falwell, Jim and Tammy Baker, Kenneth Copeland and those people gained influence. Now it's T.D. Jakes and Pope Benedict XVI.
And things remain the same as they've always been.
The poor get poorer. The rich get richer. We spend more on prisons than we do educating kids. Half of the country doesn't have health insurance ... the military still buys $500 hammers ...
And the thinking goes on and on ... stay in a rotten bad marriage because God believes in marriage more than happiness ... have another baby when you can't afford the ones that you have now and you're too ignorant to understand birth control ... condemn people who are different from you because God only likes things one particular way ... or color ...
I walk up to my bobble head doll of Pope Benedict and ask him "You really believe all of this shit?"
And I slap his head so that it shakes from side to side. Then it starts going in circles. Then it ends up shaking up and down.
I laugh.
"Of course you do," I say out loud. "What you believe is more important than ... freedom ... happiness ... wellness ... discovery ... Love!
I remain a believer in Liberation. Damn what anybody says! Or which way their head shakes.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Sunflowers
I was on the 23rd floor of Rockefeller Center looking down on the plaza where the TODAY Show has Friday morning concerts and Kenny Chesney was playing. I could see tiny people jumping up and down as the band was obviously rocking. I couldn't hear anything that high up behind the large glass window. Besides there were a lot of distractions.
Every time one of the agent's authors had been in the "New York Times Book Review" section of the Sunday paper it had been framed and hung on the walls. There were lots! Breaking them up and adding color to the walls were the framed covers of the books she had negotiated the deals over. As a lover of books and a writer it was hard not to be impressed.
Typical New York City, Rockefeller Center is imposing from the outside, then you get through security and off the elevator and the hallways are dingy little things. Then you open the door to the office suite and ... Whoa! Damn! That's impressive!
A glass walled conference room with one of the walls being a window looking down on Kenny Chesney driving the crowd wild. Melissa, ... blond, beautiful, wearing a blue and white sundress sat at her desk in the open space outside of the conference room. Behind her were two offices, one with no windows and I was introduced to Geri who is the money person and I thought, of course she has no windows ... she spends all of her time counting money (reminding me of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy).
The other one was a corner with two windows that I was standing in front of looking down wondering if Matt Lauer was bogeying his ass off with everybody else.
"Shall we get started?" Maria Carvainis asked. A short, frumpy Jewish woman with a beautiful smile this was her agency.
The famous Dr. Jim Withers and I took our seats behind the glass desk that she sat behind. This was Jim's meeting and I was tagging along. He'd asked me to because I've published books and this is his first and he just wanted someone to hold his hand. I love Jim so of course I went. I was blown away by Maria and her agency though.
"Hello Micheal Elliott," she'd said shaking my hand without being told who I was when I'd followed Jim in. Of course she'd shaken Jim's hand first and then boldly came to me. She is impressive.
So they started talking and I was wondering about the sunflower seeds I'd planted back home.
At some point both of them were looking at me and I had no idea why. "Sorry, what did you say?" I asked in a clever attempt to cover myself.
"I was telling her how I spent last weekend with you," Jim explained, "so you could help me learn how you write but flotillas and the Samuel Adams Band kept getting in the way."
"Oh yeah," I shrugged. "It's true. It's my fault ... but Dedra and Cheryl helped."
Figuring this would end my involvement in their conversation I resumed wondering if Mom was watering the sunflower seeds or if Goddess was peeing on them.
"And" Maria asked?
And?
Shit there is more to this conversation!
"Ummm," I cleverly started. "Jim's a good writer. His story is incredible. You already know that. The book will be a movie. What else you want to know?"
Jim humbly looked down.
Maria beamed.
Nobody said anything.
"Yes!" I fist pumped my inward self.
They went back to talking. I started worrying about my sunflower seeds. I missed them.
Eventually they finished. "Micheal," Maria said handing me her card. "That's not my real email address." She handed me a pen, "The real one is ..." and gave it me.
"Well aren't you funny?" I said. "A rouge email address on you business card. I wish I'd thought of that!"
She smiled and I understood why she is so successful.
Melissa showed us out back into the dingy hall that led to the elevator, pass security back into the throngs of New York City. We were late for our next meeting so while I strolled like a good southern boy, Jim walked fast in little tiny steps like a northern boy.
I busted out laughing and Jim turned around to see why I wasn't keeping up with him. My hands were on my knees and a sea of people were separating to walk passed me ... I looked like a sidewalk Moses parting the water.
After I finished I meandered to Jim stood.
"We're gonna be late," he chided.
"Not in Savannah time," I replied. "We drip molasses on our clocks so nothing starts on time."
Uh-huh," he said with his hands on his hips before turning around and taking really fast little baby steps in the other direction.
I busted out laughing again with my hands on my knees.
When I finally stood up ... I noticed the throngs of people rushing pass me ... the majestic power of the buildings ... the imposing presence of New York City ...
And I thought ... I've finally slowed down enough to really enjoy all of this ... and to laugh in the midst of it all.
Then I wondered how my sunflowers were doing.
Every time one of the agent's authors had been in the "New York Times Book Review" section of the Sunday paper it had been framed and hung on the walls. There were lots! Breaking them up and adding color to the walls were the framed covers of the books she had negotiated the deals over. As a lover of books and a writer it was hard not to be impressed.
Typical New York City, Rockefeller Center is imposing from the outside, then you get through security and off the elevator and the hallways are dingy little things. Then you open the door to the office suite and ... Whoa! Damn! That's impressive!
A glass walled conference room with one of the walls being a window looking down on Kenny Chesney driving the crowd wild. Melissa, ... blond, beautiful, wearing a blue and white sundress sat at her desk in the open space outside of the conference room. Behind her were two offices, one with no windows and I was introduced to Geri who is the money person and I thought, of course she has no windows ... she spends all of her time counting money (reminding me of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy).
The other one was a corner with two windows that I was standing in front of looking down wondering if Matt Lauer was bogeying his ass off with everybody else.
"Shall we get started?" Maria Carvainis asked. A short, frumpy Jewish woman with a beautiful smile this was her agency.
The famous Dr. Jim Withers and I took our seats behind the glass desk that she sat behind. This was Jim's meeting and I was tagging along. He'd asked me to because I've published books and this is his first and he just wanted someone to hold his hand. I love Jim so of course I went. I was blown away by Maria and her agency though.
"Hello Micheal Elliott," she'd said shaking my hand without being told who I was when I'd followed Jim in. Of course she'd shaken Jim's hand first and then boldly came to me. She is impressive.
So they started talking and I was wondering about the sunflower seeds I'd planted back home.
At some point both of them were looking at me and I had no idea why. "Sorry, what did you say?" I asked in a clever attempt to cover myself.
"I was telling her how I spent last weekend with you," Jim explained, "so you could help me learn how you write but flotillas and the Samuel Adams Band kept getting in the way."
"Oh yeah," I shrugged. "It's true. It's my fault ... but Dedra and Cheryl helped."
Figuring this would end my involvement in their conversation I resumed wondering if Mom was watering the sunflower seeds or if Goddess was peeing on them.
"And" Maria asked?
And?
Shit there is more to this conversation!
"Ummm," I cleverly started. "Jim's a good writer. His story is incredible. You already know that. The book will be a movie. What else you want to know?"
Jim humbly looked down.
Maria beamed.
Nobody said anything.
"Yes!" I fist pumped my inward self.
They went back to talking. I started worrying about my sunflower seeds. I missed them.
Eventually they finished. "Micheal," Maria said handing me her card. "That's not my real email address." She handed me a pen, "The real one is ..." and gave it me.
