It takes so long my Lord

"I really want to see you Lord but it takes so long my Lord ..."

So lamented the major prophet George Harrison and I think he hit it squarely on the head for most of us.

Regardless of if you're Christian or not, a church goer or not, even if you're a believer or not ... when it comes down to it, the thing we want the most seems furthest out of reach. What we want of course is God.

What we get is religion.

No matter how fervent our faith, regardless of the depths of our devotion, the passion of our prayers or the consistency of our commitment ... each and every one of reaches a point where it takes so long my Lord.

Some of us just keep plowing right through, too damn stubborn to do it any other way. Worship, theology and dogma have been passed down all of these generations so it must be right. It was good enough for Mama so it's good enough for me. So we sit in the pew, waiting still while the preacher promises God's just around the corner.

Others say to hell with it! I did my part but God never came around. It's not like I didn't try either! After exploring the shallowness of the Christian church I moved on to Political Radicalism, Buddhism and finally Spirituality. You know what? It still takes so long my Lord.

In the end we either sit and wait or move on. When push comes to shove though ... life falls apart, loved ones die, divorce happens, betrayals hit our faces, there are wars and rumors of wars ... in spite of these things and regardless of our beliefs or non-beliefs ... I really want to see you Lord.

It is a wet Sunday morning. Severe storms warning drown out the prophets and the preachers. The sun is risen but darkness clouds the day. Plans for a happy celebration are dampened before they can begin.

Yet ... a lone bird is singing to the top of her tiny lungs this morning and I find myself listening. Her song is committed and consistent yet it knows no religion. She simply sings.

And I believe, sitting her alone and far from the places of worship, that it doesn't take so long after all.

Her Bucket List

"Hey Man," I said preparing to enter the ring. "Throw me off fast so my wife can get on. It's on her bucket list."

He looked at me questioning.

"It's not on my bucket list. I'm doing it for her."

He smiled as I climbed into the blow up farm with the mechanical bull. It took me several moments to climb on top of the thing but I did with the encouragement of my friends.

Franklin, who is brown, was screaming at me but I never understood anything he was saying.

His brother T.J., who is also brown, was calling me an old man and it is true that I was the oldest person who'd tried to stay on the white and black thing so far.

Grayson, who is white, shook his head and told me that I should be wearing my black running shorts like I always do.

Frank Shuman screamed, "Hold on! I need my camera! Don't start yet!"

It started and two seconds later I was bouncing on the inflatable cow field.

When I exited, Sarah entered and while she was climbing on bull, the man running the thing grabbed me by the shoulder.

"Hey man! You do your wife."

So I did.

"Sarah," I screamed as I began turning the knob that turned the bull.

"That's not fair," she screamed.

If she said anything else, I never heard her. I was laughing too hard as I controlled the bull up and down, twirled it to the left and then the right, forced it forward and backward. Then I got happy fingers and went a little crazy spinning it in circles.

A minute after she'd began, Sarah went flying in the direction of Franklin, who is brown. Jumping forward he gave no indication whatsoever of trying to catch her or help her up. He just stared at her expectantly.

"I was hoping her boobs would fall out of her shirt," he later explained.

They didn't so he drank another beer.

Now Sarah can cross another one off her bucket list.

As she does so, I notice that sky diving is next understanding for the first time that she's kept the bucket list from me until after we were married.

The Personal Pressure of Facebook

A few years ago, my son Jeremy, Bill Shearouse, Mark Berry and I solved all of the problems of the world on the landing at the Holiday Inn in Athens, Georgia but never told anyone. I was going to share that information in today's blog.

Last night, Johnny O and I figured out how to fix the broken political system in this country. All meetings of elected officials should be held in the nude. Each session should begin with a group hug ... at the local level all the way up to Congress. Given the country's problems I was going to write about that too.

Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and I once figured out world peace while being chased by Turkish Whores late one night in Prague and it's about time we told the world. I was going to go it today.

BUT ... my wife decided to use Facebook as a manipulative ploy to pressure me into taking her out on a date tonight!

She wrote, "Thinking that maybe with Facebook peer pressure I can convince Micheal Elliott that since I am going off island for the girls soccer practice tonight, we should both go and have an off island date. Support, please ;)"

There are several things I need to say before answering.

