A Tropical Storm blew over St. Martin last night and it has been steadily raining since. During the night the Trade Winds were up and water pounded the metal roof of the tiny studio that I am in. There was nothing much to do except go to bed and listen to the roaring sounds that were passing by. And there isn’t much to do yet aside from stay in bed listening to it drip onto the lush tropical foliage.
“And here I am just waiting on this storm to pass me by...” by Michael Franti and Spearhead, “and that’s the sound of sunshine coming down.”
It’s all at how you look at things I suppose, opting to feel good about whatever situation you happen to be in because feeling bad about it just makes things worse.
So what that it’s raining? It’s warm here and I hate the cold anyway. Friends are nearby and there is no doubt that some adventure will find us today as they have a tendency to do in the Caribbean.
Yesterday we repeated a great moment in Team Mike history by returning to Nathalie and getting waxed. She just laughed and of course Conner and Hania were doubled up as I flipped and jerked on the table like a fish on the sand.
Then Nathalie grew even more torturous than she had previously been by introducing a pair of tweezers to the experience. I know completely understand violence and have never wanted to hit a woman so bad in my life.
I did have my opportunity to get Conner back when it was his turn. As the bitch Nathalie spread hot wax on his back I poured a glass of cold wine on his butt. It caused quite the reaction!
The first time that we encountered the evil Nathalie was this past June on another rainy day. We got bored and started daring one another to do things and, well one thing led to another and that was how a great moment in Team Mike history was born.
And then I wrote about it there was quite a reaction. Most people laughed and asked, “You did not!” or “Oh My God!” Several were upset because you’re not supposed to write about such things. What’s wrong with good friends having fun and then talking about it?
I’ve always tried to live life honestly and try to be pretty transparent about it all. I do my best tell the truth because lies just make everything worse. I do my best to enjoy myself and encourage others to do the same. I am a hopeless romantic and know it. I believe that good always will trump evil even if it sometimes takes a while. I’m an eternal optimist who is also a realist. I do my best to sense the holiness that surrounds me and acknowledge it when I see it.
As I’ve said many times before I like to create … be it blogs or books or programs to help people or friendships. My friend Tina recently sent me a quote by John O’Donahue, the Celtic Christian poet and philosopher. The gist of it was in order to create you have to do things that you don’t normally do. You have to step away from the routines, the rules and the traditions. You have to have the desire for something new.
So those are the rules of my living I guess. Now I wait on new fun and new stories to come my way today. And here I am just waiting on this storm to pass me be.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
To Dance
I dance a lot when I am here. The crazy wild kind of dancing where I warn whoever my partner is “keep your back straight and don’t let go” and our bodies and our arms are flung all over the place in wild abandon. It is hot here so you sweat a lot and if I’m not careful my partner’s hand can slip out of mine and she goes flying across the three foot high wall that surround Papagayo’s.
This has only happened to me once. I flung her away from me, sweat got in the way, and while I stood there in perfect form with one outstretched arm she sailed over to the wall and tumbled right over it. I held my poise wondering what to do when she decided if she jumped up as quickly as possible and made her way back to me no one would notice that anything happened.
It may have worked if the sand that she fell in didn’t stick to her sweaty body.
One morning I was standing on the beach when another one of the guest here approached me.
“Do you know that you danced with 17 different women last night?” he asked.
“Really? No I did not,” I reply.
“Is your wife here,” he continued.
“Yes.”
“Did you dance with her last night?”
“I think so,” I answer.
He walks away shaking his head. That night we did it again shagging and twirling and rocking the night away in the tropical head. The following morning I was talking to my friend Hania on the beach when he approached me again.
“Is this your wife?” he asked.
“No,” I tell him the truth.
He again walks away shaking his head.
And last night we did it again. Multiple dance partners just happen as people grab one another depending on the song or the mood. Towards the end of the evening the wait staff join in with the guests and people just accept people in joyful expressions of creativity.
There are two types of dancers; those that learned proper steps and rules and then those of us who make it up as we go. Obviously I belong to the later category. There is a creativity that I appreciate when two or more different people can bring rhythm and graceful movement without following predetermined steps or rules.
It is hard to be sad when I dance like this. So twirling around last night I gave thought to new dances bound on new love. And at one point last night in the middle of a song I just stopped. Everyone around me kept dancing of course but I just looked out at the night time sky and I blew her a kiss … inviting her to dance.
This has only happened to me once. I flung her away from me, sweat got in the way, and while I stood there in perfect form with one outstretched arm she sailed over to the wall and tumbled right over it. I held my poise wondering what to do when she decided if she jumped up as quickly as possible and made her way back to me no one would notice that anything happened.
It may have worked if the sand that she fell in didn’t stick to her sweaty body.
One morning I was standing on the beach when another one of the guest here approached me.
“Do you know that you danced with 17 different women last night?” he asked.
“Really? No I did not,” I reply.
“Is your wife here,” he continued.
“Yes.”
“Did you dance with her last night?”
“I think so,” I answer.
He walks away shaking his head. That night we did it again shagging and twirling and rocking the night away in the tropical head. The following morning I was talking to my friend Hania on the beach when he approached me again.
“Is this your wife?” he asked.
“No,” I tell him the truth.
He again walks away shaking his head.
And last night we did it again. Multiple dance partners just happen as people grab one another depending on the song or the mood. Towards the end of the evening the wait staff join in with the guests and people just accept people in joyful expressions of creativity.
There are two types of dancers; those that learned proper steps and rules and then those of us who make it up as we go. Obviously I belong to the later category. There is a creativity that I appreciate when two or more different people can bring rhythm and graceful movement without following predetermined steps or rules.
It is hard to be sad when I dance like this. So twirling around last night I gave thought to new dances bound on new love. And at one point last night in the middle of a song I just stopped. Everyone around me kept dancing of course but I just looked out at the night time sky and I blew her a kiss … inviting her to dance.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Not Quite Alone
“Are you here alone?”
Alex asked me sitting in his golf cart which had stopped in front of my tiny studio. I was sitting admiring the morning and sipping coffee. Alex is perhaps 70 with a bowling ball of a head with a short crew cut. Glasses rested upon a flat nose. He is from Belgium and is one of the first people that I ever met in St. Martin.
“I am,” I sighed.
“I understand,” he sighed back, “my girlfriend dropped dead three years ago.”
What does one say? I just looked at him.
“Why don’t you come to my place at six o’clock for cocktails?”
“OK,” I told him. And he slowly rolled away.
So at six while everyone else congregated somewhere else, I walked over to Alex’s place. He was there alone staring at his watch. As soon as I got inside it started raining hard. When it rains here, it really rains. The roofs are metal so it was impossible to hear whatever the soft spoken Alex was telling me. But he was telling me something and I just watched his mouth move.
I did learn that he was expecting others and he kept looking at his bright yellow watch. The room reeked of sadness.
After half an hour I told Alex that I had to go and meet Conner and Hania. He sighed heavily. The rain continued to poor.
I thanked him and put my arm on his shoulder. He looked lost.
Then I made a dash through the rain to Paul and Nancy’s place. As soon as my feet hit the tiled patio they went flying and my head slammed into the hard surface.
When I opened my eyes there was an Asian doctor staring at me. “Your eyes look focused,” she said then her hands probed around my forehead. “My husband is an OBGYN,” she laughed, “in case you have other issues.”
I stood up and looked at Conner looking at me as though I’m an idiot. Hania came over and rubbed my shoulder. Paul handed me a band aid. Peter who is this 7 foot tall British friend towered over me and softly patted my back. “You sure you’re alright?”
The rain stopped and we all made our way into the warm night sloshing through mud puddles in the sand. Alex remained alone in his tiny studio with the doors opened wide, still staring at his watch waiting on his other guest.
After we ate, Hania grabbed my hand and said, “Come on you! It is time to dance.” And we did song after song after song.
At one point I was soaked with sweat so I walked to an outdoor shower and let the cool water rinse me, The Milky Way was brilliant in the sky and the roar of the waves were hitting the reef. Laughter was in the air from inside. Happy music floated towards the heavens. Glasses were being raised.
And I stood there taking it all in. Not quite alone.
Alex asked me sitting in his golf cart which had stopped in front of my tiny studio. I was sitting admiring the morning and sipping coffee. Alex is perhaps 70 with a bowling ball of a head with a short crew cut. Glasses rested upon a flat nose. He is from Belgium and is one of the first people that I ever met in St. Martin.
“I am,” I sighed.
“I understand,” he sighed back, “my girlfriend dropped dead three years ago.”
What does one say? I just looked at him.
“Why don’t you come to my place at six o’clock for cocktails?”
“OK,” I told him. And he slowly rolled away.
So at six while everyone else congregated somewhere else, I walked over to Alex’s place. He was there alone staring at his watch. As soon as I got inside it started raining hard. When it rains here, it really rains. The roofs are metal so it was impossible to hear whatever the soft spoken Alex was telling me. But he was telling me something and I just watched his mouth move.
I did learn that he was expecting others and he kept looking at his bright yellow watch. The room reeked of sadness.
After half an hour I told Alex that I had to go and meet Conner and Hania. He sighed heavily. The rain continued to poor.
I thanked him and put my arm on his shoulder. He looked lost.
Then I made a dash through the rain to Paul and Nancy’s place. As soon as my feet hit the tiled patio they went flying and my head slammed into the hard surface.
When I opened my eyes there was an Asian doctor staring at me. “Your eyes look focused,” she said then her hands probed around my forehead. “My husband is an OBGYN,” she laughed, “in case you have other issues.”
I stood up and looked at Conner looking at me as though I’m an idiot. Hania came over and rubbed my shoulder. Paul handed me a band aid. Peter who is this 7 foot tall British friend towered over me and softly patted my back. “You sure you’re alright?”
The rain stopped and we all made our way into the warm night sloshing through mud puddles in the sand. Alex remained alone in his tiny studio with the doors opened wide, still staring at his watch waiting on his other guest.
After we ate, Hania grabbed my hand and said, “Come on you! It is time to dance.” And we did song after song after song.
At one point I was soaked with sweat so I walked to an outdoor shower and let the cool water rinse me, The Milky Way was brilliant in the sky and the roar of the waves were hitting the reef. Laughter was in the air from inside. Happy music floated towards the heavens. Glasses were being raised.
And I stood there taking it all in. Not quite alone.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Team Mike
Everything changes today. The peace and quiet of a tropical vacation will be kidnapped. Conner will be here in a few hours. He texted me yesterday informing me that he is bringing additional provisions which will all be consumed in short order. Hania wrote me on Face Book that she is also coming with her husband so that she can continue to serve as our designated walker.
I was with Conner in New Orleans two weeks ago and he got me lost on Bourbon Street. Then we lost one another and I have no idea how I woke up in my hotel room. I assume he woke up in his. We are relatively normal people when we are by ourselves but you put us together and it is this spontaneous combustion. Stuff just happens.
Jim Withers was with us in New Orleans and I saw him a few days later after he had been Conner and me.
“I’ve never laughed so hard in my life,” he told me. “Your friend is funny. You are funny with him! What happened?”
“I have no idea,” I answered. “It’s just me and Conner.”
In St. Martin we are known as “Team Mike.” Conner’s first name is Mike like mine and Ana named us that several years ago. We also have a third member of “Team Mike” named Jacob from Norway. Jacob lobbied very hard to become a member.
As strange as it may seem, not everyone is a fan of “Team Mike.” The people who actually run the resort grew upset that we had taken over the weekly wine and cheese manager’s cocktail party. Conner and I would show up with real wine glasses and work along side Carlos pouring wine.
“A man like you needs Rosé,” we would loudly announce.
This did not go over well.
The following week we were stripped of our wine glasses in front of everyone.
This also did not go over well with the members of “Team Mike.”
So we got our friend Kamira to make signs in English and French that Team Mike would be hosting its own wine and cheese party in the fitness center. This is when Jacob earned his strips by buying all of the wine and cheese and setting up a bar in the fitness center.