"Well aren't you funny?" I said. "A rouge email address on you business card. I wish I'd thought of that!"
She smiled and I understood why she is so successful.
Melissa showed us out back into the dingy hall that led to the elevator, pass security back into the throngs of New York City. We were late for our next meeting so while I strolled like a good southern boy, Jim walked fast in little tiny steps like a northern boy.
I busted out laughing and Jim turned around to see why I wasn't keeping up with him. My hands were on my knees and a sea of people were separating to walk passed me ... I looked like a sidewalk Moses parting the water.
After I finished I meandered to Jim stood.
"We're gonna be late," he chided.
"Not in Savannah time," I replied. "We drip molasses on our clocks so nothing starts on time."
Uh-huh," he said with his hands on his hips before turning around and taking really fast little baby steps in the other direction.
I busted out laughing again with my hands on my knees.
When I finally stood up ... I noticed the throngs of people rushing pass me ... the majestic power of the buildings ... the imposing presence of New York City ...
And I thought ... I've finally slowed down enough to really enjoy all of this ... and to laugh in the midst of it all.
Then I wondered how my sunflowers were doing.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Delusional Sunsets
Goddess Elliott and I watch a lot of sunsets on Shirley's sad little holy dock. Just down the street from A.J.'s the dock sits in the middle of the marsh and has a terrific view of the Back River. Unlike the crowds that flock to A.J.'s for dinner, drinks and watching the sun sink into the ocean, it's normally just Goddess and me sitting on the sad little holy dock. If the tide is low the choirs of mussels sing to us with their ticks and pops. If it's high the green marsh grass is covered and it looks as though God has painted it a greenish blue. Either way it is beautiful.
One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.
I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.
Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.
Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.
I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.
Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.
Over the last year, something similar occurred.
Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.
I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.
Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.
Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.
Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.
One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.
I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.
Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.
Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.
I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.
Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.
Over the last year, something similar occurred.
Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.
I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.
Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.
Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.
Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Daufaski
Within seven hours of arriving from New York City I was on Daufaski Island.
According to legend, Da-fus-ki is "Gullah" for "the first key" ... a key or cay is an island ... like Key West. The Gullah were former black slaves who emancipated and fiercely held onto their language, which is a Jamaican Creole that was bastardized by white people's English. The language is also called "Geechee" in south Georgia and when I was growing up whites would lapse into racism and call black people "Blue gums" when they talked this way.
When Lincoln emancipated the slaves some were pure genius and negotiated their own islands with the federal government ... Daufaski was one. About eighty black families lived there separated and segregated from the world that had raped them. They had beaches, oysters, shrimp and could bend over and pick up handfuls of sand ... which are pulverized sea shells ... broken by the ocean into something ... as beautiful as it had once been.
Broken often leads to something more beautiful than it was before.
I remember Daufaski growing up ... I mean it was always just right there ... but white people went to Hilton Head when they weren't building homes with servants quarters on Tybee Island.
I grew up in Port Wentworth which was a factory town ... literally built around a factory. My childhood friend Pig Jones is the Mayor of Port Wentworth. I loved a Mayor named Pig even before he was Mayor. We grew up together and our Dads would take us to University of Georgia football games or Braves games. Good times!
But they also told us about Blue gums and Daufaski.
So we went to Hilton Head ... where all of the black people lived in the middle of the island ... or Tybee where they all lived downstairs in the servants quarters. Tybee remains greatly proud that it has more historic beach cottages than any community on the East coast. What this means is that there are more servants quarters than anywhere on the East Coast (sorry Cullin Chambers ... but it is what it is).
Then Pat Conroy started writing books. I love Pat Conroy! Everything that he's ever written! When he was a kid after being the lone liberal graduating from the Citedal ... he became the first white teacher of black kids on Daufaski Island. "The Water is Wide" is the name of the book. They made a movie about it named "Conrack" because the Gullah kids could quite pronounce Conroy and it came out different ... as beautiful things always do.
Like a seashell pulverized by the ocean into sand ... it was a thing of beauty once ... but now it is a different thing of beauty ... more beautiful in so many ways!
So "The Water is Wide" is right up there with Jesus, Hemingway, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Carl Hiaasen, Dorothy Day, Alice Walker and Guy Sayles to me.
So Jenny O was having her 50th birthday party and decided to do on Daufaski. About 30 of us collected although only about ten of us remember another ten. I was flying in from New York and though ... there were other things that are important to me ... it's Jenny Orr who is my friend ... on Daufaski.
How could I not go?
So my extended family Jodee and Cheryl took me over on their boat. There is no other way to get to the first key. And it rained beauty throughout the day and night. Though I was so exhausted from New York that I missed half of the beauty.
At one point, I sat on the dock alone ... thinking about the girl stars ... talking to them ... cause I love them most ...
And I sat there ...
Thinking ...
And while ... in the words of Jimmy Buffett singing about Daufaski ... "the bulldozers bury the past" ...
But ... Beach Music, Beach Music, Beach Music ... just plays on ...
So darlin' ...
Save the last dance for me.
According to legend, Da-fus-ki is "Gullah" for "the first key" ... a key or cay is an island ... like Key West. The Gullah were former black slaves who emancipated and fiercely held onto their language, which is a Jamaican Creole that was bastardized by white people's English. The language is also called "Geechee" in south Georgia and when I was growing up whites would lapse into racism and call black people "Blue gums" when they talked this way.
When Lincoln emancipated the slaves some were pure genius and negotiated their own islands with the federal government ... Daufaski was one. About eighty black families lived there separated and segregated from the world that had raped them. They had beaches, oysters, shrimp and could bend over and pick up handfuls of sand ... which are pulverized sea shells ... broken by the ocean into something ... as beautiful as it had once been.
Broken often leads to something more beautiful than it was before.
I remember Daufaski growing up ... I mean it was always just right there ... but white people went to Hilton Head when they weren't building homes with servants quarters on Tybee Island.
I grew up in Port Wentworth which was a factory town ... literally built around a factory. My childhood friend Pig Jones is the Mayor of Port Wentworth. I loved a Mayor named Pig even before he was Mayor. We grew up together and our Dads would take us to University of Georgia football games or Braves games. Good times!
But they also told us about Blue gums and Daufaski.
So we went to Hilton Head ... where all of the black people lived in the middle of the island ... or Tybee where they all lived downstairs in the servants quarters. Tybee remains greatly proud that it has more historic beach cottages than any community on the East coast. What this means is that there are more servants quarters than anywhere on the East Coast (sorry Cullin Chambers ... but it is what it is).
Then Pat Conroy started writing books. I love Pat Conroy! Everything that he's ever written! When he was a kid after being the lone liberal graduating from the Citedal ... he became the first white teacher of black kids on Daufaski Island. "The Water is Wide" is the name of the book. They made a movie about it named "Conrack" because the Gullah kids could quite pronounce Conroy and it came out different ... as beautiful things always do.
Like a seashell pulverized by the ocean into sand ... it was a thing of beauty once ... but now it is a different thing of beauty ... more beautiful in so many ways!
So "The Water is Wide" is right up there with Jesus, Hemingway, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Carl Hiaasen, Dorothy Day, Alice Walker and Guy Sayles to me.
So Jenny O was having her 50th birthday party and decided to do on Daufaski. About 30 of us collected although only about ten of us remember another ten. I was flying in from New York and though ... there were other things that are important to me ... it's Jenny Orr who is my friend ... on Daufaski.
How could I not go?
So my extended family Jodee and Cheryl took me over on their boat. There is no other way to get to the first key. And it rained beauty throughout the day and night. Though I was so exhausted from New York that I missed half of the beauty.
