At 6:40 this morning I was in a dead sleep when she stuck her face in my face asking “Aren’t you taking me to the Breakfast Club”?
My eyes cracked open … barely.
The first conscious thought of the day formed in my brain … “Shit”!
She was dressed and ready to go.
I was under the covers continuing to celebrate the wonderfulness of a great night. I’d fallen asleep after 3:00 am with my I-phone on my chest.
Goddess was in her customary position with her head in the bed room and her body and her butt in the living room to protect me from whatever comes to harms me in the middle of the night.
She failed miserably.
The company staying with me are excited to be at the beach and are ready to go. Last night I’d taken them to Tybee’s combat zone breezing through Bernie’s, Doc’s and the Rock House. This was after dinner at Stingrays.
I have been a good host.
I do not deserve this.
She leaves and I drag myself out of bed looking at Goddess.
“Bitch,” I say to her.
Her golden eyes stare at me full of sadness. Then she flips over on her back so that I’ll rub her belly.
“Hell no,” I say falling into the shower.
Afterwards I dress and the company is excited and ready to do. I suddenly understand the death penalty.
We stumble into the Breakfast Club.
“Big Night” Johnny O asks.
“Oh yeah,” I answer. He gets it and shuts up. Johnny O and I understand one another.
I nurse the coffee, making passionate love to it, lingering over the memory, tantalized over the smell and the warmth of the moment.
She won’t shut up.
The entire Breakfast Club staff takes a step backwards.
Johnny O leaves.
Everyone standing in line waiting to get into the Breakfast Club decide to have breakfast at the Sunrise instead.
I stand and walk to the back and stand next to Franklin, who is brown.
He looks at me as though he is a serial killer and asks without using a single word, “What’s wrong”?
I nod my head towards my company.
He turns, looks and turns his head back before nodding his head with sympathetic eyes.
With no words being spoken, he completely understands everything.
He picks up a knife and looks at me with hope in his eyes.
I shake my head from side to side.
He sadly looks down.
I return to my seat with a heavy sigh.
A new day is beginning. On three hours sleep I am expected to be a “Cabana Boy” setting up a tent on the beach, running to get them drinks, and chasing the clouds away if they remain over the sun. But if it’s too hot I’m expected to conjure up a breeze at just the right time.
I process all of this information.
Then I wish it was still last night.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Next Chapter
I was talking to Frank Stanton, former Union Mission Board member, partner in the development of the Magdalene Project, Savannah’s first shelter for homeless women and children, and the person who coined the title of my book “Partners In Grace”. I hadn’t seen or talked to him in a year. I remember him walking into my office right after I’d hired Frances Carter. She walked out and he walked in.
“Hey Parson,” he said shaking my hand. Frank’s called me Parson since we met over two decades ago when he’d ask me to speak at his Rotary Club. I had a long pony tail at the time and showed up wearing jeans with a coat and tie (I was a pioneer in the Kroger Bag Boy look!).
“Are you Frank?” I asked the gentleman obviously looking for somebody he didn’t know.
He nodded and I introduced myself. “Seriously?” he asked. “You’re a minister?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
He introduced me and I gave the speech. Afterwards Franks purchased a copy of my first book “The Society of Salty Saints.” We said goodbye and I thought that was that.
The next afternoon Frank burst into my office. “Who wrote this book?” he asked holding the book.
“Um Frank … look at the cover. That’s my name on it. And everybody thinks my name is spelt wrong so it must be mine.”
“There is no way in hell that you wrote these prayers,” Frank insisted.
“OK, you got me!” I confessed. “I broke into a vault in the Vatican and stole them.”
From that day on, Frank and I have been friends. I’d called him asking his advice on things including what my presence in Savannah should be moving forward. Aside from serving on the Step Up Board of Directors the only other thing I’ve done is talk to my friend Floyd Adams who called wanting to know what I thought about him running for Mayor again. (“Floyd, not yes but HELL YES!” is what I said.)
Now living in Augusta but deeply rooted in Savannah Frank and I talked for an hour. We talked about people, things we’d done and plans for the future.
In mid-career, Frank walked away from a comfortable job at an oil company. He cashed in his retirement, life insurance, and took loans out on everything he had to start his own company. In no time, former co-workers were asking him for a job.
“I don’t have a company yet,” he explained to them.
“We don’t care,” each responded.
He told them that they would make less money, have no fringe benefits yet and would work long hours initially. He also promised that they would have fun.
Every one of them quit their jobs to work for Frank.