Carlos came over to my studio the day of the party and asked me what we were doing. I explained that we were having an alternative wine and cheese party in protest of the manager’s. He told me that we needed a permit.
So Conner got one from Chuck. Chuck’s been coming here longer than anyone and by virtue of spending over a quarter of a million dollars in that time, granted us “Le Permit.” We hung it in the fitness center and I happily informed Carlos that everything was taken care of. We even took a picture of “Le Permit” and posted it on the Internet.
About 60 people showed up. Jacob served as bartender generously serving everyone. Conner and I had an autograph table set up. Because this is a beach and laundry is scarce we used Sharpies to sign body parts. You can go to the official “Team Mike” Face Book page and check out the pictures for yourself.
So I’m getting ready. I’m not certain what is going to happen. I just know that it is.
Good Times!
I was with Conner in New Orleans two weeks ago and he got me lost on Bourbon Street. Then we lost one another and I have no idea how I woke up in my hotel room. I assume he woke up in his. We are relatively normal people when we are by ourselves but you put us together and it is this spontaneous combustion. Stuff just happens.
Jim Withers was with us in New Orleans and I saw him a few days later after he had been Conner and me.
“I’ve never laughed so hard in my life,” he told me. “Your friend is funny. You are funny with him! What happened?”
“I have no idea,” I answered. “It’s just me and Conner.”
In St. Martin we are known as “Team Mike.” Conner’s first name is Mike like mine and Ana named us that several years ago. We also have a third member of “Team Mike” named Jacob from Norway. Jacob lobbied very hard to become a member.
As strange as it may seem, not everyone is a fan of “Team Mike.” The people who actually run the resort grew upset that we had taken over the weekly wine and cheese manager’s cocktail party. Conner and I would show up with real wine glasses and work along side Carlos pouring wine.
“A man like you needs Rosé,” we would loudly announce.
This did not go over well.
The following week we were stripped of our wine glasses in front of everyone.
This also did not go over well with the members of “Team Mike.”
So we got our friend Kamira to make signs in English and French that Team Mike would be hosting its own wine and cheese party in the fitness center. This is when Jacob earned his strips by buying all of the wine and cheese and setting up a bar in the fitness center.
Carlos came over to my studio the day of the party and asked me what we were doing. I explained that we were having an alternative wine and cheese party in protest of the manager’s. He told me that we needed a permit.
So Conner got one from Chuck. Chuck’s been coming here longer than anyone and by virtue of spending over a quarter of a million dollars in that time, granted us “Le Permit.” We hung it in the fitness center and I happily informed Carlos that everything was taken care of. We even took a picture of “Le Permit” and posted it on the Internet.
About 60 people showed up. Jacob served as bartender generously serving everyone. Conner and I had an autograph table set up. Because this is a beach and laundry is scarce we used Sharpies to sign body parts. You can go to the official “Team Mike” Face Book page and check out the pictures for yourself.
So I’m getting ready. I’m not certain what is going to happen. I just know that it is.
Good Times!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
I Love it here
Everyone is moving slow today. It was one hell of a party last night. A cocktail party planned at the last minute by Nancy turned into an explosion of French cheeses and wine. I think that everyone who is staying here was in attendance. People were inside and people were outside talking and laughing and catching one another up on their lives.
Then the collective group made it over to Papagayo, the restaurant, bar and dance floor. Coop is from Louisiana and sings like Louis Armstrong and he wrestled the microphone from the D.J. and we learned what a wonderful world it can be.
At one point I was standing beside Carlos who is my friend and the manager of Papagayo. He had his arms crossed and was just watching making certain everything was going fine.
“You want some real entertainment while you are here?” he asks me in his French, Creole, and Caribbean lilt.
“You mean like last time?” I shoot back.
He starts laughing. “Yes, like last time.”
Last time, Carlos picked me up at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon. I was crying as I dressed to leave the beach but I made myself do it. Carlos drives a big SUV and was wearing a Lakers Jersey that we’d given him. I had a tee shirt on with shorts AND underwear. I don’t wear shoes down here.
So he drives us down the dusty road lined with bushes that can break into your car if you get to close to them. He is happy that I am with him and I’m happy to be experiencing another piece of the island. He takes me to this other beach and there must have been a thousand people there, grilling, drinking, laughing and kids were running around everywhere.
Carlos pulls under a tree to park and we walked what must have been a mile through the crowd until we stood in front of a stage. Well, it was really the back of a large truck, but it was being used as a stage.
And across the bed of the truck were girls wearing lingerie. One after the other they came parading and dancing.
“That is what I am talking about!” Carlos told me, laughing and slapping me on the back.
I had to admit that I’d never seen anything like it.
“You stay here and keep our spot,” he told me, “I’ll get us some beers.”
“No, I’ll go with you. You’ll never find me again.”
“Trust me,” he said pushing his hand against my chest. “I’ll find you.”
And he left me there in a sea of people watching girls in underwear parade across the bed of a truck.
Then I busted out laughing. Of course he would find me. I was the only white person there!
So I told him sure. I’m up to hang out with my friend and let him take me wherever we end up next.
Cindy stumbles over from her and Randy’s studios turned palace to tell me that they are going to the grocery store and asks if I need anything. Her eyes are red from the party last night. I jump up and give her a list and think how nice it is to be taken care of.
I watch her and Randy walk away. The breeze is light and the sun is brilliant and it is 87 degrees. The water dances a tango of blues, greens, and aqua.
I love it here.
Then the collective group made it over to Papagayo, the restaurant, bar and dance floor. Coop is from Louisiana and sings like Louis Armstrong and he wrestled the microphone from the D.J. and we learned what a wonderful world it can be.
At one point I was standing beside Carlos who is my friend and the manager of Papagayo. He had his arms crossed and was just watching making certain everything was going fine.
“You want some real entertainment while you are here?” he asks me in his French, Creole, and Caribbean lilt.
“You mean like last time?” I shoot back.
He starts laughing. “Yes, like last time.”
Last time, Carlos picked me up at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon. I was crying as I dressed to leave the beach but I made myself do it. Carlos drives a big SUV and was wearing a Lakers Jersey that we’d given him. I had a tee shirt on with shorts AND underwear. I don’t wear shoes down here.
So he drives us down the dusty road lined with bushes that can break into your car if you get to close to them. He is happy that I am with him and I’m happy to be experiencing another piece of the island. He takes me to this other beach and there must have been a thousand people there, grilling, drinking, laughing and kids were running around everywhere.
Carlos pulls under a tree to park and we walked what must have been a mile through the crowd until we stood in front of a stage. Well, it was really the back of a large truck, but it was being used as a stage.
And across the bed of the truck were girls wearing lingerie. One after the other they came parading and dancing.
“That is what I am talking about!” Carlos told me, laughing and slapping me on the back.
I had to admit that I’d never seen anything like it.
“You stay here and keep our spot,” he told me, “I’ll get us some beers.”
“No, I’ll go with you. You’ll never find me again.”
“Trust me,” he said pushing his hand against my chest. “I’ll find you.”
And he left me there in a sea of people watching girls in underwear parade across the bed of a truck.
Then I busted out laughing. Of course he would find me. I was the only white person there!
So I told him sure. I’m up to hang out with my friend and let him take me wherever we end up next.
Cindy stumbles over from her and Randy’s studios turned palace to tell me that they are going to the grocery store and asks if I need anything. Her eyes are red from the party last night. I jump up and give her a list and think how nice it is to be taken care of.
I watch her and Randy walk away. The breeze is light and the sun is brilliant and it is 87 degrees. The water dances a tango of blues, greens, and aqua.
I love it here.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Electio n Day Results
Sipping coffee this morning my slab mate John leans over and asks if I have Internet connection. He does this every morning. I tell him that I do.
“What?” he explodes and walks over to where I’m sitting to make sure that I’m not lying. It’s too early to lie. I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee. Besides I’m not elected to public office where most lying occurs.
He storms off with his computer in hand. His wife Deb comes over dressed for her morning workout.
“He gets so frustrated,” she tells me.
I nod with a sympathetic look.
“Have a great work out!” I say.
“You know Micheal,” she says sitting down across from me at the large wooden table on the tiny patio, “to hell with it. I’m not going to do it.”
“Good for you!” I tell her, “Then I’m not either.”
At home I am a relentless runner. I run almost every day usually missing just a day or two each month. But something happens when I am in St. Martin. It’s like God flips this switch and I slide into a different existence with myself. There is no hurry. In the Caribbean nobody makes anything happen. Everybody just waits on something to happen. It is a big difference.
A large green gecko slithers across the patio. Deb stops talking to watch it. She is telling me about how she’s lost 40 pounds but loves to cook and how difficult it is to do that once you’re past 60.
John comes back with his computer in hand and announces election results from yesterday. I suddenly remember that there were elections at all. For the last 30 years I’ve done politics as part of my work. First the dangerous cut throat politics of the Baptists and then the regular cut throat version of Washington and Atlanta and Savannah.
I no longer care. I have come to believe that leaders are rarely elected but that people who are elected believe that they are leaders when they are anything but. I’m happy to be here away from it all.
Instead I dwell on more important things. I text people that I love and tell them that I love them! I check up on my friends on Face Book and through email. I send messages to new friends that I’ve just met and look forward to deepening relationships. I look deep into myself and write what I see. I miss people.
Randy wanders over across the yard that separates his palace from the slums where I stay to wish me a good morning and ask if I have connection to the Internet. I do. He doesn’t. There is something to be said about staying in the slums. He storms off too and I thank God that she has blessed me with connectivity.
Back home people are celebrating victory or consoling one another over defeat as though it were a football game. I’m counting the twelve conch shells that someone planted around that Banyan tree. It is much more fulfilling.
“What?” he explodes and walks over to where I’m sitting to make sure that I’m not lying. It’s too early to lie. I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee. Besides I’m not elected to public office where most lying occurs.
He storms off with his computer in hand. His wife Deb comes over dressed for her morning workout.
“He gets so frustrated,” she tells me.
I nod with a sympathetic look.
“Have a great work out!” I say.
“You know Micheal,” she says sitting down across from me at the large wooden table on the tiny patio, “to hell with it. I’m not going to do it.”
“Good for you!” I tell her, “Then I’m not either.”
At home I am a relentless runner. I run almost every day usually missing just a day or two each month. But something happens when I am in St. Martin. It’s like God flips this switch and I slide into a different existence with myself. There is no hurry. In the Caribbean nobody makes anything happen. Everybody just waits on something to happen. It is a big difference.
A large green gecko slithers across the patio. Deb stops talking to watch it. She is telling me about how she’s lost 40 pounds but loves to cook and how difficult it is to do that once you’re past 60.
John comes back with his computer in hand and announces election results from yesterday. I suddenly remember that there were elections at all. For the last 30 years I’ve done politics as part of my work. First the dangerous cut throat politics of the Baptists and then the regular cut throat version of Washington and Atlanta and Savannah.
I no longer care. I have come to believe that leaders are rarely elected but that people who are elected believe that they are leaders when they are anything but. I’m happy to be here away from it all.
Instead I dwell on more important things. I text people that I love and tell them that I love them! I check up on my friends on Face Book and through email. I send messages to new friends that I’ve just met and look forward to deepening relationships. I look deep into myself and write what I see. I miss people.
Randy wanders over across the yard that separates his palace from the slums where I stay to wish me a good morning and ask if I have connection to the Internet. I do. He doesn’t. There is something to be said about staying in the slums. He storms off too and I thank God that she has blessed me with connectivity.
Back home people are celebrating victory or consoling one another over defeat as though it were a football game. I’m counting the twelve conch shells that someone planted around that Banyan tree. It is much more fulfilling.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Beach Time
It is quiet on Tybee Island where I live. I am five blocks from Butler Avenue, the main drag which turns into a traffic jam during the summer months and on most weekends. From Butler to the ocean crowds swarm and it is loud. There are always people. But on my street it is quiet and the nights are soft even when fireworks are blasting over the sea or the Tams are playing on the pier.