At one point, I sat on the dock alone ... thinking about the girl stars ... talking to them ... cause I love them most ...
And I sat there ...
Thinking ...
And while ... in the words of Jimmy Buffett singing about Daufaski ... "the bulldozers bury the past" ...
But ... Beach Music, Beach Music, Beach Music ... just plays on ...
So darlin' ...
Save the last dance for me.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Our House
As good as the meetings where with a book agent and leaders in social media for good causes is as bad as the trip home was. A large thunderstorm over Manhattan may as well have dumped glue over the runways because everything got stuck. LaGuardia is a small Delta terminal anyway so it filled and was soon crazy crowded. Long lines at the bars and restaurants made it worse and the delays grew longer too. Soon people started getting upset and it showed. The entire place was this collective fund of bad karma.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
Our House
As good as the meetings where with a book agent and leaders in social media for good causes is as bad as the trip home was. A large thunderstorm over Manhattan may as well have dumped glue over the runways because everything got stuck. LaGuardia is a small Delta terminal anyway so it filled and was soon crazy crowded. Long lines at the bars and restaurants made it worse and the delays grew longer too. Soon people started getting upset and it showed. The entire place was this collective fund of bad karma.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
I've traveled enough and have spent enough time on islands to know that when things like this happen ... go with the flow. Luckily I'm a Crown Room member so, while it was packed too, it wasn't as bad as the terminal halls. I got a glass of wine and fired up the laptop to instant chat with Esther, Dedra and Chelsea who was watching Goddess for me at the last moment. This is what I would be doing at home anyway.
Then they announced that the Atlanta flights were canceled.
It is hard to go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta so a large groan erupted in the room. At that same moment a large clap of thunder exploded overhead.
"Shit!" several people said at the same time.
The fire alarm went off. Half the room decided this was a good time to rush the bar. The other half stayed put reading their books, sleeping or talking on their cell phones. It reminded me of the fire drills we used to have at Union Mission. Homeless people aren't big on fire drills.
"Come on," I'd say, "this could be a fire."
"Yep," they would say. "It's ok, we're wasted anyway. It's hard to do homeless sober."
"Hmmm ..." I remember thinking, "I'm sure it is."
So I chatted with people who love me and who I love ... pretty content.
The hardest part was keeping up with my delays and gate changes. I'd have to get up and walk to the board listing departures or to the gate only to find that it would another half hour before we'd take off. Of course everybody else was doing this too so we were like lemmings running back and forth.
People continued to get angrier and their voices grew louder. I sat with my chin resting in the palm of my hand watching them. They were sure wasting a lot of energy. Most were on the phone with family members cursing the airlines.
I was pretty laid back about it all. As midnight approached it dawned on me that I may not be home in time for Jenny Orr's birthday boating to Dafuski Island. "Hmmm... that would be a bummer," I thought to myself. I wrote Johnny O a message to inform him of this possibility.
At that moment God intervened and allowed the plane for Savannah to be lifted towards the heavens. Forty of us rushed aboard while the big boy jets heading for Atlanta stayed grounded.
I read the introduction to my book and immediately fell asleep. Two hours later I was in Savannah. I stumbled into a cab, said take me to Tybee, and immediately fell asleep. Forty-five minutes later he woke me up in front of my house. Chelsea had left the lights on for me and Goddess was going nuts barking with excitement. She woke Chelsea up who kissed me and went back to bed.
And I stood in my kitchen ... rubbing my hand on the cheek of my face ... thinking ... I don't remember the last time that I was kissed when I got home ...
Then Goddess slammed her butt into my leg ... reminding me ... that she kisses me every time I come home ... in her own way ...
Then I walked into our house ... and slept soundly.
Friday, June 17, 2011
The World Grows Smaller
The very famous Dr. Jim Withers and I are in New York City for meetings. They are today though we arrived yesterday and opted for Broadway last night.
I love Broadway! Musical comedies are my favorites though I like musicals of all kinds. Pippin. Jesus Christ Superstar. Godspell. RENT. Spamalot. Hairspray (I went kicking and screaming but then there was Darlene Love in it and it doesn't get any cooler than her!). Cotton Patch Gospel. Don't Stop the Carnival. Avenue Q.
I could go on.
New York is always a head rush though I've grown fond of finding little taverns and neighborhood pups ... especially when the Giants or Jets are playing. That's always fun!
New York has no real concept of college football though. Once my son Jeremy, Melanie Finnachario and I ran like twenty-seven city blocks to catch the second half of a University of Georgia football game. Everybody else in the city was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art which is where we had been but ... UGA was playing so we found the one sports bar that was showing the game (Georgia beat Kentucky on a last minute field goal).
But I like running through Central Park because I'm always discovering these little hidden treasures. Once I literally ran into Yoko Ono on the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's death.
Ray's Pizza is really good! Once we were there and this homeless guy burst in the front door, held up his hand and screamed, "Don't worry kids! I'm the trash inspector!"
Then he buried his upper body in the trash can looking for ... I really don't know what he was looking for.
"Hey Timmy," said a kid sitting at the table beside ours, "what the heck's a trash inspector?"
"Beats me," said Timmy with a mouth full of pizza.
The entertainment in the subway stations are to die for. As is Ellen's Starlight Dinner where those who fail to pass the auditions on Broadway get jobs as singing waiters and waitresses.
Anyway, I'm here with Jim for a meeting with a book agent and another meeting concerning using social medal to solve problems like homelessness. The head of the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the National Coalition for the Homeless, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and a several philanthropists will be there.
Lunch is provided.
It is interesting to me that a year after leaving Union Mission these opportunities continue to come my way. The sponsors bought my plane ticket, spent a lot of money to put Jim and I up at the Omni Berkshire on West 52 Street and apparently read a lot of what I write every day. We're going to explore the power of blogging, Youtubing, Twitter on mobilizing public responses for serious social issues like health care, homelessness and housing. As the world gets smaller because of technology, we have the opportunity to grow closer.
It's a small step from the writing that I do every morning on my beloved back deck to corporate offices in New York City.
Who knew?
I love Broadway! Musical comedies are my favorites though I like musicals of all kinds. Pippin. Jesus Christ Superstar. Godspell. RENT. Spamalot. Hairspray (I went kicking and screaming but then there was Darlene Love in it and it doesn't get any cooler than her!). Cotton Patch Gospel. Don't Stop the Carnival. Avenue Q.
I could go on.
New York is always a head rush though I've grown fond of finding little taverns and neighborhood pups ... especially when the Giants or Jets are playing. That's always fun!
New York has no real concept of college football though. Once my son Jeremy, Melanie Finnachario and I ran like twenty-seven city blocks to catch the second half of a University of Georgia football game. Everybody else in the city was at the Metropolitan Museum of Art which is where we had been but ... UGA was playing so we found the one sports bar that was showing the game (Georgia beat Kentucky on a last minute field goal).
But I like running through Central Park because I'm always discovering these little hidden treasures. Once I literally ran into Yoko Ono on the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's death.
Ray's Pizza is really good! Once we were there and this homeless guy burst in the front door, held up his hand and screamed, "Don't worry kids! I'm the trash inspector!"
Then he buried his upper body in the trash can looking for ... I really don't know what he was looking for.
"Hey Timmy," said a kid sitting at the table beside ours, "what the heck's a trash inspector?"
"Beats me," said Timmy with a mouth full of pizza.
The entertainment in the subway stations are to die for. As is Ellen's Starlight Dinner where those who fail to pass the auditions on Broadway get jobs as singing waiters and waitresses.