For those of you who don't know, "Off Island" is huge! Who the hell wants to go off island when you've spent your entire life trying to get ON Island! There's a certain lack of logic to the entire concept.

Second, it is "Mechanical Bull" bull night at Huck-A-Poo's!

Need I say anything else?

Now I'm distracted by all of these people posting that I'm a terrible husband, will go directly go to hell (though most imply I'm going anyway so it's no big deal) and I'm a selfish, self-centered pig.

I am not a pig.

What everyone doesn't know, because I never had the opportunity to share it, is I was already planning to surprise Sarah with a date. I was going to put on shoes and everything.

Sarah dresses really sexy on dates in tight short skirts and things from Victoria's Secrets so it's hard not to get excited. I've never noticed if she has shoes on or not because I'm preoccupied with other parts of her anatomy. So I was looking forward to surprising her with a date.

BUT NOOOOOOOO ........

Now it will look like I just caved into peer pressure.

Damn Facebook! 

Are you really where you want to be?

Finishing up lunch, the two of them launched into conversation about the health of their friends. The rest of us politely sat and listened draining the last of the sweet tea, dregs of wine and gulp of beer.

They will turn 70 soon and both still work full time. One is firmly entrenched as the patriarch of a family business where there is no retirement plan so he keeps working like he always has.

The other declared bankruptcy last year and has found new work as an independent assessor. Life is spent behind the wheel of his gas economic tiny car, driving across three different counties to get as many assessments done as possible in the course of a day. He is paid per assessment.

"Did you hear about Johnny?" one asked.

"No. What?"

"The cancer came back. They give three or four years."

"That's what they told Harry and he only lasted two months."

"Well, at least he's got a chance to get more things done. Better than Ray who keeps sliding in and out of Hospice."

It grew quiet for a moment and then one slapped the other saying with a laugh, "I told you we should have bought the damn yacht and sailed away. Now we're too damn old."

And that's how lunch ended as we followed one another outside to find our cars and drive in the different directions of our lives. My mind kept replaying their conversation as I made my way.

They kept meaning to buy that yacht and sail away but things kept getting in the way. There's always money to be made of course and family obligations are ever demanding. Baby always needs a new pair of shoes even though she moved to another city years ago. Times are always tough but one day soon the chance to sail away is going to come ... its just not today.

Then you wake up and you're old. Friends are dying. Managing your own health means the blood pressure is never at the right level. Aches and pains mount, everything takes longer than before and nothing's as fun as it used to be. Opportunities came but it never seemed the time was right to take them. The money's never quite right. Then things happen and all of the chances are gone.

"I told you we should have bought the damn yacht and sailed away!"

Life ... "is for each of us a series of crucial, precious and unrepeatable moments that are seeking to lead us somewhere," explains Frederick Buechner.

The question is where?

You're where you're at.

Is it where you really want to be?

As I drove I crossed the Thunderbolt Bridge and glanced down at the marina where boats to be sailed waited empty in their slips. The river meandered through the marsh towards the sea. The sun was bright, the winds lite and the waters calm.

It's a perfect day for sailing.

I found myself whispering a prayer.

"Hey God! Please touch everybody that feels like they've missed the boat. Tell them that it's never too late. Give the courage to change and the serenity to understand they'll disappoint somebody regardless of what they do. Grant the wisdom to know there's just this one life and if they don't sail away now, they never will."

Another not-so-great idea?

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

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

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

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

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


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

Another great idea gone bad.

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

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

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

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

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

Another great idea gone not-so-bad!

The point is I keep trying.

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

What do you do with where you're at?

I believe ...

It'll all work out even when it sure as hell doesn't seem to be.

There's a story David Bromberg tells about singer Jerry Jeff Walker, writer of Mr. Bojangles, which was written in a jail cell.

"It seems that Jerry Jeff had propositioned the right woman in the right time in the wrong place. So when her husband, the bartender, called the cops and they took him to the Parish jail in New Orleans."

There he met Bojangles though and the two sat and talked for three days. The song was born in dire circumstances. Beauty rises out of despair. Light drives away the darkness. Good overcomes evil. Angels keep demons at bay.

In this case Jerry Jeff Walker's song became a classic hit known the world over. It gives him income he never would have received. His career was elevated to a higher level.