It is a different kind of quiet here. The electricity goes off most every morning for a couple of minutes while someone reboots the generator. It woke me today when the fans stopped swirling and I lay there with absolutely no sound other than my own breathing. Unlike yesterday when clouds rolled across the sky, the sun was forcing its way through the drapes and tiny beams of light dart across the room.
I crawl out of bed, turn on the coffee pot, throw open the sliding glass doors and stumble towards the ocean, wade in up to my knees and fall over. This is how I wake up every day when I am here. The warm aqua green water of Orient Bay doesn’t shock my senses alive but lovingly coaxes them awake. I float for a few minutes and then stand up.
A long reef separates the bay from the Caribbean Sea and I’ve learned to see what kind of day it’s going to be by watching the waves break over it. If they are large and roaring then the wind will be up and it will likely rain. When they are small and lapping then it is a beach day. Most days are beach days but the reef and the waves never lie.
I walk back to my studio and pour myself a cup of coffee.
When Conner and Hania arrive I’ll walk over to wherever they are and we have established this tradition of morning laughter. I’m not sure exactly how we do it, but in no time at all we are cracking one another up over cups of coffee and tea. Some traditions are precious and this has become one of mine.
But they are not here yet so I sit on my front little deck with this big heavy wooden table. My slap mates, two different studios share the same slap of concrete foundation, are John and Deb whom I’ve known for several years. John leans over and as he does every morning to complaint about lack of access to the Internet.
“Welcome to the Caribbean,” I say every morning in response.
So I sit and marvel at the beauty of it all. Lush tropical plants and flowers are everywhere. Long leaf Palms line the roads. My friends Randy and Cindy took old broken down studios like the ones the rest of us stay in and turned it into a palace. It has everything including satellite television and a walk in shower.
Anyway they planted more Palm trees in front of their place. The thing is all of the other Palm trees here have a piece of tin nailed around them to prevent critters from crawling up them. Randy and Cindy’s did not. So Conner and I thought that they should conform (I know…I know…this coming from me? But Conner makes me do strange things).
So while they were away, we got tin foil and wrapped their Palm trees. Then we fixed cocktails and toasted how funny we are. Then Randy and Cindy, who are quite proud of their broken down studio turned palace, drove up. Randy and Cindy are beautiful people and both of them jumped out of their car, looked at their tinned foiled Palm trees, then at us, and they whipped their heads so fast, it would have made anyone else’s hair flip out of place, but not theirs. They are perfect.
Conner and I both said at the same time, “What?”
I had dinner with Randy and Cindy last night and the story was told yet again as it is every time that we are together. So this morning I watch Randy scrub down the palace and am very thankful that I don’t have one.
Time for the Beach!
It is a different kind of quiet here. The electricity goes off most every morning for a couple of minutes while someone reboots the generator. It woke me today when the fans stopped swirling and I lay there with absolutely no sound other than my own breathing. Unlike yesterday when clouds rolled across the sky, the sun was forcing its way through the drapes and tiny beams of light dart across the room.
I crawl out of bed, turn on the coffee pot, throw open the sliding glass doors and stumble towards the ocean, wade in up to my knees and fall over. This is how I wake up every day when I am here. The warm aqua green water of Orient Bay doesn’t shock my senses alive but lovingly coaxes them awake. I float for a few minutes and then stand up.
A long reef separates the bay from the Caribbean Sea and I’ve learned to see what kind of day it’s going to be by watching the waves break over it. If they are large and roaring then the wind will be up and it will likely rain. When they are small and lapping then it is a beach day. Most days are beach days but the reef and the waves never lie.
I walk back to my studio and pour myself a cup of coffee.
When Conner and Hania arrive I’ll walk over to wherever they are and we have established this tradition of morning laughter. I’m not sure exactly how we do it, but in no time at all we are cracking one another up over cups of coffee and tea. Some traditions are precious and this has become one of mine.
But they are not here yet so I sit on my front little deck with this big heavy wooden table. My slap mates, two different studios share the same slap of concrete foundation, are John and Deb whom I’ve known for several years. John leans over and as he does every morning to complaint about lack of access to the Internet.
“Welcome to the Caribbean,” I say every morning in response.
So I sit and marvel at the beauty of it all. Lush tropical plants and flowers are everywhere. Long leaf Palms line the roads. My friends Randy and Cindy took old broken down studios like the ones the rest of us stay in and turned it into a palace. It has everything including satellite television and a walk in shower.
Anyway they planted more Palm trees in front of their place. The thing is all of the other Palm trees here have a piece of tin nailed around them to prevent critters from crawling up them. Randy and Cindy’s did not. So Conner and I thought that they should conform (I know…I know…this coming from me? But Conner makes me do strange things).
So while they were away, we got tin foil and wrapped their Palm trees. Then we fixed cocktails and toasted how funny we are. Then Randy and Cindy, who are quite proud of their broken down studio turned palace, drove up. Randy and Cindy are beautiful people and both of them jumped out of their car, looked at their tinned foiled Palm trees, then at us, and they whipped their heads so fast, it would have made anyone else’s hair flip out of place, but not theirs. They are perfect.
Conner and I both said at the same time, “What?”
I had dinner with Randy and Cindy last night and the story was told yet again as it is every time that we are together. So this morning I watch Randy scrub down the palace and am very thankful that I don’t have one.
Time for the Beach!
Monday, November 1, 2010
Promises of things to come
fI watch the sun rise over the ocean a lot but rarely do I get to do it 17,000 feet in the air. Flying out of Jacksonville the pilot hugs the coast of Florida. It is black when we take off and the stars of the Milky Way are brilliant in their display. I stare out of the window trying to pick out the cities that we are flying over. St. Augustine. Daytona.
Then it begins. The ocean goes on forever and is black and brooding. Then a hint of pink appears on the horizon thin and distant. I watch it as it turns redder and redder. The black sky turns into the deepest of blues with a growing red line over a black sea that remains asleep.
I can recognize the shoreline easily now and see waves that appear to be miles long softly kissing the beach. The ocean turns from black to gray. A haze of yellow begins to erupt from the red line. The dark blue sky becomes muted. Clouds appear that are almost as gray as the sea and I can’t help but think that they are still asleep but will wake soon.
The yellow haze begins to fade and the deep red line becomes this mixture of colors that reach upward becoming one with the blue sky. White clouds roll in and the ocean turns green. And I feel blessed to witness the birth of a day.
Eventually this one took me back to St. Martin which I love. A day of travel by yourself can leave you melancholy so I was ready for action. After immigration was finally convinced that I would eventually leave the island, I was allowed in.
Because of a lengthy delay, I’d missed my ride so I met Nate, the cab driver. As we made our way to the other side of the island, he happily sang Christmas songs that were blaring from the radio.
“Hey Nate, it’s kind of early for Christmas isn’t it?”
Naw Mon,” he replied with a smile. “It starts Halloween here.”
Alright then. Nate pulled into the lone grocery store still open so that I could pick up provisions. Inside children of all colors and sizes were dressed in costumes, mostly ghosts and devils. As I made my way up and down the aisles, they would come and smile at me and hand ME a piece of candy. One little boy dressed as Superman screamed bloody murder every time he saw one. It is hard not to love it here.
I called my Mom to tell her that I was safe and she told me that I was in the New York Times Book Review. It seems that my book Tour of Homes is listed as one of the best books about Savannah by a local author. Cool Beans!
It didn’t take me long to unpack the storage bin and arrange the room. As I did so Paul and Nancy were knocking on my door. They are friends from Canada and were dressed as Jokers on the card. They told me that they had a place reserved for me at their table for the big Halloween party. It is damn nice to be welcomed and know that you have been anticipated.
So I stumbled next door to the party and the place was more packed than I’d ever seen it with everyone in crazy costumes. My friend Carlos, dressed like a Chicago mobster, threw people out of the way to give me a bear hug. “It is all good now that you are here,” he said. “Are you good?”
“I’m alright,” I told him.
And I am. It’s a new day that was ending with a hell of a party. There is no lack of people wanting to talk, all of them aware of the changes in my life. Like every place there was one who tried to be funny about it but ended up looking like an ass. But the Sabbatical on the road ended with lots of hugs (mostly from the people who work here), amusement, laughs and promises of things to come.
And I am a firm believer in promises of things to come.
Then it begins. The ocean goes on forever and is black and brooding. Then a hint of pink appears on the horizon thin and distant. I watch it as it turns redder and redder. The black sky turns into the deepest of blues with a growing red line over a black sea that remains asleep.
I can recognize the shoreline easily now and see waves that appear to be miles long softly kissing the beach. The ocean turns from black to gray. A haze of yellow begins to erupt from the red line. The dark blue sky becomes muted. Clouds appear that are almost as gray as the sea and I can’t help but think that they are still asleep but will wake soon.
The yellow haze begins to fade and the deep red line becomes this mixture of colors that reach upward becoming one with the blue sky. White clouds roll in and the ocean turns green. And I feel blessed to witness the birth of a day.
Eventually this one took me back to St. Martin which I love. A day of travel by yourself can leave you melancholy so I was ready for action. After immigration was finally convinced that I would eventually leave the island, I was allowed in.
Because of a lengthy delay, I’d missed my ride so I met Nate, the cab driver. As we made our way to the other side of the island, he happily sang Christmas songs that were blaring from the radio.
“Hey Nate, it’s kind of early for Christmas isn’t it?”
Naw Mon,” he replied with a smile. “It starts Halloween here.”
Alright then. Nate pulled into the lone grocery store still open so that I could pick up provisions. Inside children of all colors and sizes were dressed in costumes, mostly ghosts and devils. As I made my way up and down the aisles, they would come and smile at me and hand ME a piece of candy. One little boy dressed as Superman screamed bloody murder every time he saw one. It is hard not to love it here.
I called my Mom to tell her that I was safe and she told me that I was in the New York Times Book Review. It seems that my book Tour of Homes is listed as one of the best books about Savannah by a local author. Cool Beans!
It didn’t take me long to unpack the storage bin and arrange the room. As I did so Paul and Nancy were knocking on my door. They are friends from Canada and were dressed as Jokers on the card. They told me that they had a place reserved for me at their table for the big Halloween party. It is damn nice to be welcomed and know that you have been anticipated.
So I stumbled next door to the party and the place was more packed than I’d ever seen it with everyone in crazy costumes. My friend Carlos, dressed like a Chicago mobster, threw people out of the way to give me a bear hug. “It is all good now that you are here,” he said. “Are you good?”
“I’m alright,” I told him.
And I am. It’s a new day that was ending with a hell of a party. There is no lack of people wanting to talk, all of them aware of the changes in my life. Like every place there was one who tried to be funny about it but ended up looking like an ass. But the Sabbatical on the road ended with lots of hugs (mostly from the people who work here), amusement, laughs and promises of things to come.
And I am a firm believer in promises of things to come.
Promises of things to come
fI watch the sun rise over the ocean a lot but rarely do I get to do it 17,000 feet in the air. Flying out of Jacksonville the pilot hugs the coast of Florida. It is black when we take off and the stars of the Milky Way are brilliant in their display. I stare out of the window trying to pick out the cities that we are flying over. St. Augustine. Daytona.
Then it begins. The ocean goes on forever and is black and brooding. Then a hint of pink appears on the horizon thin and distant. I watch it as it turns redder and redder. The black sky turns into the deepest of blues with a growing red line over a black sea that remains asleep.
I can recognize the shoreline easily now and see waves that appear to be miles long softly kissing the beach. The ocean turns from black to gray. A haze of yellow begins to erupt from the red line. The dark blue sky becomes muted. Clouds appear that are almost as gray as the sea and I can’t help but think that they are still asleep but will wake soon.
The yellow haze begins to fade and the deep red line becomes this mixture of colors that reach upward becoming one with the blue sky. White clouds roll in and the ocean turns green. And I feel blessed to witness the birth of a day.