Anyway, I'm here with Jim for a meeting with a book agent and another meeting concerning using social medal to solve problems like homelessness. The head of the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the National Coalition for the Homeless, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and a several philanthropists will be there.
Lunch is provided.
It is interesting to me that a year after leaving Union Mission these opportunities continue to come my way. The sponsors bought my plane ticket, spent a lot of money to put Jim and I up at the Omni Berkshire on West 52 Street and apparently read a lot of what I write every day. We're going to explore the power of blogging, Youtubing, Twitter on mobilizing public responses for serious social issues like health care, homelessness and housing. As the world gets smaller because of technology, we have the opportunity to grow closer.
It's a small step from the writing that I do every morning on my beloved back deck to corporate offices in New York City.
Who knew?
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Rain Kissed Night
Lately, I've fallen in love with Tybee Island again. As someone who has lived on this clump of sand for over two decades you might think I would have grown weary of it or its lost luster. If anything my love of the east coast's eastern most island has deepened immensely. I love it now more than I ever have and it's becoming blurry with St. Martin which is the other island that I love so much.
It all started when I was a kid and Mom and Dad would stuff us in the car and bring us to the island and I can still remember the excitement of seeing the ocean as we rounded the big curve ... diamonds sprinkled from the sun danced on the sea. The little boy in me remains very much alive over such sights.
Years later, I would visit my folks from Louisville where I was living and leave everyone to drive out to Tybee. I would go to the old "Veranda Restaurant" with its view of the ocean and the "Texas Tower", drink coffee and write. Those first books came from a journal that I'd started but the ocean taught me to turn stories into song like things.
At this time Mom and Dad lived at "The Landings" which is like yuppie/retiree Disney Land for golfers, yachting and tennis players. Everything about the place is wonderful. I would leave it at daylight every morning and drive to Tybee or the Redneck Reveria as it was called then. People dress really nice at "The Landings" ... or 598'ers as they are referred to here but there are girls in bikinis on Tybee. There was no competition whatsoever for me.
When I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" it was really just a love letter to this place. Matt Hutton gave Tybee the best description ever ... which I stole and used it throughout the book ... "it's Mayberry on Acid".
Gordo, of the Samuel Adams band ... who play damn good live music on the island ... calls it "Mayberry by the beach" which is true ... but there is some sprinkling of fairy dust of some kind that transforms it all into something else.
There is a craziness to the place. I know ... most islands have it ... as my friend Jane Fishman once told me "Micheal it's an island, everybody is either running to, or running from, something."
I've been to a lot of islands. Tybee is different from them all!
These days a lot of people ... the Tybee City Manager, the City Council and other reprobates are trying to change it. For example, another city went out of business and we bought all of their stop signs at bargain prices. There are frigging Stop Signs every three feet on this island! You can no longer camp on the beach. Building a fire will get you a life sentence. Taking your dog on the beach is a $300 fine. The police no longer drive you home if you drank too much and they will even arrest YOU if your bicycle got drunk.
But in spite of such things ... well ... it remains magical.
Last night I sat with arms of love wrapped around me, surrounded by people I love dearly, with Chelsea my daughter freshly back from Europe (and styling white). Stars danced on the water. Italian shots made us all fill warm. Sam Adams played music. A harmonica appeared out of nowhere and Dedra sang the blues.
It was all ... spectacular.
An incredibly wonderful evening!
When I came home I was warm and tingly from the night.
Then it rained.
And I walked out on the beloved back deck, blew Fran's thousand shades of green covered in the blankets of darkness a kiss ... and danced.
It all started when I was a kid and Mom and Dad would stuff us in the car and bring us to the island and I can still remember the excitement of seeing the ocean as we rounded the big curve ... diamonds sprinkled from the sun danced on the sea. The little boy in me remains very much alive over such sights.
Years later, I would visit my folks from Louisville where I was living and leave everyone to drive out to Tybee. I would go to the old "Veranda Restaurant" with its view of the ocean and the "Texas Tower", drink coffee and write. Those first books came from a journal that I'd started but the ocean taught me to turn stories into song like things.
At this time Mom and Dad lived at "The Landings" which is like yuppie/retiree Disney Land for golfers, yachting and tennis players. Everything about the place is wonderful. I would leave it at daylight every morning and drive to Tybee or the Redneck Reveria as it was called then. People dress really nice at "The Landings" ... or 598'ers as they are referred to here but there are girls in bikinis on Tybee. There was no competition whatsoever for me.
When I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" it was really just a love letter to this place. Matt Hutton gave Tybee the best description ever ... which I stole and used it throughout the book ... "it's Mayberry on Acid".
Gordo, of the Samuel Adams band ... who play damn good live music on the island ... calls it "Mayberry by the beach" which is true ... but there is some sprinkling of fairy dust of some kind that transforms it all into something else.
There is a craziness to the place. I know ... most islands have it ... as my friend Jane Fishman once told me "Micheal it's an island, everybody is either running to, or running from, something."
I've been to a lot of islands. Tybee is different from them all!
These days a lot of people ... the Tybee City Manager, the City Council and other reprobates are trying to change it. For example, another city went out of business and we bought all of their stop signs at bargain prices. There are frigging Stop Signs every three feet on this island! You can no longer camp on the beach. Building a fire will get you a life sentence. Taking your dog on the beach is a $300 fine. The police no longer drive you home if you drank too much and they will even arrest YOU if your bicycle got drunk.
But in spite of such things ... well ... it remains magical.
Last night I sat with arms of love wrapped around me, surrounded by people I love dearly, with Chelsea my daughter freshly back from Europe (and styling white). Stars danced on the water. Italian shots made us all fill warm. Sam Adams played music. A harmonica appeared out of nowhere and Dedra sang the blues.
It was all ... spectacular.
An incredibly wonderful evening!
When I came home I was warm and tingly from the night.
Then it rained.
And I walked out on the beloved back deck, blew Fran's thousand shades of green covered in the blankets of darkness a kiss ... and danced.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Universal Question
Life gets in the way sometimes.
"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans," John Lennon said.
Life is messy.
It's freaking wonderful.
Sometimes life is unbearable.
Occasionally you just laugh at it.
I've settled into this routine. Wake up ... fall in the shower ... ride my bike to the Breakfast Club ... walk Goddess .... run the beach ... walk Goddess again drinking Gator-aid while I cool down ... water the flowers ... baptize myself in the holiness of the outdoor shower ... move to the beloved back deck and write ... post ... go to work in a virtual world ... take a break for the Bored meeting (if I'm not in town or traveling) ... go back to work in a virtual world ... wait for Goddess to nudge me that it's time to take her for another walk (unless Dedra's on island then it is afternoon delight swim time now that she has upgraded her accommodations) ... take Goddess for aforementioned walk ... contemplate dinner ... take a bike ride ... go back to work in a virtual world ... then sit on the beloved back deck into the night.
Today ... that all got messed up.
Actually it started last night. Rocky disrupted my bike ride but we sat and talked as friends do so it was good. Then Tracy Thompson who was my partner in SABHC, health care and she rose from the dead and called me and we talked and talked catching one another up as good friends do. As I was falling asleep Esther called and we talked until 1:30 in the morning. I normally don't do stuff like that but I love Esther.
This morning it continued. Dedra suddenly remembered all ten commandments and how many she's broken. Chelsea my baby girl came back from six months in Europe and is still on London time where it's two in the afternoon so she's actually up in the morning wanting to talk. Carlos from St. Martin texted to talk. Esther calls back, and like Chelsea, I'm stunned that she's awake. This all happens at the same time!
It's all cool.
I'm having a good time. These are the people I love.
Then Dave Buck calls. This is work intruding on my personal time. The universe is suddenly off kilter.