And his cell mate, Mr. Bojangles is immortal, missing his dog after twenty years, drinking a bit and surrounded by people asking, "Won't you dance?"

All of this came from a jail cell.

It makes me believe.

Just when it seems like there is no way possible that things will work out, they do ... just never in the way you expect. Surprising and unforeseen things happen. They end up being either gifts or curses. There have been millions in jail cells when little came of it.

Then there's Desmond Tutu. Or Martin Luther King, Jr. The Apostle Paul. Mr. Bojangles.

What do you do with where you're at?

Won't you dance?

The Journey Continues

Grabbing my I-phone, I send a text to Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one. The one I've been around the world with).

"I have a question. When we were on the train to Poland, how did we keep those big bottles of beer cold?"

It started when we were in the Czech Republic train station and I was staring at a map on the wall. Bill was on the telephone. He had an appointment and I was waiting on him when I noticed Poland and made a spontaneous decision to buy a ticket to Krakow. I pointed and waved my arms at him until finally he put his hands over the receiver to see what I wanted.

"I'm going to Poland. I have to go to Auschwitz."

Bill looked an me, shook his head and resumed talking on the phone. When he finally hung up he said, "OK, lets go."

So we purchased two tickets on a 1930s train, a bunch of Pilsner Urquell beer and started on my spiritual journey.

"How can I not go?" Bill explained.

My I-phone buzzes and it's him. "I think we tied ropes around the bottles and hung them out the window to stay cold :-) Just kidding. I really don't remember but I suspect we drank the beer warm like some Europeans tend to do. When in Rome ... What conversation are you having that sparked that question?"

Actually I'm not having a conversation but am reading a book while working on my tan on the Beloved back deck.

I send him another text.

"No conversation. Reading "The Book of Love" about Mary Magdalene's daughter with Jesus and naturally it made me remember the beers we had on that train."

Though I liked his explanation of hanging the bottles out of the window, it was February after all, he's probably right and we drank them warm. We had a tiny sleeper car with three bunk beds on top of each other. We'd unscrewed the top two from the wall and threw them in the hall leaving us a comfortable sofa where we sat and drank the beer while we made our way.

My phone buzzed and he responded, "Naturally."

"Jesus always makes me thirsty," I write, "and Mary Magdalene is hot."

The next morning we were in Krakow, sidestepping Gypsies and hitching a ride on a British tour bus for the concentration camp.  The bus left and we remained alone in the middle of hell.

At the end, we walked the railroad tracks out of the camp for several miles until we stumbled into a village with a train station and, in silence, made our way back to Prague. In my pocket was a pair of broken children's scissors I'd found on the ground outside of one of the Crematoria.

I'm at a place on my life's pilgrimage when I have a large collection of adventures, spiritual quests, battles with others and myself too. They're more than stories to tell. They're major moments in me becoming me and I'm lucky or blessed enough to have a tiny collection of fellow travelers on the roads less traveled.

Sarah and I are on one now.

Defying conventional wisdom, we're making our way in our way. While we're pretty clear about where we're going to end up we have no idea whatsoever how we're getting there. She's a planner so it can drive her crazy while I know that unplanned excursions and unconventional choices often lead you to places where God resides.

Also at this place in my life, I've reunited with friends also on their journey. They've lived long enough to get to now, and while it's been full of pleasure and plain, good times and bad, frightening and  invigorating  ... each confesses there is more.

And the journeys continue.

The Opening of the Windows

It is an annual ceremony so moving, ritual, gnostic, Druid, good Karma, holy and just damn-feel-good as sex ... well not quite that good but almost! ... the opening of the windows. When the weather is warm enough to open the twenty-six windows in this house, I just love it!

The outside now comes in. The house is designed that way. We can lay in bed and stare outside. Through open windows we listen to the choir of birds, smell the pungent aroma of the marsh and listen to the waves kiss the shore.

Now that the windows are open allowing the ocean breeze to flow through each room, I've moved outside to the Beloved Back deck. The sliding glass doors to the kitchen are open so outside easily slides into indoors and back again.

The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass shirt is smiling and happy. Green Hibiscus blooms adorn the deck and Fran's thousand shades of green will soon explode and dazzle me.

Winston, the little gay dog, is keeping watch over the Cat Lady next door with her parade of new lovers and hundreds of feral cats. Goddess is laying under my feet lazily observing two squirrels dart through the smiling Palm Tree.