Eventually this one took me back to St. Martin which I love. A day of travel by yourself can leave you melancholy so I was ready for action. After immigration was finally convinced that I would eventually leave the island, I was allowed in.
Because of a lengthy delay, I’d missed my ride so I met Nate, the cab driver. As we made our way to the other side of the island, he happily sang Christmas songs that were blaring from the radio.
“Hey Nate, it’s kind of early for Christmas isn’t it?”
Naw Mon,” he replied with a smile. “It starts Halloween here.”
Alright then. Nate pulled into the lone grocery store still open so that I could pick up provisions. Inside children of all colors and sizes were dressed in costumes, mostly ghosts and devils. As I made my way up and down the aisles, they would come and smile at me and hand ME a piece of candy. One little boy dressed as Superman screamed bloody murder every time he saw one. It is hard not to love it here.
I called my Mom to tell her that I was safe and she told me that I was in the New York Times Book Review. It seems that my book Tour of Homes is listed as one of the best books about Savannah by a local author. Cool Beans!
It didn’t take me long to unpack the storage bin and arrange the room. As I did so Paul and Nancy were knocking on my door. They are friends from Canada and were dressed as Jokers on the card. They told me that they had a place reserved for me at their table for the big Halloween party. It is damn nice to be welcomed and know that you have been anticipated.
So I stumbled next door to the party and the place was more packed than I’d ever seen it with everyone in crazy costumes. My friend Carlos, dressed like a Chicago mobster, threw people out of the way to give me a bear hug. “It is all good now that you are here,” he said. “Are you good?”
“I’m alright,” I told him.
And I am. It’s a new day that was ending with a hell of a party. There is no lack of people wanting to talk, all of them aware of the changes in my life. Like every place there was one who tried to be funny about it but ended up looking like an ass. But the Sabbatical on the road ended with lots of hugs (mostly from the people who work here), amusement, laughs and promises of things to come.
And I am a firm believer in promises of things to come.
Then it begins. The ocean goes on forever and is black and brooding. Then a hint of pink appears on the horizon thin and distant. I watch it as it turns redder and redder. The black sky turns into the deepest of blues with a growing red line over a black sea that remains asleep.
I can recognize the shoreline easily now and see waves that appear to be miles long softly kissing the beach. The ocean turns from black to gray. A haze of yellow begins to erupt from the red line. The dark blue sky becomes muted. Clouds appear that are almost as gray as the sea and I can’t help but think that they are still asleep but will wake soon.
The yellow haze begins to fade and the deep red line becomes this mixture of colors that reach upward becoming one with the blue sky. White clouds roll in and the ocean turns green. And I feel blessed to witness the birth of a day.
Eventually this one took me back to St. Martin which I love. A day of travel by yourself can leave you melancholy so I was ready for action. After immigration was finally convinced that I would eventually leave the island, I was allowed in.
Because of a lengthy delay, I’d missed my ride so I met Nate, the cab driver. As we made our way to the other side of the island, he happily sang Christmas songs that were blaring from the radio.
“Hey Nate, it’s kind of early for Christmas isn’t it?”
Naw Mon,” he replied with a smile. “It starts Halloween here.”
Alright then. Nate pulled into the lone grocery store still open so that I could pick up provisions. Inside children of all colors and sizes were dressed in costumes, mostly ghosts and devils. As I made my way up and down the aisles, they would come and smile at me and hand ME a piece of candy. One little boy dressed as Superman screamed bloody murder every time he saw one. It is hard not to love it here.
I called my Mom to tell her that I was safe and she told me that I was in the New York Times Book Review. It seems that my book Tour of Homes is listed as one of the best books about Savannah by a local author. Cool Beans!
It didn’t take me long to unpack the storage bin and arrange the room. As I did so Paul and Nancy were knocking on my door. They are friends from Canada and were dressed as Jokers on the card. They told me that they had a place reserved for me at their table for the big Halloween party. It is damn nice to be welcomed and know that you have been anticipated.
So I stumbled next door to the party and the place was more packed than I’d ever seen it with everyone in crazy costumes. My friend Carlos, dressed like a Chicago mobster, threw people out of the way to give me a bear hug. “It is all good now that you are here,” he said. “Are you good?”
“I’m alright,” I told him.
And I am. It’s a new day that was ending with a hell of a party. There is no lack of people wanting to talk, all of them aware of the changes in my life. Like every place there was one who tried to be funny about it but ended up looking like an ass. But the Sabbatical on the road ended with lots of hugs (mostly from the people who work here), amusement, laughs and promises of things to come.
And I am a firm believer in promises of things to come.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Another Journey of One
I am still not used to it. Traveling alone for work has been a norm for as long as I can remember. As the years passed though, I often was able to take my companion with me to wonderful cities and fantastic places throughout the United States. That was fun.
We traveled a lot aside from work too happily knocking out Caribbean Islands until we found St. Martin and this wonderful carnival of friends. Back in those days I kept journals of all of our trips. I would chronicle our adventures and punctuate them with drawings that I did. Memories of good times that now collect dust on a shelf in my bedroom closet.
Last April was the first time that I began a journey of one, returning to St. Martin alone. My friend Conner met me there for a “boy’s trip” because I didn’t have another option. We had a good time as he and I always do but if I could have chosen for it to be the way that it had been before I would have.
Then in June I did it again and Conner and Hania and hung out. What had been a foursome had been reduced by one. It takes getting used to.
Now I head back again. In several days Conner and Hania will join me again and we’ll have fun again, though everything is different now.
Everything about my life is different now. Very little is the same as it was just several months ago. I am on this journey though I’m not quite sure where I’m heading. Everyone tells me how great it’s going to be though and how successful I’m going to be at it. It’s interesting hearing them.
There is no joy in traveling alone. The destination may be fine and I may enjoy myself once I arrive but once you’ve had the pleasure of laughing and whispering and planning all of the things that you want to do as you make your way, well it makes it lonely and contemplative when you no longer have those things.
So I’m off today to return to a place that I love; a place that someone used to love with me. But that is the past. And I don’t live there anymore.
We traveled a lot aside from work too happily knocking out Caribbean Islands until we found St. Martin and this wonderful carnival of friends. Back in those days I kept journals of all of our trips. I would chronicle our adventures and punctuate them with drawings that I did. Memories of good times that now collect dust on a shelf in my bedroom closet.
Last April was the first time that I began a journey of one, returning to St. Martin alone. My friend Conner met me there for a “boy’s trip” because I didn’t have another option. We had a good time as he and I always do but if I could have chosen for it to be the way that it had been before I would have.
Then in June I did it again and Conner and Hania and hung out. What had been a foursome had been reduced by one. It takes getting used to.
Now I head back again. In several days Conner and Hania will join me again and we’ll have fun again, though everything is different now.
Everything about my life is different now. Very little is the same as it was just several months ago. I am on this journey though I’m not quite sure where I’m heading. Everyone tells me how great it’s going to be though and how successful I’m going to be at it. It’s interesting hearing them.
There is no joy in traveling alone. The destination may be fine and I may enjoy myself once I arrive but once you’ve had the pleasure of laughing and whispering and planning all of the things that you want to do as you make your way, well it makes it lonely and contemplative when you no longer have those things.
So I’m off today to return to a place that I love; a place that someone used to love with me. But that is the past. And I don’t live there anymore.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Get An Afterlife!
St. Augustine, Florida was the first place that I came to learn that the world is a much bigger place than what I’d been exposed to growing up in Port Wentworth, Georgia. America’s oldest city with its Spanish architecture, narrow streets and ancient fort made me realize that the world is much more than the Sugar Refinery and Continental Can Company.
I’ve been to the old city countless times and always enjoy being there. So yesterday, mainly because I wanted to go, Mom, Jeremy, Marie, and Chelsea all loaded into the car and we drove an hour to get there. After finding a parking place on the main street, we walked to the Mill Top Tavern, one of my holy places.
With an incredible view of the old city, the fort and the river, the Mill Top also has live music throughout most of the day. So we got an outdoor table on the deck and settled in for a few hours of salt air and acoustic music. We told stories and laughed and snapped photographs of each other.
St. Augustine runs in the blood of my kids, my close friends whom I’ve drug there and most anyone else who hangs around me for very long. And the Mill Top is ground zero for it all.
Once, Chelsea, Julie, and Austin and I went on a ghost tour of the city. The tour guide wasn’t especially good and when she learned that we were from Savannah, she said, “Well, Savannah is the most haunted city in the United States. St. Augustine is the second most haunted.”
“Get an afterlife!” Austin told her.
Chelsea told this story again yesterday and we laughed another time.
This morning I sit watching the sun rise over the ocean, palm trees silhouetted in the dark, and a black sky sprinkled with stars, begins to be invaded by pinks and purples. God is giving us another day to do with whatever we choose to do. Every day is the chance to start over or try again. Whatever life we had yesterday can either continue or we begin a new life after that one.
That’s what I’m doing. Building an afterlife that is much different from the one that I had last year. Like everyone, I’ve already lived several lives. I was a kid in Port Wentworth who became an adult and left that life.
In college it was another life with new friends from different places and then did it again when I went to Seminary. Children were born and a family was created. A career was born in an old worn out inner-city church. I liked this life very much but it came to an end.
Then I left that life for the one on Tybee Island, at Union Mission, kids left, success came, books were written, a love died and another was born and there was happiness. This had been a happier and more fulfilling life than anything before! But now that life has ended too.
What happens now? The black sky is now blue. The palm tree dances in the breeze. For the first time I am living life alone. The love that I’d believed in is gone. And I have stopped the carnival as I take stock of everything that comprises my life right now --- who I was and who I want to be moving forward.
I find myself after those other lives that I’ve lived. It is getting closer to the time that I embrace a new one that I believe will be happier and more fulfilling still!
I’ve been to the old city countless times and always enjoy being there. So yesterday, mainly because I wanted to go, Mom, Jeremy, Marie, and Chelsea all loaded into the car and we drove an hour to get there. After finding a parking place on the main street, we walked to the Mill Top Tavern, one of my holy places.
With an incredible view of the old city, the fort and the river, the Mill Top also has live music throughout most of the day. So we got an outdoor table on the deck and settled in for a few hours of salt air and acoustic music. We told stories and laughed and snapped photographs of each other.
St. Augustine runs in the blood of my kids, my close friends whom I’ve drug there and most anyone else who hangs around me for very long. And the Mill Top is ground zero for it all.
Once, Chelsea, Julie, and Austin and I went on a ghost tour of the city. The tour guide wasn’t especially good and when she learned that we were from Savannah, she said, “Well, Savannah is the most haunted city in the United States. St. Augustine is the second most haunted.”
“Get an afterlife!” Austin told her.
Chelsea told this story again yesterday and we laughed another time.
This morning I sit watching the sun rise over the ocean, palm trees silhouetted in the dark, and a black sky sprinkled with stars, begins to be invaded by pinks and purples. God is giving us another day to do with whatever we choose to do. Every day is the chance to start over or try again. Whatever life we had yesterday can either continue or we begin a new life after that one.
That’s what I’m doing. Building an afterlife that is much different from the one that I had last year. Like everyone, I’ve already lived several lives. I was a kid in Port Wentworth who became an adult and left that life.
In college it was another life with new friends from different places and then did it again when I went to Seminary. Children were born and a family was created. A career was born in an old worn out inner-city church. I liked this life very much but it came to an end.
Then I left that life for the one on Tybee Island, at Union Mission, kids left, success came, books were written, a love died and another was born and there was happiness. This had been a happier and more fulfilling life than anything before! But now that life has ended too.
What happens now? The black sky is now blue. The palm tree dances in the breeze. For the first time I am living life alone. The love that I’d believed in is gone. And I have stopped the carnival as I take stock of everything that comprises my life right now --- who I was and who I want to be moving forward.
I find myself after those other lives that I’ve lived. It is getting closer to the time that I embrace a new one that I believe will be happier and more fulfilling still!