I'm being punished for my sins! (Actually I've broken far more commandments than Dedra has ... some repeatedly!)
We talk for an hour about ... work!!!!
I stare at the clock. I'm supposed to be at Bar Church. God needs me. Dave Buck won't let me go.
Hmmmm... God? Dave Buck? God Dave Buck?
I ask myself the universal question repeatedly.
Then Dave Buck hangs up and I immediately ...
call Esther ...
We finish.
I'm late for Bar Church.
God forgive me.
Wait!
Never mind God ...
You're the one who sent all of this other stuff anyway...
Thanks.
I think you're great!
"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans," John Lennon said.
Life is messy.
It's freaking wonderful.
Sometimes life is unbearable.
Occasionally you just laugh at it.
I've settled into this routine. Wake up ... fall in the shower ... ride my bike to the Breakfast Club ... walk Goddess .... run the beach ... walk Goddess again drinking Gator-aid while I cool down ... water the flowers ... baptize myself in the holiness of the outdoor shower ... move to the beloved back deck and write ... post ... go to work in a virtual world ... take a break for the Bored meeting (if I'm not in town or traveling) ... go back to work in a virtual world ... wait for Goddess to nudge me that it's time to take her for another walk (unless Dedra's on island then it is afternoon delight swim time now that she has upgraded her accommodations) ... take Goddess for aforementioned walk ... contemplate dinner ... take a bike ride ... go back to work in a virtual world ... then sit on the beloved back deck into the night.
Today ... that all got messed up.
Actually it started last night. Rocky disrupted my bike ride but we sat and talked as friends do so it was good. Then Tracy Thompson who was my partner in SABHC, health care and she rose from the dead and called me and we talked and talked catching one another up as good friends do. As I was falling asleep Esther called and we talked until 1:30 in the morning. I normally don't do stuff like that but I love Esther.
This morning it continued. Dedra suddenly remembered all ten commandments and how many she's broken. Chelsea my baby girl came back from six months in Europe and is still on London time where it's two in the afternoon so she's actually up in the morning wanting to talk. Carlos from St. Martin texted to talk. Esther calls back, and like Chelsea, I'm stunned that she's awake. This all happens at the same time!
It's all cool.
I'm having a good time. These are the people I love.
Then Dave Buck calls. This is work intruding on my personal time. The universe is suddenly off kilter.
I'm being punished for my sins! (Actually I've broken far more commandments than Dedra has ... some repeatedly!)
We talk for an hour about ... work!!!!
I stare at the clock. I'm supposed to be at Bar Church. God needs me. Dave Buck won't let me go.
Hmmmm... God? Dave Buck? God Dave Buck?
I ask myself the universal question repeatedly.
Then Dave Buck hangs up and I immediately ...
call Esther ...
We finish.
I'm late for Bar Church.
God forgive me.
Wait!
Never mind God ...
You're the one who sent all of this other stuff anyway...
Thanks.
I think you're great!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Waves of Creation
Once I get to the southern most beach, the sand turns soft because the tide no longer comes that high. It used to flood this entire area to the sand dunes but, sand dunes move and they are now way out in the Back River. Running on wet dried compacted sand is pretty easy. Running through the soft stuff is one hell of a work out!
It's been this way for months now ... until today. The tide found its way back to the dunes and the run was easier. The ocean is calm, the sky is deep blue, a breeze blows from the north lessening the heat dripping from the sun. It is a Chamber of Commerce picture post card day.
I find myself staring at how the beach has changed. I find it amazing that the beach changes a little bit every single day yet somehow remains more or less the same too. The sun and the sea are forever sculpting and molding the beach as though it is an almost finished painting that is not quite done. Today the artist has wiped out an entire corner of the canvas and thrown up something entirely different from what it was yesterday.
"We know," St. Paul says, "that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of child birth right up until this present time ... Not only so, but we ourselves ..."
I've always loved this. Creation isn't done yet ... it groans as though a baby is being born ... it hurts like hell sometimes and no matter how you breath ... you end up screaming. And it's not just that way at the beginning of our lives ... it's right up to this present time.
We are still being created.
We are still creating ourselves.
In Hebrew (I know the New Testament is in Greek but they thought in Hebrew and wrote in Aramaic) it reads "Creation groans for its completion ..."
I think that's closer to the truth. We all want to be completed.
But we're not.
Life is messy. We rock and roll along then the tides change and chunks of what we believed, what we did or who we were are washed away. And we are left ... changed ... changing ... always in the present tense.
We groan for completion but we're never complete.
I read once that the first step a baby takes is away from the parent who loves her so. She may turn around and come back but ... it's only to leave again. As time passes, the steps become more confident, the walks longer, the destinations greater. Then the child is gone and the mother is left alone.
Quite the analogy huh?
If we're not forever participating in the ongoing creation of ourselves ... well ... we get left behind. Alone. Forget about the rapture and those silly people forever setting dates for Jesus to come riding down on a cloud pissed off because he was crucified and now ready to take revenge ...
Being left behind is when you stop participating with God in your creation. God doesn't do it if we're not participating. Today we need to be more than we were yesterday.
I know lots of people who are stuck in yesterday. They want to keep things the way that they were ... or are ... but that is not life. Life is forever being molded and sculpted. We're either participating or we're not.
So this morning I stopped my run, took my shoes, headband and I-pod and left them in the sand. Then I rode the waves helping to mold the sand into whatever it's going to become today. Just like I'm working with God as "WE" mold my life.
It was cool and refreshing.
Like creation always is.
It's been this way for months now ... until today. The tide found its way back to the dunes and the run was easier. The ocean is calm, the sky is deep blue, a breeze blows from the north lessening the heat dripping from the sun. It is a Chamber of Commerce picture post card day.
I find myself staring at how the beach has changed. I find it amazing that the beach changes a little bit every single day yet somehow remains more or less the same too. The sun and the sea are forever sculpting and molding the beach as though it is an almost finished painting that is not quite done. Today the artist has wiped out an entire corner of the canvas and thrown up something entirely different from what it was yesterday.
"We know," St. Paul says, "that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of child birth right up until this present time ... Not only so, but we ourselves ..."
I've always loved this. Creation isn't done yet ... it groans as though a baby is being born ... it hurts like hell sometimes and no matter how you breath ... you end up screaming. And it's not just that way at the beginning of our lives ... it's right up to this present time.
We are still being created.
We are still creating ourselves.
In Hebrew (I know the New Testament is in Greek but they thought in Hebrew and wrote in Aramaic) it reads "Creation groans for its completion ..."
I think that's closer to the truth. We all want to be completed.
But we're not.
Life is messy. We rock and roll along then the tides change and chunks of what we believed, what we did or who we were are washed away. And we are left ... changed ... changing ... always in the present tense.
We groan for completion but we're never complete.
I read once that the first step a baby takes is away from the parent who loves her so. She may turn around and come back but ... it's only to leave again. As time passes, the steps become more confident, the walks longer, the destinations greater. Then the child is gone and the mother is left alone.
Quite the analogy huh?
If we're not forever participating in the ongoing creation of ourselves ... well ... we get left behind. Alone. Forget about the rapture and those silly people forever setting dates for Jesus to come riding down on a cloud pissed off because he was crucified and now ready to take revenge ...
Being left behind is when you stop participating with God in your creation. God doesn't do it if we're not participating. Today we need to be more than we were yesterday.
I know lots of people who are stuck in yesterday. They want to keep things the way that they were ... or are ... but that is not life. Life is forever being molded and sculpted. We're either participating or we're not.