The acoustic storm is streaming from Key West on my computer and the book I'm reading waits on me to resume her story though I'm in no hurry. I'm still delighting in last night.

After a nice dinner out we were summoned by our friends Glenn and Vicki to come to their house and make music. As the island is known for impromptu celebrations, we dove in along with Sean and Wen. A new friend was also there and we played and sang.

Sarah meanders out, looking sexy in tight short dress, and tells me where the music is happening on the island today. Apparently a plan is beginning to take form. Sunday will be a day of celebration which is as it should be.

Across the world, people are making their way to and from church where they will enter sanctuaries with stained glass windows. They will sing songs in vain attempts to raise the rafters allowing God in but they'll fail just as they did last week. It's a good thing for them to do though and I applaud them.

As for me, I'm going to sit here and see what unfolds. There is no need for me to go searching for the Lord when She's already here ... raising new leaves to replace the fallen ones, spreading warmth to all who seek it, casting diamonds to dance on the ocean, and listening to the choirs of birds who have no rafters to raise because we're in the Cathedral that God built already.

That Kind Of Day

This spring is ever so slow in actually arriving. The sun is bright, there isn't a cloud in a crystal blue sky and plants are blooming but ... there's a nip in the air, the ocean breeze has a chill and I get cold stepping outside. It could be because I'm wearing black running shorts and little else but ... IWANT it to be summer now!

I don't want March to rush away but I'm ready for it to be perpetually in the 80s!

It may come close today.

I hope so.

Crowds have arrived for Spring Break and St. Patrick's Day. Everyone is wearing green and they're ready to party! Busses are traveling back and forth on the Tybee Road carrying them to and from the parade in the city. This afternoon they'll all rush back, filling the beach and every restaurant and bar on the island. The season has begun and the search for fun, romance, tans and beer is on!

Let them.

I'm enjoying a laid back Saturday morning far away from the maddening crowds. Goddess is sitting under my feet and Winston, the little gay dog, is underneath's Sarah's. They're remarkably quiet. The house is remarkably quiet. No words are being spoken and if silence is indeed golden then we're freaking rich!

Other than promise, I don't know what today holds.

Goddess needs a bath.

Ribs are in the fridge waiting to be grilled.

Other than that there are no plans.

Perhaps we'll venture out into the party later. We might turn the television on and watch a bit of the parade. We may stroll to the beach. It's a good day to read a book on the Beloved Back deck and steal glances of Sarah's beauty as she does things. Light a fire tonight and hold hands.

It's that kind of day.

I'm glad there's nothing else going on today.

Diving Again

It's Friday and I want to go scuba diving! It's been a while and I'm not sure where the desire came from but its back and I'd like to be floating under water, listening to myself breath and taking my time discovering whatever it is I find.

The last time I dove was with my daughter Chelsea. We were in Key Largo staying at the Holiday Inn on a Daddy/Daughter trip. We were excited and Chelsea was the first off the boat that day.

She sat on the rail and back flipped off ... landing on top of a five feet black tip shark.

I'd always taking walking on water in faith until that moment.

Chelsea was back on top of the water in a Nano-second running across the sea back to the boat. Underneath we could plainly see the shark getting the hell out of there.

I've never laughed so hard.

Chelsea had to be coaxed back into the water but we had lovely dives that day. That night we sat around the swimming pool at the Holiday Inn near the Tiki Bar, talking about the future and just having fun.

She's had just graduated from St. Vincent's High School and was college bound. We were in the Keys celebrating her transition in life.

Today she's flying to New York City for interviews for Graduate School. It's supposed to snow there so the city isn't as high on her list as it was yesterday. She's got other options too, in Washington D.C. and Tampa, Florida, so it will be interesting to see where she ends up.

Perhaps that's what's got me nostalgic for diving. Life continues to change for my baby girl.

Before Grad school, she's getting married and our relationship has morphed from Daddy taking care of his baby girl to a father and his daughter who likes to go to UGA football games together along with her brother Jeremy. We have fun and I'm missing those times.

Now I'm staring out the window because I've just received a text from her letting me know she's arrived. Her future is now.

So I say a prayer for the blessing she is to me and for the wonderful times we've had. I make a promise to orchestrate more. Until then, I'll dive into other things, enjoying them to their fullest, and enjoying cheering her on as she makes her life hers.