Within a year they had the fringe benefits. Within two years they had surprised their previous salaries. Several years later he sold the company to a British Petroleum Conglomerate in a multi-million deal. He also signed a contract to continue running the company has he had been with the same staff. That lasted for another 8 years then Frank walked away. Each of his employees did too. Everyone could afford to.
“It’s humbling when people believe in you like that,” he told me on the phone. “It makes you work harder because you don’t want to let them down.”
Frank always blows me away and he was doing it again telling me this story.
“Let me tell you something Parson,” he concluded. “A lot of people believe in you. Everybody understood that you were finished with Union Mission. You hung around a little too long is all. You got some bad advice from people you believed in. But it all worked out. You needed a break.”
I didn’t say anything as I nodded my head in agreement standing on my beloved back deck.
“Parson?”
“Yeah Frank.”
“We’ve all just been waiting … glad you’re back,” he concluded before telling me bye and hanging up.
A John Lennon song is gifted to me as I think about Franks words.
“There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed … some forever, not for better … In my life, I loved them all …”
And I do. But I get Frank’s point. The things that I’ve loved in the past are gone. They’re mostly really good memories.
But I’m gonna love this next chapter more!
“Hey Parson,” he said shaking my hand. Frank’s called me Parson since we met over two decades ago when he’d ask me to speak at his Rotary Club. I had a long pony tail at the time and showed up wearing jeans with a coat and tie (I was a pioneer in the Kroger Bag Boy look!).
“Are you Frank?” I asked the gentleman obviously looking for somebody he didn’t know.
He nodded and I introduced myself. “Seriously?” he asked. “You’re a minister?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
He introduced me and I gave the speech. Afterwards Franks purchased a copy of my first book “The Society of Salty Saints.” We said goodbye and I thought that was that.
The next afternoon Frank burst into my office. “Who wrote this book?” he asked holding the book.
“Um Frank … look at the cover. That’s my name on it. And everybody thinks my name is spelt wrong so it must be mine.”
“There is no way in hell that you wrote these prayers,” Frank insisted.
“OK, you got me!” I confessed. “I broke into a vault in the Vatican and stole them.”
From that day on, Frank and I have been friends. I’d called him asking his advice on things including what my presence in Savannah should be moving forward. Aside from serving on the Step Up Board of Directors the only other thing I’ve done is talk to my friend Floyd Adams who called wanting to know what I thought about him running for Mayor again. (“Floyd, not yes but HELL YES!” is what I said.)
Now living in Augusta but deeply rooted in Savannah Frank and I talked for an hour. We talked about people, things we’d done and plans for the future.
In mid-career, Frank walked away from a comfortable job at an oil company. He cashed in his retirement, life insurance, and took loans out on everything he had to start his own company. In no time, former co-workers were asking him for a job.
“I don’t have a company yet,” he explained to them.
“We don’t care,” each responded.
He told them that they would make less money, have no fringe benefits yet and would work long hours initially. He also promised that they would have fun.
Every one of them quit their jobs to work for Frank.
Within a year they had the fringe benefits. Within two years they had surprised their previous salaries. Several years later he sold the company to a British Petroleum Conglomerate in a multi-million deal. He also signed a contract to continue running the company has he had been with the same staff. That lasted for another 8 years then Frank walked away. Each of his employees did too. Everyone could afford to.
“It’s humbling when people believe in you like that,” he told me on the phone. “It makes you work harder because you don’t want to let them down.”
Frank always blows me away and he was doing it again telling me this story.
“Let me tell you something Parson,” he concluded. “A lot of people believe in you. Everybody understood that you were finished with Union Mission. You hung around a little too long is all. You got some bad advice from people you believed in. But it all worked out. You needed a break.”
I didn’t say anything as I nodded my head in agreement standing on my beloved back deck.
“Parson?”
“Yeah Frank.”
“We’ve all just been waiting … glad you’re back,” he concluded before telling me bye and hanging up.
A John Lennon song is gifted to me as I think about Franks words.
“There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed … some forever, not for better … In my life, I loved them all …”
And I do. But I get Frank’s point. The things that I’ve loved in the past are gone. They’re mostly really good memories.
But I’m gonna love this next chapter more!
Thursday, May 12, 2011
About Face
It was a wonderful start to a wonderful day! The morning was full of sweet surprises and comforts. It was hard to leave the island for a lunch meeting in town with one of the people that I used to work with at Union Mission. That was pleasant enough as I hadn’t seen her in a year and we’d worked together for more than a decade.
Then I returned to the island and the day just exploded. It was as though I was happily dancing along when someone screams, “ABOUT FACE!” The sweetness of the morning became a depressed and gloomy afternoon. As hard as I tried I just couldn’t recapture the promises of the morning.