So this morning I stopped my run, took my shoes, headband and I-pod and left them in the sand. Then I rode the waves helping to mold the sand into whatever it's going to become today. Just like I'm working with God as "WE" mold my life.
It was cool and refreshing.
Like creation always is.
Monday, June 13, 2011
The Love of Charles
"Do you need to get in?" the large black man asked me from inside of the courtyard at Grace House last night. It's been painted since I built it all of those years ago. Savannah's big on private courtyards in the historic district and I thought homeless people deserved their own so got a $30,000 grant and had it built. I remember someone wrote a letter to the editor wanting to know if I would be using tax payer dollars to build homeless people a swimming pool next ... I always meant to do that.
"That would be helpful," I replied.
"I'll have to get the manager," he said as though he could care less.
A tall, handsome black man with glasses came swinging keys. I used to call them "Night Nazis" back in the early days because the power of being in charge went to their heads and they often took advantage of people.
"We're full," he said still swinging the keys.
"Really?," I replied. Tell me something that I don't know. Grace House has been full since we built it in 1987.
"What's your name?" I asked and he seemed startled.
"Keith Black," he said loudly.
"Hey Keith, I'm Micheal Elliott," and this obviously meant nothing to him.
"I'm actually here to see Charles," I told him.
He looked me over more carefully. Wearing black running shorts, a "St. Martin Drinking Team" tee shirt, flip flops and a UGA baseball cap, I could have passed for homeless ... but I wasn't acting homeless. I was acting like I owned the place.
"I'll get him for you Mr. Elliott," he said disappearing inside leaving me outside of the locked gate.
I looked over my shoulder at Dedra who was driving my convertible. We'd taken Jim Withers to the airport and on the spur of the moment driving back I decided to show her some of Union Mission which she's heard about but never seen. She gave me a thumbs up. I shrugged my shoulders.
Then I made another spur of the moment decision. I needed to see Charles, my former bank robbing, African-American, mentally ill adopted son. For ten years we'd taken care of one another. We love one another dearly and I've only seen him a few times in the past year though he sends me messages through other people. They are all formal but they end the same ... "I miss you," he says ... like I miss him.
Then he stumbled out of the glass doors that I had put in because the last thing homeless people need is more darkness in their lives. He looked like shit! He always looks bad but I was not prepared for what I saw.
He duct tapes his pants but has now discovered safety pins and there must have been a thousand of them in the same dirty green pants that he wore when I left. His hair hasn't been cut in months. Every three months we would send him to get a haircut, meaning it got shaved. Every quarter I would also give him $100 and send him shopping for new clothes. He didn't always wear them but he had them and always showed me the receipts.
He walked out with his eyes half-closed like he always does with his hand on top of his head. Someone wanted to see him. When he got to the gate his eyes opened wide.
"Hello Sir," he said in his deep voice and I though I would cry.
"Hey Charles," said. "Open the goddamn gate," I told Keith.
He fumbled for keys and did. Charles came out and we hugged one another. I introduced him to Dedra.
"Hello Mam," he said. "Is this your fiancee Sir?" he asked.
"No Charles, she's my friend," and I reached up to put my arm around his shoulders and we walked down the sidewalk that I'd demanded the city put in because homeless deserve sidewalks too.
"What's up with your hair Charles?," I asked rubbing my fingers through the puffy soft black curls.
"I'm growing an Afro Sir," he said.
"Seriously?" I said now with his hair grease on my hand. "They don't send you for haircuts anymore?"
"Ms. Andrea Holmes handles my money," he said as way of explanation."Do you know her?"
"Joy doesn't," I asked. "I know Andrea."
His eyes half closed again and his hand went to the top of his head and he shook his head from side to side.
He reached down and hugged me. "I love you Sir," he said loudly.
I cried.
"I love you too Charles," I said on my tiptoes trying to hug him back.
Then the visit was over. He went back inside and Keith locked the gate. Dedra drove me back to Tybee. I was quiet and emotional. On the beloved back deck I talked on the phone but was having a tough time with it. My friend was too. She told me that I needed a hug and she was right but there were no hugs last night.
I said on the phone last night that he may have been a mistake to see him but in the light of today ... it wasn't. I told someone who I love dearly that I love him. And he told me too.
And none of us do that enough.
"That would be helpful," I replied.
"I'll have to get the manager," he said as though he could care less.
A tall, handsome black man with glasses came swinging keys. I used to call them "Night Nazis" back in the early days because the power of being in charge went to their heads and they often took advantage of people.
"We're full," he said still swinging the keys.
"Really?," I replied. Tell me something that I don't know. Grace House has been full since we built it in 1987.
"What's your name?" I asked and he seemed startled.
"Keith Black," he said loudly.
"Hey Keith, I'm Micheal Elliott," and this obviously meant nothing to him.
"I'm actually here to see Charles," I told him.
He looked me over more carefully. Wearing black running shorts, a "St. Martin Drinking Team" tee shirt, flip flops and a UGA baseball cap, I could have passed for homeless ... but I wasn't acting homeless. I was acting like I owned the place.
"I'll get him for you Mr. Elliott," he said disappearing inside leaving me outside of the locked gate.
I looked over my shoulder at Dedra who was driving my convertible. We'd taken Jim Withers to the airport and on the spur of the moment driving back I decided to show her some of Union Mission which she's heard about but never seen. She gave me a thumbs up. I shrugged my shoulders.
Then I made another spur of the moment decision. I needed to see Charles, my former bank robbing, African-American, mentally ill adopted son. For ten years we'd taken care of one another. We love one another dearly and I've only seen him a few times in the past year though he sends me messages through other people. They are all formal but they end the same ... "I miss you," he says ... like I miss him.
Then he stumbled out of the glass doors that I had put in because the last thing homeless people need is more darkness in their lives. He looked like shit! He always looks bad but I was not prepared for what I saw.
He duct tapes his pants but has now discovered safety pins and there must have been a thousand of them in the same dirty green pants that he wore when I left. His hair hasn't been cut in months. Every three months we would send him to get a haircut, meaning it got shaved. Every quarter I would also give him $100 and send him shopping for new clothes. He didn't always wear them but he had them and always showed me the receipts.
He walked out with his eyes half-closed like he always does with his hand on top of his head. Someone wanted to see him. When he got to the gate his eyes opened wide.
"Hello Sir," he said in his deep voice and I though I would cry.
"Hey Charles," said. "Open the goddamn gate," I told Keith.
He fumbled for keys and did. Charles came out and we hugged one another. I introduced him to Dedra.
"Hello Mam," he said. "Is this your fiancee Sir?" he asked.
"No Charles, she's my friend," and I reached up to put my arm around his shoulders and we walked down the sidewalk that I'd demanded the city put in because homeless deserve sidewalks too.
"What's up with your hair Charles?," I asked rubbing my fingers through the puffy soft black curls.
"I'm growing an Afro Sir," he said.
"Seriously?" I said now with his hair grease on my hand. "They don't send you for haircuts anymore?"
"Ms. Andrea Holmes handles my money," he said as way of explanation."Do you know her?"
"Joy doesn't," I asked. "I know Andrea."
His eyes half closed again and his hand went to the top of his head and he shook his head from side to side.
He reached down and hugged me. "I love you Sir," he said loudly.
I cried.
"I love you too Charles," I said on my tiptoes trying to hug him back.
Then the visit was over. He went back inside and Keith locked the gate. Dedra drove me back to Tybee. I was quiet and emotional. On the beloved back deck I talked on the phone but was having a tough time with it. My friend was too. She told me that I needed a hug and she was right but there were no hugs last night.