Friday, October 29, 2010
My Holy Places
I’ve taken my Sabbatical on the road. Aside from a brief break from it to do work in other cities, I’ve mostly stayed in the small geography surrounding my beloved back deck. For the next couple of weeks though it is a visit back to some of the holy places in my life.
So that there is some perspective, several years ago I wrote that I love living at the beach and vacationing at another beach! And that is a very true statement about who I am. I fell in love with the ocean when I was a child and can still remember the sun dancing on the sea as my Dad drove us around the big curve on Tybee as he took the family went to the beach. I’ve never not been hooked.
Today I sit beside Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island in north Florida. Chelsea drove my Mom and me down here for the annual pilgrimage to the Georgia/Florida game, as holy an experience as there is in college football.
Two years ago I was able to convince my Dad to make his last trip to this place. He was tired and worn and sick but he made it. And he had one of the lat blasts of his life with the kids and family all swirling around him. It is nice to return here and remember that. He loved the ocean too and we would sit on the balcony staring at it in silence and I could feel a bit of him as I did that this morning.
On the drive down Chelsea asked me to name my “all time favorite” Jimmy Buffett song. I’m not sure that’s possible. “Breath In, Breath Out, Move On,” I told her.
Then I said, “No wait, let me tell you a story. When I was in Seminary it was a bitter cold February morning with snow flurries in the air. It was 7:50 in the morning and I had just parked under a leafless naked tree when the D.J. on the radio announced the new Jimmy Buffett song and it was the first time that I ever heard “Fins.”
“She came down from Cincinnati, it took her three days on the train, looking for some peace and quiet, hopes to see the sun again…”
At that moment I knew that I would be moving to Tybee Island. It took several more years but we pulled it off and it is the only home that Chelsea has every known. And there is a holiness that blankets that crazed beach town and God blesses it daily with new acts of creation every day.
Then on Sunday I return to St. Martin and this will be the first time that I’ll be there without the demands of work back home constantly interrupting me. I may stick the cell phone in the freezer when I get there so that Conner won’t have to even give it a thought. When I was there in June, I resigned Union Mission, stood on the beach talking on the cell daily, ran up a $4000 phone bill, until Conner came over and took it from me. He put it in the freezer as he handed me a beer.
This time there will be none of that. St. Martin is also the last place that I was married and with her. It was last Christmas and I recall it fondly though looking back now I can see how it was all coming to an end and I just didn’t know it.
I have a history of dancing a lot when I’m in St. Martin. I mean almost every single night. There is this little restaurant that is walking distance from the tiny beach studio that I stay in and it has music most nights. Dancing just comes natural in the Caribbean and my friend Carlos who runs the place can mimic every dancer except me.
“You do this crazy thing with your arm that I just can’t get down,” he laughs with me.
It is time for this Sabbatical to have the joy of dancing in it. Bar stools and beach chairs and waking up with the sun shinning on my face. And when I am there, the plan is to say goodbye to the past. And hello to …everything else!
So that there is some perspective, several years ago I wrote that I love living at the beach and vacationing at another beach! And that is a very true statement about who I am. I fell in love with the ocean when I was a child and can still remember the sun dancing on the sea as my Dad drove us around the big curve on Tybee as he took the family went to the beach. I’ve never not been hooked.
Today I sit beside Fernandina Beach on Amelia Island in north Florida. Chelsea drove my Mom and me down here for the annual pilgrimage to the Georgia/Florida game, as holy an experience as there is in college football.
Two years ago I was able to convince my Dad to make his last trip to this place. He was tired and worn and sick but he made it. And he had one of the lat blasts of his life with the kids and family all swirling around him. It is nice to return here and remember that. He loved the ocean too and we would sit on the balcony staring at it in silence and I could feel a bit of him as I did that this morning.
On the drive down Chelsea asked me to name my “all time favorite” Jimmy Buffett song. I’m not sure that’s possible. “Breath In, Breath Out, Move On,” I told her.
Then I said, “No wait, let me tell you a story. When I was in Seminary it was a bitter cold February morning with snow flurries in the air. It was 7:50 in the morning and I had just parked under a leafless naked tree when the D.J. on the radio announced the new Jimmy Buffett song and it was the first time that I ever heard “Fins.”
“She came down from Cincinnati, it took her three days on the train, looking for some peace and quiet, hopes to see the sun again…”
At that moment I knew that I would be moving to Tybee Island. It took several more years but we pulled it off and it is the only home that Chelsea has every known. And there is a holiness that blankets that crazed beach town and God blesses it daily with new acts of creation every day.
Then on Sunday I return to St. Martin and this will be the first time that I’ll be there without the demands of work back home constantly interrupting me. I may stick the cell phone in the freezer when I get there so that Conner won’t have to even give it a thought. When I was there in June, I resigned Union Mission, stood on the beach talking on the cell daily, ran up a $4000 phone bill, until Conner came over and took it from me. He put it in the freezer as he handed me a beer.
This time there will be none of that. St. Martin is also the last place that I was married and with her. It was last Christmas and I recall it fondly though looking back now I can see how it was all coming to an end and I just didn’t know it.
I have a history of dancing a lot when I’m in St. Martin. I mean almost every single night. There is this little restaurant that is walking distance from the tiny beach studio that I stay in and it has music most nights. Dancing just comes natural in the Caribbean and my friend Carlos who runs the place can mimic every dancer except me.
“You do this crazy thing with your arm that I just can’t get down,” he laughs with me.
It is time for this Sabbatical to have the joy of dancing in it. Bar stools and beach chairs and waking up with the sun shinning on my face. And when I am there, the plan is to say goodbye to the past. And hello to …everything else!
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Goddess
Sometimes a dog can just break your heart. This morning Goddess broke mine.
I’ve been gone for the better part of the last two weeks and am leaving again today for the next two-and-a-half.
Goddess knows. She senses it.
Everyday we have the same routine. When I crawl out of bed she lays on her back wagging her tail wanting me to rub her stomach. I do and then I dress and make my way to the Breakfast Club. She jumps up on her bed and I give her treats as I walk out of the door.
When I return she is lying on the landing wanting another rub. She gets it and then I take her for a walk, down to the marsh. If the marsh rabbits are out, she slows into a hunter’s crawl and silently stalks the bunny until it darts into the thicket. Then we take a left and walk out on Shirley’s sad little holy dock before heading down the street to Art’s house where he visits and gives her more treats or, if he’s not home, Goddess will slow down and stare intently at his house as we make our way passed. Then it is another block and then we circle back to the marsh and home again.
This morning Goddess refused to come home. She drug me to Shirley’s sad little holy dock twice, passed Art’s twice, then to the far side of the island, far away from home. Every time that I tried to take a turn towards the house she wouldn’t have anything to do it. This is when I normally run but she was demanding that I give that time to her.
So at intersection after intersection we had this stand off and she glanced at me with knowing eyes. Perhaps the forth or fifth time that it happened she glared at me defiantly and then bowed her head and came to where I stood. She rubbed herself against my leg with her tail wagging.
She was telling me goodbye?
My heart just broke. So I sat down in the middle of the street and just rubbed her and hugged her and let her lick my cheek.
I love this dog and spend more time with her than I do any person. Hours on end she is lying nearby me, often putting her head on my foot as I type, lying beside me on the beloved back deck with my feet up on the railing, or guarding me from whatever might come for me in the night as she sleeps in the doorway to the bedroom.
I am a survivor of a tremendous amount of loss over the past year. Trusted friends, a lover, my father, leaving a career that had sustained me for thirty years…and Goddess was with me for each moment. Most of the time it was only her!
One horrible winter night, I just couldn’t take it anymore and just collapsed in the floor full of sorrowful emotion and self-pity. Goddess shared it with me by forcing herself into my lap and I swear the dog knows how to tell me that she loves me without using words, which is always the most powerful way to say it anyway.
She has grown accustomed to it just being us. When the kids come over or my dearest friends or the ones whom I love, she goes nuts. She loves them too. But for the vast majority of the time it is just me and her.
Mom told me the last time that I was returning from being away, Goddess was different that day. She sensed that I was returning and spent the morning waiting on me. She was on pins and needles. Then there I was. And the very first thing that I did was love this dog because I would never have made it through without her.
I’m leaving again today but she knows I will be back. I love her far too much not to.
I’ve been gone for the better part of the last two weeks and am leaving again today for the next two-and-a-half.
Goddess knows. She senses it.
Everyday we have the same routine. When I crawl out of bed she lays on her back wagging her tail wanting me to rub her stomach. I do and then I dress and make my way to the Breakfast Club. She jumps up on her bed and I give her treats as I walk out of the door.
When I return she is lying on the landing wanting another rub. She gets it and then I take her for a walk, down to the marsh. If the marsh rabbits are out, she slows into a hunter’s crawl and silently stalks the bunny until it darts into the thicket. Then we take a left and walk out on Shirley’s sad little holy dock before heading down the street to Art’s house where he visits and gives her more treats or, if he’s not home, Goddess will slow down and stare intently at his house as we make our way passed. Then it is another block and then we circle back to the marsh and home again.
This morning Goddess refused to come home. She drug me to Shirley’s sad little holy dock twice, passed Art’s twice, then to the far side of the island, far away from home. Every time that I tried to take a turn towards the house she wouldn’t have anything to do it. This is when I normally run but she was demanding that I give that time to her.
So at intersection after intersection we had this stand off and she glanced at me with knowing eyes. Perhaps the forth or fifth time that it happened she glared at me defiantly and then bowed her head and came to where I stood. She rubbed herself against my leg with her tail wagging.
She was telling me goodbye?
My heart just broke. So I sat down in the middle of the street and just rubbed her and hugged her and let her lick my cheek.
I love this dog and spend more time with her than I do any person. Hours on end she is lying nearby me, often putting her head on my foot as I type, lying beside me on the beloved back deck with my feet up on the railing, or guarding me from whatever might come for me in the night as she sleeps in the doorway to the bedroom.
I am a survivor of a tremendous amount of loss over the past year. Trusted friends, a lover, my father, leaving a career that had sustained me for thirty years…and Goddess was with me for each moment. Most of the time it was only her!
One horrible winter night, I just couldn’t take it anymore and just collapsed in the floor full of sorrowful emotion and self-pity. Goddess shared it with me by forcing herself into my lap and I swear the dog knows how to tell me that she loves me without using words, which is always the most powerful way to say it anyway.
She has grown accustomed to it just being us. When the kids come over or my dearest friends or the ones whom I love, she goes nuts. She loves them too. But for the vast majority of the time it is just me and her.
Mom told me the last time that I was returning from being away, Goddess was different that day. She sensed that I was returning and spent the morning waiting on me. She was on pins and needles. Then there I was. And the very first thing that I did was love this dog because I would never have made it through without her.
I’m leaving again today but she knows I will be back. I love her far too much not to.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Underwear (The Next Movement)
I am not wearing any underwear today. Finally! I didn’t wear any yesterday either. I’m back at home on Tybee where underwear is optional and I have literally opted out of mine.
At home I have a tendency to simply wear running shorts and little else until that bastard winter shows up. Today I’m my beloved back deck and will get around to putting on the running shorts in a little bit.
Now tomorrow Rebekah is going to make me put on underwear as she and I have several meetings in town. On Wednesday my friend Jodi is forcing me to put them on for a lunch meeting in a yet to be disclosed place.
I have decided that there is a direct correlation between wearing underwear and attending meetings. I think that like 99.9% of the people who attend meetings have them on. I have another dear friend of mine who told me that she has 67 pairs of underwear. She really likes meetings!
I can only think of one friend who would go to work without putting on underwear and of course he worked at the Breakfast Club. Back in those days the cooks wore “whites” one of the uniforms of a Chef. Kyle wore the whites but never any underwear. So that when he leaned over the grill he very literally showed his ass.
My friend Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club is smart and an astute business man. After a couple of weeks he began to notice that showing one’s ass over breakfast is bad for business. People ordered their food but when Kyle leaned over the grill to cook it they all lost their appetite. A tremendous amount of food was being thrown away every day!