Me and the Pope

"Every successful organization needs one Son-of-a-bitch," Father Vernon Robertson explained as we had coffee and hot April Crisp with raisins.  "That's why we have the Pope."

"What?"

'The Pope keeps the Catholic Church in line with all of the bad stuff. No birth control! Women can't be Priests! Stuff like that."

"Right," I said not knowing what else to say.

"The problem with you Southern Baptists," he continued with his impish grin," is there are a hundred thousand Sons-of-bitches all fighting to be the one."

I had no counter argument.

"Don't worry about it Mike," he pressed forward.

"We're just a small kink in the chain of church history anyway."

"I think we're more than that," I mustered.

"Not really," he went on. "I don't much like this Pope we have now. He won't last. None of them ever do. Now the church ... it will last."

"In spite of Son-of-bitches?"

"Exactly!"

The conversation ended up being a major influence on my views of religion. Vernon was my friend, a Catholic Priest at St. Martin of Tours is Louisville, Kentucky where I was a Baptist minister, and we were both founding members of the St. Jude's Guild which was the community's first response to the AIDS crisis.

Since then, Vernon has passed away, I've long left employment as a Professional Christian and the only time I have anything to do with organized religion is in a bar.

Nevertheless I remain a member of the clergy, albeit a not very conventional one. Mostly people just want to talk with me sometimes when they are struggling with something or another. That's my ministry, along with an occasional wedding or funeral. It's pretty easy to manage.

I like it better this way and find it every bit as holy as anything else I did.

Plus, there's nowhere near as many Sons-of-bitches in my life.

Tiny Miracles

"And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in a dark café"

So says the Prophetess Joni Mitchell.

She may be right.

I've certainly had my cynical, drunken moments. And I prefer dark cafes and beach bars.

But I remain an unabashed, unapologetic and passionate romantic!

Fanciful, impractical, unrealistic with idealism running through my veins and eyes full of chivalry. I believe in love! Forgiveness beats the hell out of holding onto the bad things that have happened.

I prefer Don Quixote over FOX News, Frodo more than Wall Street, Martin Luther King's dreams and Jesus' admonition to love God and each other as the basis of religion.

Sure, I've been battered and bruised by life's harsh realities. People I believed in let me down, things I believe in haven't always come true and the practical realities of money, society and selfishness have kicked me in the mouth.

Still, perhaps stupidly, I refuse to cave in and accept the world the way it is.

I take people at their word and believe that, in the end anyway, they'll do the right thing.

I believe in second chances, angels, visions and the tiny miracles we can all be in each other's life.

I know without a doubt that people can be raised from the dead because I've watched them do it when they'd been living a life with nothing much in it.

I think it's all work out in the long run and it'll be on earth as it is in heaven.

There's nothing easy about any of this. On a daily basis I'm confronted by demonic expressions of greed, selfishness, hypocrisy, envy, pride and anger.

"Of the seven deadly sins, Anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long passed, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back --- in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you" (Frederick Buechner).

I refuse to go there.

Certainly it leads to disappointment sometimes but I still believe that its far better to step out in faith that the world can be better than it is ... if only I'll do my part.

Island Music

Music permeates this island.

Beginning with the high tides passionately kissing the shore as the sun rises it softly fades to a hum before reaching another crescendo as the sun sets.

On Sundays you can have music for breakfast at Social, join the wenches singing hymns in Bar Church in Bennie's or under the sunshine at Marlin Monroe's.

Like the salt that sticks to your skin, songs float here, dance is a way of life and rhythms pulsate into a sexual tropical frenzy.

Lawyers morph into musicians,  hymns are sung in four buildings by people wearing ties during the traditional hour and birds form themselves into choirs as do the mussels in the Marsh.

As the Lord's day came to a conclusion we find ourselves in Doc's Bar listening to real songwriters sing. Roy Swindelle is the High Priest as the congregation parks themselves on bar stools and benches beside tables. The bumper pool table becomes another place where people sit or lean.

Then the four horsemen of the Apocalypse sit with guitars on their knees as though in prayer. One at a time, they testify the truth as they understand it. Taking the joys they've experienced or the tragedies they've survived, they preach in humility or in wild abandon.