I said on the phone last night that he may have been a mistake to see him but in the light of today ... it wasn't. I told someone who I love dearly that I love him. And he told me too.
And none of us do that enough.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Intentional Friendship
On Friday I had lunch with my dear friend Ben Barnes and Herb McKenzie. Ben has been relentless in tracking me down, pinning me down for a date and forcing me to leave Tybee and drive to Johnny Harris’ Restaurant. Ben is in his nineties, a retired God of the Banking industry, former Chairman of the Board of Union Mission and my friend. Herb is retired from the pharmaceutical industry, is a bear of a man, and also a former Board chair.
We greeted one another with hugs and smiles.
Herb and I drank a beer while Ben ordered iced sweet tea. We talked about what each of us has been up to, Union Mission of course, and then a bunch of old stories of things that we’d done. It was a wonderful time in Savannah when I’m not really into leaving the island these days except to drive to the airport.
And it was intentional on Ben’s part.
His friendship with me … and with Herb … is very … intentional.
I think that all friendships are intentional.
They take work. Someone initiates. Someone reacts. Then it flips and ends up being equal.
Most have life spans. They might last forever but not in the same way.
We change as individuals and it ends up impacting the relationships that we are in.
My dear friend Guy and I haven’t actually spoken in years though we keep on with one another because of the miracle of Face Book and the Internet. I would not be me without Guy. He’s the one who “called” me to go to Seminary. We were very intense with one another in college and during the first part of Seminary. Then he went on to become who he is and I went on to become who I am. We love one another for the contributions we made to one another but we are no longer intentional about our friendship.
I can say the same thing about a lot of other friends who were very significant to me but our lives have taken us away from one another. For whatever reason … we are no longer … intentional about our friendship.
At the same time you throw Guy and I in the same room unexpectedly in a room at the same time and after a few awkward moments we would fall right back into the ways that we used to be with one another.
I really learned this with my friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch. We all went to college together then took several decades apart before hooking back up on Face Book. I hosted a reunion at my house and within one hour we were all the way that they were in college. Over the past year we have become very intentional with one another … communicating most every day ... seeing one another often ... enjoying us again.
Today my friend the famous Dr. Jim Withers is sitting across the table from me. Earlier he was at the Breakfast Club with me and met my extended family there along with Dave and Sandi. When we left I was explaining to Jim how we’re all very intentional with one another.
“Intentional friendship?” he asked.
And it made me stop dead in my tracks.
“They really are aren’t they?” I answered.
Back home we took Goddess for a walk and he was commenting about how everyone on this clump of sand seems to be good friends.
I laughed. “Well we all know one another.”
In a bit, a group of us are going to get in the water of the Back River and float to the Crab Shack. I will be with the very famous Dr. Jim Withers, Dedra from college and Jodee and Cheryl from the island … a strange collision of friends from different times and places … who are all together now.
Very intentionally so.
We greeted one another with hugs and smiles.
Herb and I drank a beer while Ben ordered iced sweet tea. We talked about what each of us has been up to, Union Mission of course, and then a bunch of old stories of things that we’d done. It was a wonderful time in Savannah when I’m not really into leaving the island these days except to drive to the airport.
And it was intentional on Ben’s part.
His friendship with me … and with Herb … is very … intentional.
I think that all friendships are intentional.
They take work. Someone initiates. Someone reacts. Then it flips and ends up being equal.
Most have life spans. They might last forever but not in the same way.
We change as individuals and it ends up impacting the relationships that we are in.
My dear friend Guy and I haven’t actually spoken in years though we keep on with one another because of the miracle of Face Book and the Internet. I would not be me without Guy. He’s the one who “called” me to go to Seminary. We were very intense with one another in college and during the first part of Seminary. Then he went on to become who he is and I went on to become who I am. We love one another for the contributions we made to one another but we are no longer intentional about our friendship.
I can say the same thing about a lot of other friends who were very significant to me but our lives have taken us away from one another. For whatever reason … we are no longer … intentional about our friendship.
At the same time you throw Guy and I in the same room unexpectedly in a room at the same time and after a few awkward moments we would fall right back into the ways that we used to be with one another.
I really learned this with my friends Dedra, Mark and Mitch. We all went to college together then took several decades apart before hooking back up on Face Book. I hosted a reunion at my house and within one hour we were all the way that they were in college. Over the past year we have become very intentional with one another … communicating most every day ... seeing one another often ... enjoying us again.
Today my friend the famous Dr. Jim Withers is sitting across the table from me. Earlier he was at the Breakfast Club with me and met my extended family there along with Dave and Sandi. When we left I was explaining to Jim how we’re all very intentional with one another.
“Intentional friendship?” he asked.
And it made me stop dead in my tracks.
“They really are aren’t they?” I answered.
Back home we took Goddess for a walk and he was commenting about how everyone on this clump of sand seems to be good friends.
I laughed. “Well we all know one another.”
In a bit, a group of us are going to get in the water of the Back River and float to the Crab Shack. I will be with the very famous Dr. Jim Withers, Dedra from college and Jodee and Cheryl from the island … a strange collision of friends from different times and places … who are all together now.
Very intentionally so.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Would be Stalker
The famous Dr. Jim Withers is a tremendous human being for many reasons but his ability to plan is not one of them; Hence his decision to fly into the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) at 9:40 on a Friday night to come visit me. It is a 45 minute drive to and from the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) from Tybee Island where Sam and Gordon play damn good live music on Friday nights. Hence my decision to have the famous Dr. Withers take a cab to my house.
I waited on the famous Dr. Withers with Goddess on the beloved back deck. Around 11:00 he showed up and we talked and caught up as good friends do. Then I told him it was passed my bed time and left him on the beloved back deck and went to sleep.
When I got up, he got this morning.
“You going running?” he asked.
I don’t know why he would ask such a stupid question. Just because I wore running shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes is no reason to jump to logical conclusions … but he’s a doctor … they do such things.
“No,” I scoffed, “I’m going to the Breakfast Club.”
“It’s too early to eat,” he said scratching his head still trying to wake up.
“Who’s eating?” I replied. “Come on.”
So he got ready and we stumbled in the door marked “Exit-Only” and took our seat at the Counter. A bit later the place opened, quickly filled and this dark haired woman in a bathing seat took the stool next to mine.
Philip, who has red hair, is seven feet tall, and is the master of toast and garnishment at the Breakfast Club said hello and asked me who my friend was.
“This is the famous Dr. Jim Withers,” I announced to the counter. “He is the subject of the movie ‘One Bridge to the Next.’”
“Really,” Philip said as though he was impressed. “I love paying taxes to build bridges so that people can have homes under them.”
Jim looked at him, then looked at me and then looked at him again. “That’s pretty good,” he laughed.
(In truth, Phil and I planned this whole exchange last night when I stopped into the Club and visited with him while he prepped for this morning.)
“You are in a movie,” bikini girl asked between bites of a cheese omelet, grits and dry toast?
Jim nodded then told the counter that it’s about providing health care to people who live under bridges. Philip and I were laughing at one another’s incredible senses of humor.
Then Jim went on to have a serious discussion with those to his left. I sat to his right. Bikini girl sat right of me.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I help him,” I answered.
She asked several questions about street medicine, homelessness, and health care.
Then she told me that she’s from Atlanta, loves God, and thinks that our ministry is great.
“You should call it ‘Bridges of Hope’” she told me.
“Thanks,” I said.
Then she went on to explain how the world is coming to an end in 2020 but most people don’t know that because the stars and planets are going to align in 2003.
This will result in tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, and uncooked Chicken McNuggets. But you have to add the Holy number 7 to it and that’s how you know when the master plan is really going to be finished.