So Jodee got rid of the whites and ordered colorful Chef paints that you cannot see through. Customers ate their food again. He would have gotten rid of Kyle but the F.B.I. did it for him.
But while it may be bad for the breakfast business I think that meetings would get better if no one wore underwear to them. First of all, they’d probably be a lot shorter. Most meetings are way too long and I think that part of the reason is that participants are forever taking time to adjust their underwear.
Then others, mostly women, have bras that they like a lot so they wear shirts than dip over their shoulders so that they can show off the strap. This causes most men in the meeting to not hear much anything that is being said as they sit their staring at the purple or leopard skin bra strap wondering … so everything gets repeated multiple times.
It would be especially good if bankers, politicians, and clergy stopped wearing underwear to meetings. Or to work at all! I mean they always have their panties in a wad about things anyway!
Um…that gives me pause. Probably what is wrong with this country is that too many male bankers, politicians and members of the clergy wearing panties to work and the female ones wear boxer shorts. We already have metal detectors to protect us from things. Perhaps we need underwear inspectors to ensure that people are wearing the right kind of underwear. I mean the President of a bank doesn’t need to stand in front of his mirror in the morning wondering if it’s a see through green thong or a crotch-less black frilly thing.
It would be a lot simpler if underwear were simply banned from meetings. Especially in Congress and at the Religious denomination gatherings, the White House, Pentagon and the Supreme Court (I’m really not sure if any of the Supreme Court Justices wear them anyway. Let’s not even bring up the Catholic Church!).
It is time for a new movement of liberation and freedom! Let’s get rid of underwear in meetings! We’ll get some leopard skin ribbons and have an awareness month challenging people to “lose the laundry and jump on in” as James Taylor puts it.
Let’s do it people! Stand Up and free yourself! Be the first and enjoy the hell out of the next meeting that you are in!
At home I have a tendency to simply wear running shorts and little else until that bastard winter shows up. Today I’m my beloved back deck and will get around to putting on the running shorts in a little bit.
Now tomorrow Rebekah is going to make me put on underwear as she and I have several meetings in town. On Wednesday my friend Jodi is forcing me to put them on for a lunch meeting in a yet to be disclosed place.
I have decided that there is a direct correlation between wearing underwear and attending meetings. I think that like 99.9% of the people who attend meetings have them on. I have another dear friend of mine who told me that she has 67 pairs of underwear. She really likes meetings!
I can only think of one friend who would go to work without putting on underwear and of course he worked at the Breakfast Club. Back in those days the cooks wore “whites” one of the uniforms of a Chef. Kyle wore the whites but never any underwear. So that when he leaned over the grill he very literally showed his ass.
My friend Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club is smart and an astute business man. After a couple of weeks he began to notice that showing one’s ass over breakfast is bad for business. People ordered their food but when Kyle leaned over the grill to cook it they all lost their appetite. A tremendous amount of food was being thrown away every day!
So Jodee got rid of the whites and ordered colorful Chef paints that you cannot see through. Customers ate their food again. He would have gotten rid of Kyle but the F.B.I. did it for him.
But while it may be bad for the breakfast business I think that meetings would get better if no one wore underwear to them. First of all, they’d probably be a lot shorter. Most meetings are way too long and I think that part of the reason is that participants are forever taking time to adjust their underwear.
Then others, mostly women, have bras that they like a lot so they wear shirts than dip over their shoulders so that they can show off the strap. This causes most men in the meeting to not hear much anything that is being said as they sit their staring at the purple or leopard skin bra strap wondering … so everything gets repeated multiple times.
It would be especially good if bankers, politicians, and clergy stopped wearing underwear to meetings. Or to work at all! I mean they always have their panties in a wad about things anyway!
Um…that gives me pause. Probably what is wrong with this country is that too many male bankers, politicians and members of the clergy wearing panties to work and the female ones wear boxer shorts. We already have metal detectors to protect us from things. Perhaps we need underwear inspectors to ensure that people are wearing the right kind of underwear. I mean the President of a bank doesn’t need to stand in front of his mirror in the morning wondering if it’s a see through green thong or a crotch-less black frilly thing.
It would be a lot simpler if underwear were simply banned from meetings. Especially in Congress and at the Religious denomination gatherings, the White House, Pentagon and the Supreme Court (I’m really not sure if any of the Supreme Court Justices wear them anyway. Let’s not even bring up the Catholic Church!).
It is time for a new movement of liberation and freedom! Let’s get rid of underwear in meetings! We’ll get some leopard skin ribbons and have an awareness month challenging people to “lose the laundry and jump on in” as James Taylor puts it.
Let’s do it people! Stand Up and free yourself! Be the first and enjoy the hell out of the next meeting that you are in!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
A Reason to Believe
It is interesting when you live alone and you travel alone. Quiet becomes the norm. Observation becomes an intense skill. Longing for touch and talk never go away. Movement slows down. You learn that you have to get comfortable in your own skin.
In Los Angeles I was with a collection of friends that want to spend time together, eat and drink, and talk and catch up. Most I see once each year. What ended up happening is that my days were filled with people who I care about and enjoy.
At a luncheon I was sitting at a table of twelve between my friends Anna and Valerie. Another Jack Preager of Calcutta regaled us with a tail of how a long dead Mother Teresa made him sick through a boiled egg. The woman is obviously bound for sainthood because of such amazing powers. Jack, on the other hand, is not so enamored with her.
After he finished, another friend at the table, also named Jack but this one is from Columbus Ohio, asked me how my work was going. I hadn’t seen him in a year. So I told him about leaving Union Mission and being on this Sabbatical.
“Oh that must make your wife happy!” he exclaimed.
As many times as I’ve had to stop a conversation to explain that I became suddenly single I still never expect the question or am ready for it. There was a pregnant pause in what had been a light-hearted conversation. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he sensed something was wrong and my silence grew deafening in a second.
Under the table Anna placed her hand on my knee and squeezed. I glanced at her and she gave me a tender and sympathetic smile. On the other side Valarie leaned her shoulder against mine and her partner Gordon looked at me with concern. Maria Brown bowed her head. And even 80 year old Jack Preager, who has seen more sadness and death than the rest of us combined as he cares for the dying in the streets of Calcutta, looked at me and gave me a wink.
It all meant more to me than I could ever possibly put into words. Sometimes words fail writers.
So I cleared my throat and explained for the thousandth time that I now live alone. A blanket of sadness seemed to fall of the ceiling.
Jack Preager immediately launch into another story about a man in Italy who somehow came to own a few hundred Madonna’s that inexplicably came into his possession at the expense of a few hundred Cathedrals scattered across the Country.
That night these same people huddled around me in a bar after I’d gone out to dinner with Eamon and Leila. We drank and told stories and there was a great deal of touching and hugging. Jim Withers was with us and at one point someone took a picture of us which looks like a collection friends enjoying themselves. We all hugged and wished one another well when I said goodnight because of a very early flight home.
“Have a good day sir,” was my farewell from the hotel desk manager after I paid the bill.
Then there was silence… at the airport…on the plane…at another airport…
In Atlanta I sat at a bar between flights staring at my computer. I surfed through Face Book to check on my friends and the people that I love. I must have been pretty intense about it all because at one point, the young African-American bartender, put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me.
“I fixed you another one OK?” and he said it as though he were a Hospice worker caring for a dying patient.
And I leaned back to look at him and what I saw was a face full of compassion and concern, large cow eyes, looking for me to respond back to him. There were a thousand people rushing this way and that all around us. He was busy working serving the hundred or so who were demanding drinks from him. But he stopped everything for me. And I hadn’t even asked.
I nodded unable to speak.
And he nodded back.
And the word became flesh. And the holiness of love filled my broken soul. And that is reason enough to believe. Even when you don’t really want to.
In Los Angeles I was with a collection of friends that want to spend time together, eat and drink, and talk and catch up. Most I see once each year. What ended up happening is that my days were filled with people who I care about and enjoy.
At a luncheon I was sitting at a table of twelve between my friends Anna and Valerie. Another Jack Preager of Calcutta regaled us with a tail of how a long dead Mother Teresa made him sick through a boiled egg. The woman is obviously bound for sainthood because of such amazing powers. Jack, on the other hand, is not so enamored with her.
After he finished, another friend at the table, also named Jack but this one is from Columbus Ohio, asked me how my work was going. I hadn’t seen him in a year. So I told him about leaving Union Mission and being on this Sabbatical.
“Oh that must make your wife happy!” he exclaimed.
As many times as I’ve had to stop a conversation to explain that I became suddenly single I still never expect the question or am ready for it. There was a pregnant pause in what had been a light-hearted conversation. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he sensed something was wrong and my silence grew deafening in a second.
Under the table Anna placed her hand on my knee and squeezed. I glanced at her and she gave me a tender and sympathetic smile. On the other side Valarie leaned her shoulder against mine and her partner Gordon looked at me with concern. Maria Brown bowed her head. And even 80 year old Jack Preager, who has seen more sadness and death than the rest of us combined as he cares for the dying in the streets of Calcutta, looked at me and gave me a wink.
It all meant more to me than I could ever possibly put into words. Sometimes words fail writers.
So I cleared my throat and explained for the thousandth time that I now live alone. A blanket of sadness seemed to fall of the ceiling.
Jack Preager immediately launch into another story about a man in Italy who somehow came to own a few hundred Madonna’s that inexplicably came into his possession at the expense of a few hundred Cathedrals scattered across the Country.
That night these same people huddled around me in a bar after I’d gone out to dinner with Eamon and Leila. We drank and told stories and there was a great deal of touching and hugging. Jim Withers was with us and at one point someone took a picture of us which looks like a collection friends enjoying themselves. We all hugged and wished one another well when I said goodnight because of a very early flight home.
“Have a good day sir,” was my farewell from the hotel desk manager after I paid the bill.
Then there was silence… at the airport…on the plane…at another airport…
In Atlanta I sat at a bar between flights staring at my computer. I surfed through Face Book to check on my friends and the people that I love. I must have been pretty intense about it all because at one point, the young African-American bartender, put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me.
“I fixed you another one OK?” and he said it as though he were a Hospice worker caring for a dying patient.
And I leaned back to look at him and what I saw was a face full of compassion and concern, large cow eyes, looking for me to respond back to him. There were a thousand people rushing this way and that all around us. He was busy working serving the hundred or so who were demanding drinks from him. But he stopped everything for me. And I hadn’t even asked.
I nodded unable to speak.
And he nodded back.
And the word became flesh. And the holiness of love filled my broken soul. And that is reason enough to believe. Even when you don’t really want to.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
How to plan a wedding
Last night, Eamon Sheehan whipped into the hotel parking lot and I jumped into his car and off to the other side of L.A. we went. Eamon grew up on Tybee Island with my kids and I was dear friends with his father Daniel. Eamon lives in L.A. now with his fiancée Leila and is looking for his big break in acting.
I’ve been close to the Sheehan’s since Dan called me one day over twenty years ago. He told me that he wanted me to serve on the St. Michael’s Catholic Church School Board where our children attended.
“Um, Dan I’m not Catholic and am pretty busy right now. I don’t think that I can,” I told him.
“Great!” he replied. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00”
And he did. And I served three years on the Board with him and we became very close friends.
Daniel passed away a few years ago but the bond with the family remains and Eamon and I laughed and caught one another up on things until we parked in front of his apartment to pick Leila up. Though both are from coastal Georgia they are now the typical Hollywood beautiful couple. I had already met Leila on the beach over the summer so we reconnected and she gave me the tour of their four room apartment.
The girl is an organizing master! I still marvel at how they got that much stuff inside of their closet yet it looks neat and tidy. I’m not sure they can actually get anything out of the closet as all of their clothes are pressed so tightly against each other some serious prying would be involved.
We hopped back in the car and they drove me to their favorite Prussian restaurant. Eamon and I had stopped to pick up bottles of wine on the way in so we carried them inside of the place. Leila did the ordering and in no time various rices, beef kabobs, chicken kabobs and grilled vegetables lay in front of us.