Latecomers are turned away at the door because there is no room in the Inn so they smoke on sidewalks or stumble across the street to Bernies for Holy water. A few make their way to the beach and listen to different kinds of music.

As the testimonies conclude, the chosen people inside explode into applause, laughter, and shout out's of "Hell Yeah!" Miraculously cups are filled anew and all fall silent as the service continues.

It is over much too soon so Sarah and I decide to return home as the moon dances across the sky and we make music of our own. And as we fall asleep we hear the rhythm of the ocean kissing the shore.

Climbing Zen

One of the ways that I've changed or grown is I'm much more Zen like than I used to be. Maybe I'm simply as laid back as it gets. Nothing much rattles me any more. I rarely get angry as its just not worth the energy and hardly ever helps. When things happen I have a tendency to let them. I absorb whatever is going on around me.

It certainly wasn't always this way. I was driven, intense, righteous and knew exactly what I wanted and when I wanted it. Patience was a foreign and unwanted concept. If anyone could change the world, it was me. I attacked life determined to mold it into the things I wanted.

A lot of things happened.

I accomplished everything I wanted only to have it become too much to handle so it handled me. Like a Shepherd with too big a herd, or a Master with too many slaves, I lost control. The things I loved scattered like sheep and the things I did my best to hold on to rebelled, ultimately fleeing away.

At first, I was full of emotion, uncontrolled and wild, tossing and turning like a ship without a rudder on a stormy sea. This led to anger and blame which finally gave way to a silent acceptance that ... this is my life.

I grew contemplative, almost prayerful, taking notice of the things I still had ... Goddess, a back deck, a sad little holy dock, my children and a handful of friends.

During this time I discovered, or rediscovered, new friends ... Fran, long dead, returned and taught me green again. The Internet spewed up lost friends from my past. The handful of friends miraculously transformed themselves into a perpetual carnival. Sarah came home.

It changed me.

In reality I think I just accepted the change. I embraced it, dancing ... absorbed it which is the way of Zen.

Sarah reminds me that some of the old ways still stick to me, remaining part of who I am. I remain quick to do things for others in real time, often at her expense or mine. I easily slide into another world, exclusive of others, often facilitated by music, writing or staring at the stars. There is a tendency for me to go to places I've already been rather than opting new adventures.

And the things she says are mostly true but I am very mindful of the struggles of people I care for and balance it with quiet contemplation. Every day is a new adventure and last year we visited places I'd never been, learning new things though I do hold on to favorite places and things.

I accept them ... absorb them ... see where they take me ... feel how they change me ... knowing full well that when I finally finish the climb to the top of the mountain, or fall to the bottom of it again, there is only one thing left to do.

Keep climbing!

Because there is no other alternative.

Closer to the Promised Land

"I'm just trying to live in the moment," she explained in the middle of a very crowded Tybee Island Social Club.

We'd gone to listen to the band but found ourselves talking instead. She is a mother, artist and long term island resident. Her companion recently returned to Tybee after three years in the Bahamas where he'd managed a private resort. It had burned him out and he's now trying to figure out what's next in his life.

"We're all at the crux of life aren't we," I said forming a cross with my hands and everyone nodded.

In fact, I seem to find myself surrounded by a community of the crux, a people trying to figure out the direction of their lives because the security of the way it used to be isn't there anymore ... or no longer satisfies ... or we embrace our unhappiness resolved to find joy again.

So we embark on a journey to find ourselves.

We leave the job, get the divorce, move to another place, find a new church or quit the old one. Half of us have already done these things while the other half are desperate but can't quite pull the trigger so they're stuck in the middle ... frozen in fear of the unknown.

When God told Abraham to leave his home and go find the Promised Land, the old man had no idea where he was going. He just went. It's a major act of faith to begin a journey when you haven't the faintest idea of the destination.

Unfortunately, religion doesn't much deal in faith anymore. It's opted for conviction instead.

It seems to me though that God likes to get the ball rolling and leave it to us to determine when and where it stops.

Perhaps it's the question of people in their fifties. We've done so much but it doesn't seem we've arrived at where we thought. We labor for things we're not passionate about. We live with someone we don't love. A routine gives us comfort because nothing else does.

I don't believe in such things.

I don't think God wants us to settle either which is were faith comes in.