She is a very attractive bikini clad woman sitting there talking to me. She is also an idiot.
My friend Nance the waitress heard all of this, slams her ticket in front of her and says “You’re finished!”
Then Nance looks at me and mouths, “You owe me.”
“You live here?” attractive bikini idiot asks.
“I do.”
Where?
Pointing my thumb over my over my shoulder I show her that way.
“Do you have a place to rent? I’m sick of staying in a hotel,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“Do you ever let people stay with you?” she asks leaning into me.
“I don’t,” I tell her.
“Here’s my name and phone number,” she says writing it on a napkin before paying and leaving.
Nance grabs the napkin. “I’ll take care of that for you,” she explains, “you have enough stalkers.” Then she throws it away.
Jim looks at me.
I shrug my shoulders and the day begins.
I waited on the famous Dr. Withers with Goddess on the beloved back deck. Around 11:00 he showed up and we talked and caught up as good friends do. Then I told him it was passed my bed time and left him on the beloved back deck and went to sleep.
When I got up, he got this morning.
“You going running?” he asked.
I don’t know why he would ask such a stupid question. Just because I wore running shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes is no reason to jump to logical conclusions … but he’s a doctor … they do such things.
“No,” I scoffed, “I’m going to the Breakfast Club.”
“It’s too early to eat,” he said scratching his head still trying to wake up.
“Who’s eating?” I replied. “Come on.”
So he got ready and we stumbled in the door marked “Exit-Only” and took our seat at the Counter. A bit later the place opened, quickly filled and this dark haired woman in a bathing seat took the stool next to mine.
Philip, who has red hair, is seven feet tall, and is the master of toast and garnishment at the Breakfast Club said hello and asked me who my friend was.
“This is the famous Dr. Jim Withers,” I announced to the counter. “He is the subject of the movie ‘One Bridge to the Next.’”
“Really,” Philip said as though he was impressed. “I love paying taxes to build bridges so that people can have homes under them.”
Jim looked at him, then looked at me and then looked at him again. “That’s pretty good,” he laughed.
(In truth, Phil and I planned this whole exchange last night when I stopped into the Club and visited with him while he prepped for this morning.)
“You are in a movie,” bikini girl asked between bites of a cheese omelet, grits and dry toast?
Jim nodded then told the counter that it’s about providing health care to people who live under bridges. Philip and I were laughing at one another’s incredible senses of humor.
Then Jim went on to have a serious discussion with those to his left. I sat to his right. Bikini girl sat right of me.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I help him,” I answered.
She asked several questions about street medicine, homelessness, and health care.
Then she told me that she’s from Atlanta, loves God, and thinks that our ministry is great.
“You should call it ‘Bridges of Hope’” she told me.
“Thanks,” I said.
Then she went on to explain how the world is coming to an end in 2020 but most people don’t know that because the stars and planets are going to align in 2003.
This will result in tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, and uncooked Chicken McNuggets. But you have to add the Holy number 7 to it and that’s how you know when the master plan is really going to be finished.
She is a very attractive bikini clad woman sitting there talking to me. She is also an idiot.
My friend Nance the waitress heard all of this, slams her ticket in front of her and says “You’re finished!”
Then Nance looks at me and mouths, “You owe me.”
“You live here?” attractive bikini idiot asks.
“I do.”
Where?
Pointing my thumb over my over my shoulder I show her that way.
“Do you have a place to rent? I’m sick of staying in a hotel,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“Do you ever let people stay with you?” she asks leaning into me.
“I don’t,” I tell her.
“Here’s my name and phone number,” she says writing it on a napkin before paying and leaving.
Nance grabs the napkin. “I’ll take care of that for you,” she explains, “you have enough stalkers.” Then she throws it away.
Jim looks at me.
I shrug my shoulders and the day begins.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Tomorrow
“Does it seem like a year,” she asked me.
I pressed my index finger to my lips which is something that I do when I think. My hair’s getting long enough in the back again where I can also tug on it. I ponder her question.
“No,” I finally answered. “It’s funny because the Sabbatical seems likes its been a year but the resignation from Union Mission doesn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
My fingers go back to my lips and I take my time. “Probably because there are still unresolved issues that I have with certain people associated with it all.”
There was a story in yesterday’s Savannah Morning News about me. It was one year since the last story they did on me. Obviously they didn’t want me to know because my paper wasn’t delivered yesterday.
I did get all of these strange texts yesterday morning congratulating me though I had no idea what they were cheering about. Then I called my Mom for something and she said, “Nice story.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me.
At lunch with a friend, there was a discarded newspaper on the bar. She grabbed it and there I was … as I looked twenty years ago.
I’m old new so they used an old photograph.
We busted out laughing at the headline; “Pastor Goes Nationwide” like I’d sold my soul to an insurance company.
I don’t know who chooses the headlines for the Savannah Morning News but I figure that marijuana is involved. There have been some great ones! But … the fact of the matter is I haven’t pastored a church since the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel a few decades ago. I do have the “Rev” title in front of my name so I image whoever it was took a toke while writing his insurance check and came up with the headline.
We really didn’t read the article because we were laughing so hard. Apparently I had a heyday which is passed. Then the last thing you do is always the one thing that anybody remembers so the story ended with that. I’d lost my mind and decided to reform behavioral health in the state of Georgia. Who knew the whole damn system is run by crazy people? Mean crazy people!
Anyway they whipped my ass and that was the last part of the article.
Later I read the online version where marijuana use is obviously not involved in the choosing of headlines; “Elliott to tackle health care nationally.” That’s closer to what I’m actually doing these days.
“If you want to get together to talk about the future,” said the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … Jerry Rainey,” fine otherwise I have no interest in the past.”
It made me think of Jim Jones and his Kool-Aid. “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Of course the Board member who chooses to remain anonymous, Jerry Rainey, did go to Auburn.
I was in St. Martin last year when that last article came out. Nothing about the way I left Union Mission was handled right but … it happened that way. Personally I was burned out and was long overdue for a Sabbatical which the leadership didn’t want me to take. I made the mistake of listening to them … when they were wrong.
Priests and Nuns take Sabbaticals. They rotate the military so that you’re in the front lines too much lest you crack up (our military leadership seems to have forgotten this). Teachers need breaks from the students.
For thirty one years I was in the front lines with only one break and that was when I was in a serious accident and had many broken bones.
I only have one regret of my years at Union Mission. I didn’t take that Sabbatical when I knew I was sliding into burn-out. I listened to the wise men and sages. Because I didn’t listen to myself, I went from burn out to crash-and-burn which really sucks. And if you’ve never been there … you will one day … be it a marriage, a job, a lifelong commitment going sour ... it’ll happen.
Then everybody disagreed about everything and anyone is replaceable at any given time and it was time for me to go anyway … so I went. Keller Deal extended my stay. Conner threw a party. Joe Daniel called demanding to know “what in the hell was going on”? Skutch called wanting the last interview. I spent a lot of time snorkeling to the reef reminding myself that God created this order.
The fish and the stingrays do things in certain ways. They listen to themselves … eating when they need to … swimming in certain formations … reacting to the tides … scurrying from humans.
But we humans … we don’t listen to ourselves to good. We listen to others … one another … wise men and sages who are not really wise and don’t really think … about anything other than themselves … at our expense.
But you know what?
It’s all good. I like what I’m doing and know that it is going to make a difference to a lot of people. The house I’ve lived in is becoming another kind of home. I know who my friends really are and who just pretends.
But I don’t forget the past. It is what it is. I’ve done what I’ve done.
Tomorrow however, I will be what I will be.
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.
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.
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