“So tell me about your wedding,” I told them.
“It’s in May,” they both excitedly answered, “and we’ve got the most important thing already done. We’ve booked the Tams!”
“What?” I busted out laughing.
“Yeah,” Eamon explained, “we were at a wedding that they played and it was fantastic! We knew then that when we got married it had to be the Tams.”
The Tams were famous in the early sixties with such hits as “Hey Girl, don’t bother me”, “I’ve been hurt”, and “What kind of fool do you think I am?” They were a fantastic beach band and though all of the original members are dead, their DNA was passed on and when I heard them last summer on the pier the music still sounds good.
“Seriously? You’ve build your wedding around the Tams?”
“Yep!” they proudly beamed.
Growing up on Tybee does make its impressions. So we laughed our way through dinner and toasted one another and it felt like I was with family though I am far away from mine.
Afterwards they drove me back to my hotel and we make promises to see one another soon where I will return the favor and take them to A.J.’s for dinner and we will toast one another again. And as we clink our wine glasses against each others, I will tell them. “Be Young. Be Foolish. But be Happy!”
Because they already are.
I’ve been close to the Sheehan’s since Dan called me one day over twenty years ago. He told me that he wanted me to serve on the St. Michael’s Catholic Church School Board where our children attended.
“Um, Dan I’m not Catholic and am pretty busy right now. I don’t think that I can,” I told him.
“Great!” he replied. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00”
And he did. And I served three years on the Board with him and we became very close friends.
Daniel passed away a few years ago but the bond with the family remains and Eamon and I laughed and caught one another up on things until we parked in front of his apartment to pick Leila up. Though both are from coastal Georgia they are now the typical Hollywood beautiful couple. I had already met Leila on the beach over the summer so we reconnected and she gave me the tour of their four room apartment.
The girl is an organizing master! I still marvel at how they got that much stuff inside of their closet yet it looks neat and tidy. I’m not sure they can actually get anything out of the closet as all of their clothes are pressed so tightly against each other some serious prying would be involved.
We hopped back in the car and they drove me to their favorite Prussian restaurant. Eamon and I had stopped to pick up bottles of wine on the way in so we carried them inside of the place. Leila did the ordering and in no time various rices, beef kabobs, chicken kabobs and grilled vegetables lay in front of us.
“So tell me about your wedding,” I told them.
“It’s in May,” they both excitedly answered, “and we’ve got the most important thing already done. We’ve booked the Tams!”
“What?” I busted out laughing.
“Yeah,” Eamon explained, “we were at a wedding that they played and it was fantastic! We knew then that when we got married it had to be the Tams.”
The Tams were famous in the early sixties with such hits as “Hey Girl, don’t bother me”, “I’ve been hurt”, and “What kind of fool do you think I am?” They were a fantastic beach band and though all of the original members are dead, their DNA was passed on and when I heard them last summer on the pier the music still sounds good.
“Seriously? You’ve build your wedding around the Tams?”
“Yep!” they proudly beamed.
Growing up on Tybee does make its impressions. So we laughed our way through dinner and toasted one another and it felt like I was with family though I am far away from mine.
Afterwards they drove me back to my hotel and we make promises to see one another soon where I will return the favor and take them to A.J.’s for dinner and we will toast one another again. And as we clink our wine glasses against each others, I will tell them. “Be Young. Be Foolish. But be Happy!”
Because they already are.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Closer to my Future
Dr. Dave Buck of Houston and I had been in my hotel room planning for things that need to be done to advance the work that we’ve been doing in L. A. At six o’clock I told him that I had to meet some friends for dinner and he got up and walked with me to the elevators.
The doors open and as I took a step to get on he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Hold on! I need to tell you something.”
Now there were three very attractive girls who happened to be on the elevator and I was very much looking forward to the ride down from the 14th floor but the doors slid shut and I’m just left to think about what could have been.
I turned and looked at Dave. We’ve known one another for six years. He is a pioneer in street medicine, teaches medicine in Houston and is currently developing hand held electronic medical records that can be used on the streets. I’ve visited him in Houston and he had visited me at Union Mission. We’ve blindly stolen from one another’s work.
“You know something Mike you’re different from the way you used to be. You’re warmer. I mean you’ve always been nice and stuff but you’re different.”
I was taken aback because this isn’t the kind of things that friends normally tell one another; especially those who only see one another four or five times a year.
“I think that it’s good,” he continued, “you don’t seem as burdened or as heavy or as hurt as you used to be.”
We embraced and I thanked him and we rode an empty elevator down to meet my friends.
It is true over the past several weeks that people have been telling me that I am different from how I used to be. “You look good!” they tell me though when I look at myself in the mirror I think that I look the same.
I called my friend Bob Colvin recently who went through major transitions in his own life last year. “Mike you sound great,” he said after we talked for a few minutes. I told him that he did too and while I thought that I sounded like I always do, his voice was lighter and friendlier than I remembered it.
At dinner in a Brewery because none of us could stand anymore Japanese food, Gordon and Valerie from Hawaii wanted to know about my future. Valerie reads my daily musings and we write from time to time so she is pretty current on what’s happening in my life. Afterwards we found ourselves back in the hotel bar quietly talking what we want our futures to be. It was a conversation full of encouragement.
“You’re so much closer to your future than I am to mine,” she said at one point.
I think about all of these things and know that they are true though it takes other people telling me as I’m not at a place where I can recognize them for myself. It’s probably true that most of us fail to see the changes that are taking places in who we are and how we live. We get better or we get worse, happier or sadder, emptier or fuller and we don’t recognize it as it is happening. Then we wake up one day and we are in such a different place than we ever thought we would be.
Today is my last day working before I return to my Sabbatical (except for Tuesday when my new partner has me scheduled to do all kinds of things). The last two weeks have been a world wind of travel, people and activity.
And it is coming to an end with affirmation from different people and in different ways that I’m headed in the right direction, happier… More content…less burdened… warmer.
Closer to my future.
The doors open and as I took a step to get on he grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Hold on! I need to tell you something.”
Now there were three very attractive girls who happened to be on the elevator and I was very much looking forward to the ride down from the 14th floor but the doors slid shut and I’m just left to think about what could have been.
I turned and looked at Dave. We’ve known one another for six years. He is a pioneer in street medicine, teaches medicine in Houston and is currently developing hand held electronic medical records that can be used on the streets. I’ve visited him in Houston and he had visited me at Union Mission. We’ve blindly stolen from one another’s work.
“You know something Mike you’re different from the way you used to be. You’re warmer. I mean you’ve always been nice and stuff but you’re different.”
I was taken aback because this isn’t the kind of things that friends normally tell one another; especially those who only see one another four or five times a year.
“I think that it’s good,” he continued, “you don’t seem as burdened or as heavy or as hurt as you used to be.”
We embraced and I thanked him and we rode an empty elevator down to meet my friends.
It is true over the past several weeks that people have been telling me that I am different from how I used to be. “You look good!” they tell me though when I look at myself in the mirror I think that I look the same.
I called my friend Bob Colvin recently who went through major transitions in his own life last year. “Mike you sound great,” he said after we talked for a few minutes. I told him that he did too and while I thought that I sounded like I always do, his voice was lighter and friendlier than I remembered it.
At dinner in a Brewery because none of us could stand anymore Japanese food, Gordon and Valerie from Hawaii wanted to know about my future. Valerie reads my daily musings and we write from time to time so she is pretty current on what’s happening in my life. Afterwards we found ourselves back in the hotel bar quietly talking what we want our futures to be. It was a conversation full of encouragement.
“You’re so much closer to your future than I am to mine,” she said at one point.
I think about all of these things and know that they are true though it takes other people telling me as I’m not at a place where I can recognize them for myself. It’s probably true that most of us fail to see the changes that are taking places in who we are and how we live. We get better or we get worse, happier or sadder, emptier or fuller and we don’t recognize it as it is happening. Then we wake up one day and we are in such a different place than we ever thought we would be.
Today is my last day working before I return to my Sabbatical (except for Tuesday when my new partner has me scheduled to do all kinds of things). The last two weeks have been a world wind of travel, people and activity.
And it is coming to an end with affirmation from different people and in different ways that I’m headed in the right direction, happier… More content…less burdened… warmer.
Closer to my future.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Taking it to the Streets!
“I’m really afraid that there are going to be more of you than there are people on Skid Row,” our host told us.
She was addressing a room full of 170 doctors and nurses who are heading out to practice medicine on the street as part of the International Street Medicine Symposium. Dr. Susan Partovi and Michael Arnold have worked to serve as our hosts in L.A. And have organized teams that will invade homeless camps throughout the city.
Yesterday I got to welcome everyone to this year’s Symposium. It is the sixth one and it continues to grow every year. I serve as the Chairman of the Board of Directors and am one of the few non-medical people associated with the effort.
What started out as a small grass roots movement in Pittsburgh has grown and we’ve invaded Santa Barbara, Houston, San Juan, Atlanta and now L.A. And these folks are doing amazing and holy work.
Hand held electronic medical records that can submit for billing as health care is being delivered is ground breaking stuff. These folks are preparing for the future of health care which will turn the current system on its head.
Now if you are sick you have to drag yourself out of bed and go to where health care is --- be it a hospital, a Health Care Center, or a doctor’s office.
If you step back and take a look at that system, something is wrong. It is the responsibility of the person who is sick to go to where the help is. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Should help go to where the need is?
Doctors used to make house calls because they understood this back then. Fewer people were admitted to hospitals because of this. Health care costs were a lot cheaper. Insurance companies didn’t rule who got what and how.
So today these guys are demonstrating that all over again and they are starting with the worst of the worst, crazy and intoxicated people living under bridges, in abandoned buildings and on subway grates! And they are pulling it off!
These crazy patients stop going to emergency rooms and getting arrested thereby saving the rest of us millions of dollars. They learn to trust people again, get properly diagnosed, stabilize and move into their own apartment. They get jobs and then they pay their own way. Some always will need someone to hold their hand but this is a hell of a lot cheaper than continuing to arrest them over and over again. And it stops them from going to the hospital emergency room multiple times every month.
My friend Johnny O loves to look at the mug shots posted every day by the Savannah Metro Police Department. He is looking for his friends I think, but then again Johnny O is not like the rest of us! He finds amusement in the craziest of places.
“We could save ourselves a lot of money if we’d stop arresting the same person over and over and over again,” he recently told me sitting at the counter of the Breakfast Club. “These are people who drink, are sick, and get arrested for peeing in the bushes. It’d be cheaper to do it another way.”
And he is exactly right. And the Street Medicine movement is proving that! And after it is proven with the crazy and drunk person bundled in multiple clothes and pushing a grocery cart full of crap, then we’ll swim upstream and prove that it is cheaper to take health care to the rest of us too.
And soon I hope, when we are sick and hurting in our bed, a nurse or a doctor comes to us. Rather than making us go to them.
I mean this stuff isn’t rocket science.
She was addressing a room full of 170 doctors and nurses who are heading out to practice medicine on the street as part of the International Street Medicine Symposium. Dr. Susan Partovi and Michael Arnold have worked to serve as our hosts in L.A. And have organized teams that will invade homeless camps throughout the city.
Yesterday I got to welcome everyone to this year’s Symposium. It is the sixth one and it continues to grow every year. I serve as the Chairman of the Board of Directors and am one of the few non-medical people associated with the effort.
What started out as a small grass roots movement in Pittsburgh has grown and we’ve invaded Santa Barbara, Houston, San Juan, Atlanta and now L.A. And these folks are doing amazing and holy work.
Hand held electronic medical records that can submit for billing as health care is being delivered is ground breaking stuff. These folks are preparing for the future of health care which will turn the current system on its head.
Now if you are sick you have to drag yourself out of bed and go to where health care is --- be it a hospital, a Health Care Center, or a doctor’s office.