If we never get up and leave the things that keep us in the crux ... in the puzzling and unsolvable life we live ... then we never get any closer to the Promised Land.

For the love of Mickey

Standing in the airport in Belize City waiting for the connecting flight to take us further south, my cell phone kept buzzing. Sarah was in the bathroom so I answered.

"I told you to never call me here," I said into the receiver.

"I'm so sorry," came the reply.

"For what?"

"I don't know," he said.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "Someone slipped me a Mickey."

"How do you know?"

"I woke up in my own bed and I have no idea how I got there."

"I see. Well, it's alright. You were fine when I saw you last."

"I didn't ruin the wedding?"

"No, you were great. Samuel Adams asked, 'Who gives this groom to be married?' and you told him that you do which is what you were supposed to do. I think it's on film."

"I don't remember," he said in a weak, pitiful voice.

"It's OK," I said watching Sarah approach with a smile.

"I'm sorry," Johnny O said again.

"I gotta go Johnny," I explained. "We're on our honeymoon. I got no business talking to you."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"It's alright. Go back to bed."

"I'm in bed."

"Well give our love to Judy."

"Alright but somebody slipped me a Mickey."

"On Tybee?"

"It had to have been."

"OK."

"Bye," he said clicking off.

"Later," I answered putting my arm around Sarah as we made our way to the little plane that would take us further south.

Parking on my anniversary

"How long are you going to celebrate your anniversary?" Johnny O asked as I stumbled in the door marked "Exit Only" at The Breakfast Club where the City of Tybee has taken away my normal parking space.

"Ummm, all year," I replied sitting across from him. "Why did the city take away another parking place?"

"It's part of the Master Plan," Franklin, who is brown, answers.

"The City has a Master Plan?"

"There's a plan?"

"This is a city?"

"Are they making Coyote crossings?"

"What's Sarah doing?"

The questions are too numerous to process so I sip my coffee and watch David Peters park beside the freshly painted yellow curb that used to be my parking place.

It's not like the old days.

Tybee used to have a great parking plan! If your car didn't tip over, you could park there.

Now the City's plan centers around accommodating more cars by eliminating parking spaces. This is in keeping with the current philosophy of doing more with less demonstrated repeatedly in every election.

I'm not going to worry about it though. Today's my anniversary and we plan on celebrating, culminating in fireworks which are illegal in Georgia so we plan on doing it another way!

Assuming we can find a place to park.

Joyeux Anniversaire

Topping the Lazaretto Bridge, the brilliant sunshine is radiant on miles of brown marsh grass against a background of deep blue sky. There are no clouds. It is so bright the Bull River condos shimmer, as if they're Hula dancing in the distance. The giant flag over Fort Pulaski hangs limp. It's impossible to not feel good. No one on the Tybee Road is in a hurry stretching the drive by slowing down.

It is low tide so I find myself staring at the deep green of the marsh blanketed by the dead grass which is slowly giving way. Soon a high tide will roll in and carry away the brown, washing the marsh clean and leaving the brilliant greens of a new season.

What was once old has been made new.

Tomorrow is Joyeux Anniversaire for Sarah and me.

A joyous year has passed since we promised ourselves to one another under a full moon on the beach. Surrounded by the happiest of friends, it seems that everyone present, both our friends and strangers who had come for other reasons, all danced in delight. Children jumped in the pool and blessings rained down upon us.

I hold these things in my heart, staring at the life of the green grass pushing the dead of the past from its roots. The old in my life has given way to the new. I've certainly been reborn. Sarah has too. Together we're making a future. It's got a fairy tale feel to it.

That's not to say they're not scary moments when unexpected and frightening things happen ... when Goblins from the past try to grab old and drag us backwards ... where people who are good turn out to be evil and witches turn into Queens ... but its mostly been a year of joy.

In the world of fairy tales, everything turns out happily ever after and that's the main difference between make-believe and the real world that in which in live. Reality means nothing's perfect, bad things really do happen and nobody's ever as happy as they pretend.

In spite of such realities, I remain a firm believer in happily-ever-after. Good triumphs evil even when it doesn't seem like it ever will, unscrupulous people are undone by their scruples, toads turn into Princes, Saviors rise from the dead and the old is made new again.

It is a time to celebrate these things! Many of them have come true already ... I live with a Queen ... and so much more is just around the corner as we watch the green grass of the marsh grow into the light of today. Happily-ever-after is upon us.