If you step back and take a look at that system, something is wrong. It is the responsibility of the person who is sick to go to where the help is. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Should help go to where the need is?
Doctors used to make house calls because they understood this back then. Fewer people were admitted to hospitals because of this. Health care costs were a lot cheaper. Insurance companies didn’t rule who got what and how.
So today these guys are demonstrating that all over again and they are starting with the worst of the worst, crazy and intoxicated people living under bridges, in abandoned buildings and on subway grates! And they are pulling it off!
These crazy patients stop going to emergency rooms and getting arrested thereby saving the rest of us millions of dollars. They learn to trust people again, get properly diagnosed, stabilize and move into their own apartment. They get jobs and then they pay their own way. Some always will need someone to hold their hand but this is a hell of a lot cheaper than continuing to arrest them over and over again. And it stops them from going to the hospital emergency room multiple times every month.
My friend Johnny O loves to look at the mug shots posted every day by the Savannah Metro Police Department. He is looking for his friends I think, but then again Johnny O is not like the rest of us! He finds amusement in the craziest of places.
“We could save ourselves a lot of money if we’d stop arresting the same person over and over and over again,” he recently told me sitting at the counter of the Breakfast Club. “These are people who drink, are sick, and get arrested for peeing in the bushes. It’d be cheaper to do it another way.”
And he is exactly right. And the Street Medicine movement is proving that! And after it is proven with the crazy and drunk person bundled in multiple clothes and pushing a grocery cart full of crap, then we’ll swim upstream and prove that it is cheaper to take health care to the rest of us too.
And soon I hope, when we are sick and hurting in our bed, a nurse or a doctor comes to us. Rather than making us go to them.
I mean this stuff isn’t rocket science.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Today in L.A.
As soon as I got off the plane my cell phone was buzzing and Dr. Jim Withers of Pittsburgh was calling. Jim is the founder of the International Street Medicine Institute and I serve on the Board of Directors. We are here for the sixth annual symposium and almost 200 health care providers will gather, share best practices and hit the streets to give health care to people who don’t have it.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Just landed. What’s up?”
“Joe is at the hotel and they won’t let him check in because he doesn’t have a credit card. Can you handle it and we’ll sort it all out later.”
“Sure. No worries,” I reply and hop into a cab for the ride to the Little Tokyo district of the city where we will meet.
$60 later I’m at the hotel looking for Joe. He is a formerly homeless Vietnam Veteran who lost his legs in the war. He is nibble in his wheelchair and is a member of the National Health Care for the Homeless Advisory Board and a member of Jim’s Board with me.
I found him in the hotel restaurant enjoying the Asian buffet. Joe has a grand personality and had charmed the waitress into letting him eat without checking in on the promise that I was showing up. Once you master panhandling it can always come in handy later.
“Hey Mike!” he bellowed when he saw me, forcing everyone in the café to stop eating and look at me.
He wheeled away from the table telling the waitress that he’d be right back and rolled beside me to the front desk where we checked in.
“Thanks Mike,” he grinned wheeling away, “I got to get back to my waitress.”
I suppose he was hungry for more than food.
Throwing my bag in my room, I took a walk through the Japanese district but the weather wasn’t cooperating and it started to rain. I made my way back to the Kyoto Grand Hotel and Gardens where we are staying.
“I recognize that cute butt,” I heard someone yell.
My friend Dr. Maria Brown of Chicago was sitting in the bar drinking and eating so I did my best Conner impersonation and strolled over to her. Maria is a teaching doctor who runs clinics for the homeless in the windy city. Anna Murphy who also treats homeless folks on the streets there. So we sat and talked and drank sharing with one another has friends who haven’t seen one another in a while. We mostly laughed though eyes grew moist a couple of times as we caught each other up. Maria keeps up with me on Face Book so she was more pointed in the things she wanted to know.
After they left, I ordered another glass of wine by myself. The bar was slammed and I was surrounded by laughing guys watching baseball and romantic couples holding hands and lovingly whispering to one another. I was an objective bystander.
I am glad to be here with friends from across the country who go to work every day determined to change the world from what it is to what they think it should be. These are passionate and committed women and men. I am proud to be associated with them.
And I’m mindful that while I restructure my life and have laid low at home, it is different when I am in Atlanta or New Orleans or L.A. I have rich and deep relationships in those places. I get a lot of requests from people and organizations to help them do something better or to emulate the things that I’ve done in my career.
So…it’s time to go dive in with them and figure out ways to make this a better place to be.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Just landed. What’s up?”
“Joe is at the hotel and they won’t let him check in because he doesn’t have a credit card. Can you handle it and we’ll sort it all out later.”
“Sure. No worries,” I reply and hop into a cab for the ride to the Little Tokyo district of the city where we will meet.
$60 later I’m at the hotel looking for Joe. He is a formerly homeless Vietnam Veteran who lost his legs in the war. He is nibble in his wheelchair and is a member of the National Health Care for the Homeless Advisory Board and a member of Jim’s Board with me.
I found him in the hotel restaurant enjoying the Asian buffet. Joe has a grand personality and had charmed the waitress into letting him eat without checking in on the promise that I was showing up. Once you master panhandling it can always come in handy later.
“Hey Mike!” he bellowed when he saw me, forcing everyone in the café to stop eating and look at me.
He wheeled away from the table telling the waitress that he’d be right back and rolled beside me to the front desk where we checked in.
“Thanks Mike,” he grinned wheeling away, “I got to get back to my waitress.”
I suppose he was hungry for more than food.
Throwing my bag in my room, I took a walk through the Japanese district but the weather wasn’t cooperating and it started to rain. I made my way back to the Kyoto Grand Hotel and Gardens where we are staying.
“I recognize that cute butt,” I heard someone yell.
My friend Dr. Maria Brown of Chicago was sitting in the bar drinking and eating so I did my best Conner impersonation and strolled over to her. Maria is a teaching doctor who runs clinics for the homeless in the windy city. Anna Murphy who also treats homeless folks on the streets there. So we sat and talked and drank sharing with one another has friends who haven’t seen one another in a while. We mostly laughed though eyes grew moist a couple of times as we caught each other up. Maria keeps up with me on Face Book so she was more pointed in the things she wanted to know.
After they left, I ordered another glass of wine by myself. The bar was slammed and I was surrounded by laughing guys watching baseball and romantic couples holding hands and lovingly whispering to one another. I was an objective bystander.
I am glad to be here with friends from across the country who go to work every day determined to change the world from what it is to what they think it should be. These are passionate and committed women and men. I am proud to be associated with them.
And I’m mindful that while I restructure my life and have laid low at home, it is different when I am in Atlanta or New Orleans or L.A. I have rich and deep relationships in those places. I get a lot of requests from people and organizations to help them do something better or to emulate the things that I’ve done in my career.
So…it’s time to go dive in with them and figure out ways to make this a better place to be.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Goodbye Again
At 4:30 this morning I stumbled in through the door marked “Exit Only” at the Breakfast Club to be greeted by the owner Jodee who was there alone doing prep work.
“Morning Mike,” he said in a chipper voice, “going to the airport?”
I told him that I was and he got me a cup of coffee. We chatted for a minute as he told me that he’s joining Cheryl in Chicago for a wedding and he’s looking forward to the trip. He then wished me safe travels and I sipped coffee as I drove in grateful that there was someone to tell me goodbye and safe journeys.
I used to have that constantly in my life. Someone to wish me off and someone to greet me with love when I returned. I don’t anymore and it makes me thankful for the little things that really do mean so much. Too often we take them for granted when we have them.
Though Goddess did kiss me goodbye before I left the house but it’s not the same.
After I boarded the plane I was people watching as the other passengers drug their carry- on luggage towards their seats. At the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (which is an oxymoron) most of the passengers are from Hilton Head. More often than not I never see anyone from Savannah on the same flight.
So I sat there people watching when I recognize a face who is recognizing me at the same time.
“Micheal!” she said. “How have you been? It’s been forever! I was just at your place last week.”
I am terrible with names and had no clue who she was. I just recognized the face as familiar. Obviously she knew me from my Union Mission days and thought that I am still there.
“Oh, sorry I missed you,” I replied as she made her way passed.
This break from my Sabbatical has already gotten old. Three cities in five days last week, a day and a half at home and now I am off to Los Angeles for the rest of the week. It is for a good purpose as the sixth International Street Medicine Symposium is being held and I’m the chairman of that Board.
Almost 200 of us will descend on L.A, mostly doctors and nurses, who will take to the streets and help another city redefine health care for those on the streets. These are not like most nurses and doctors as they care passionately about those who have no access to care so they take the care to them. There’s something very Biblical about it all.
But to be honest I’d rather be on my beloved back deck continuing my pilgrimage back to myself.
Last night Rebekah came out to force me to have my weekly staff meeting with myself and we spent a lot of time planning for when my Sabbatical is over. We normally meet on my beloved back deck but I had already spent special time on it yesterday so I took them out to Stingrays. She gave me timelines and things to do before next Monday.
I sighed.
I told Jodee this morning that I am beginning to get a glimpse of what my new life is going to be. More trips will begin and end on airplanes where I’m surrounded by people that I do not know, traveling to as many cities as can be crammed into the fewest days.
All in all, I am OK with this. I like helping other people and travel is fine. But it would be a hell of a lot better, if there was someone to kiss goodbye and someone’s arms to fall into when I return.
So if you’ve got a lover, a spouse or kids that tell you goodbye or welcome you home, even if they often drive you nuts, be thankful for what you have. It is a special thing.
“Morning Mike,” he said in a chipper voice, “going to the airport?”
I told him that I was and he got me a cup of coffee. We chatted for a minute as he told me that he’s joining Cheryl in Chicago for a wedding and he’s looking forward to the trip. He then wished me safe travels and I sipped coffee as I drove in grateful that there was someone to tell me goodbye and safe journeys.
I used to have that constantly in my life. Someone to wish me off and someone to greet me with love when I returned. I don’t anymore and it makes me thankful for the little things that really do mean so much. Too often we take them for granted when we have them.
Though Goddess did kiss me goodbye before I left the house but it’s not the same.
After I boarded the plane I was people watching as the other passengers drug their carry- on luggage towards their seats. At the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (which is an oxymoron) most of the passengers are from Hilton Head. More often than not I never see anyone from Savannah on the same flight.
So I sat there people watching when I recognize a face who is recognizing me at the same time.
“Micheal!” she said. “How have you been? It’s been forever! I was just at your place last week.”
I am terrible with names and had no clue who she was. I just recognized the face as familiar. Obviously she knew me from my Union Mission days and thought that I am still there.
“Oh, sorry I missed you,” I replied as she made her way passed.
This break from my Sabbatical has already gotten old. Three cities in five days last week, a day and a half at home and now I am off to Los Angeles for the rest of the week. It is for a good purpose as the sixth International Street Medicine Symposium is being held and I’m the chairman of that Board.
Almost 200 of us will descend on L.A, mostly doctors and nurses, who will take to the streets and help another city redefine health care for those on the streets. These are not like most nurses and doctors as they care passionately about those who have no access to care so they take the care to them. There’s something very Biblical about it all.
But to be honest I’d rather be on my beloved back deck continuing my pilgrimage back to myself.
Last night Rebekah came out to force me to have my weekly staff meeting with myself and we spent a lot of time planning for when my Sabbatical is over. We normally meet on my beloved back deck but I had already spent special time on it yesterday so I took them out to Stingrays. She gave me timelines and things to do before next Monday.
I sighed.
I told Jodee this morning that I am beginning to get a glimpse of what my new life is going to be. More trips will begin and end on airplanes where I’m surrounded by people that I do not know, traveling to as many cities as can be crammed into the fewest days.
All in all, I am OK with this. I like helping other people and travel is fine. But it would be a hell of a lot better, if there was someone to kiss goodbye and someone’s arms to fall into when I return.
So if you’ve got a lover, a spouse or kids that tell you goodbye or welcome you home, even if they often drive you nuts, be thankful for what you have. It is a special thing.
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