Puppy Prozac

When all the dust had settled, Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, received $50 fines plus court cost. After months of inquiry, investigation and intrigue it was over in less than ten minutes.

Goddess was cool about it all throughout the ordeal. She took her medicinal medication and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. I'd often find her just laying there, staring into space, surrounded by empty bags of Doritos and brownie baking pans.

On the other hand, Winston, the little gay, Diva, Bi-Polar, Son-of-a-bitch remains traumatized. He is now throwing up for no apparent reason. He shivers all of the time though he constantly wears his sweater, this one with the words "Fundamentalist have different views of gay sex --- mostly on the Internet or on Video."

He hides under the bed if anyone knocks on the door.


He tries to pick fights with Goddess.

Yesterday we gave him Puppy Prozac and have high hopes.

We'll see.

Last night ended up being a beautiful evening. I threw steaks on the grill and baked potatoes. Sarah made the most colorful of salads. I built a fire and listened to the waves breaking in the distance. Brilliant stars shown in a black sky. There was a calm after the storm.

It's been quite the year.

Sarah and I are on the eve of our first wedding anniversary. Since then we've traveled a lot, started a new business with Sean and Wen, took a road trip with the Carnival of Friends, serve as hosts for a book club at our house, and had Winston's balls cut off.

(The Judge did not asked to actually see the wacked balls as evidence though I had them in a baggie just in case. He did ask to see the receipt however which I provided.)

But the case is closed and we can look forward to celebrating happier things.

I gotta go ...

Winston, the little gay dog, has just overdosed on the Puppy Prozac and has barricaded himself under the bed by building a wall of tennis balls, though it is nicely decorated with throw pillows, candles and he's listening to Barry Manilow sing "I write the songs."

I'm going to kill that little Diva son-of-a-bitch.

This is my world

"You can kiss your family and friends good-bye and put miles between you, but at the same time you carry them with you in your heart, your mind, your stomach, because you do not just live in a world but a world lives in you. You are a world."

So says my favorite author Frederick Buechner and I think he means the same thing Jesus did when he said, "Take up your cross" which means take up your own life, and everything and everyone in it, and carry on.

Of course no one, not even Jesus himself, can carry it all without help. Jesus stumbled and someone named Simon was told to help him and did.

It's not who you thought would have helped. His friends were all in hiding, denial or scared shitless for their own selves. I think Jesus wondered about this too and by the time he was hanging on the cross that he'd carried he screamed out, "Where the hell is everybody and that includes you God!"

Then he died.

And he took it all with him to that cross, his mother, the most trusted friends, all the fair faced Hosanna singers hung there with him in his heart, his mind and stomach. In the end it was just him alone and his last words said as much. "Where in the hell is everybody?"

In the same way it is our lives that we carry, and sometimes it makes us stumble and on occasion, if we're lucky someone appears to carry it a bit for us because it's too damn much for us to endure sometimes.

The betrayals, the divorces, deaths, unrealized potential and lost opportunities all gash at the beauty of the thing ... this life that we're gifted with. And just like Jesus, every single one of us cry out in pain and hurt, "Where in the hell is everybody?" because everybody ... the ones we loved and believed in with everything inside loved us, those we thought to be better, a few who promised that they would always be there ... were gone.

And we are alone.

When Jesus makes his next appearance, he's mistaken for the gardener. Dirty straw hat and coveralls, dirt under his fingernails make him so unrecognizable to those who loved him still, he has to tell them ... "It's me"  though they all had a hard time believing it. Some eventually came around but a lot never did.

It's that way with us too. At least for me it is. I have a small group who still believe in me though I'm nothing like I was.

He's not the same of course. No one who lives through such things are. He wasn't and we aren't either. The ones who love me do so for who I am and not for what I can do because I can't do much anything like I used to be able to pull off. But there is a peace that I've never had before, a smile that erupts from my heart and not from the affirmation of others. I'm not certain of what's next but I'm not frightened or worried ... it'll work out ... I been through worse.

Flowers are blooming on the back deck, in defiance of a cold spell, promising of this new life. Sarah has ordered a new table and chairs to accommodate us all for dinners, talks and conversations on it. The winter passes away and the days grow longer. This is my world. I've lived through too damn much to get to it.