As the sun started to set I grabbed Goddess and went for a walk throwing prayers to the sky that the evening and tomorrow will be better. God maintained her customary silence. But it was a beautiful sunset over the marsh which is turning greener every day. The choirs of mussels were in full song.
I am not celebrating it as I have been of late. I’m off kilter, out of step with myself.
“This was unexpected, what do we do now?” Mary Magdalene asks in ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ after Jesus is arrested and carted off leaving his followers dazed and confused at the sudden turn of events. “Could we start again please?”
Goddess leads me along the Back River as I’m lost in thought pondering this pilgrimage that I’ve been on for the past year. Life has become a celebration again. The little boy inside of me woke up and playfulness is back. The once extinguished fire in my belly burns again. I can taste the future that I want.
I remember all of the things I’ve done to get here. It’s been a difficult and bumpy journey. A year and a half ago I wanted to occupy an empty tomb and roll the stone over its entrance myself. Thankfully there were others who didn’t think this was the greatest idea. So they intervened and these tiny beams of light shone into my dark world.
After that, this haphazard series of events commenced. Stuff started making its way to me. Invitations to travel across the country led to plane tickets and trips. Old friends came back from the dead. The empty tomb that I was living in began to fill with life. Laughter erupted.
It didn’t happen all at once.
It was like a Ferris wheel ride. I started at the bottom, going up … then down again. Then up … only to stop at the top and marvel at how far I’ve come. Then slide backwards a little bit … then up over the top again, before all of the way down and then starting all over. During parts of it you scream as your throat drops into your stomach and at other times you smile in wonder and contentment.
That’s what this journey has been like I think as Goddess leads me along the Back River. I conclude that this is what life is really like.
“I’ve been on bottom and I’ve been on top,” sings Dan Fogelberg, “but mostly I’ve lived in-between. Where do you go when you get to the end of your dreams?”
I know the answer.
To new dreams ... different ones ... new loves … to a new you …
That which was once old is made new … my house … my work … my circle of friends … my kids … my love … ME!
Goddess leads me home. The day has been a Ferris wheel climbing to the top then dropping me to the bottom. Standing on the beloved back deck I stare at the stars up in the sky.
Up there!
“I touched you this morning,” I say out loud, “before dropping back a bit. But I’ll be back. And this time I’m grabbing hold and not letting go.”
The stars are silent in response.
I laugh. “Fine,” I tell them. “But you’ve been warned.”
Then I returned to the island and the day just exploded. It was as though I was happily dancing along when someone screams, “ABOUT FACE!” The sweetness of the morning became a depressed and gloomy afternoon. As hard as I tried I just couldn’t recapture the promises of the morning.
As the sun started to set I grabbed Goddess and went for a walk throwing prayers to the sky that the evening and tomorrow will be better. God maintained her customary silence. But it was a beautiful sunset over the marsh which is turning greener every day. The choirs of mussels were in full song.
I am not celebrating it as I have been of late. I’m off kilter, out of step with myself.
“This was unexpected, what do we do now?” Mary Magdalene asks in ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ after Jesus is arrested and carted off leaving his followers dazed and confused at the sudden turn of events. “Could we start again please?”
Goddess leads me along the Back River as I’m lost in thought pondering this pilgrimage that I’ve been on for the past year. Life has become a celebration again. The little boy inside of me woke up and playfulness is back. The once extinguished fire in my belly burns again. I can taste the future that I want.
I remember all of the things I’ve done to get here. It’s been a difficult and bumpy journey. A year and a half ago I wanted to occupy an empty tomb and roll the stone over its entrance myself. Thankfully there were others who didn’t think this was the greatest idea. So they intervened and these tiny beams of light shone into my dark world.
After that, this haphazard series of events commenced. Stuff started making its way to me. Invitations to travel across the country led to plane tickets and trips. Old friends came back from the dead. The empty tomb that I was living in began to fill with life. Laughter erupted.
It didn’t happen all at once.
It was like a Ferris wheel ride. I started at the bottom, going up … then down again. Then up … only to stop at the top and marvel at how far I’ve come. Then slide backwards a little bit … then up over the top again, before all of the way down and then starting all over. During parts of it you scream as your throat drops into your stomach and at other times you smile in wonder and contentment.
That’s what this journey has been like I think as Goddess leads me along the Back River. I conclude that this is what life is really like.
“I’ve been on bottom and I’ve been on top,” sings Dan Fogelberg, “but mostly I’ve lived in-between. Where do you go when you get to the end of your dreams?”
I know the answer.
To new dreams ... different ones ... new loves … to a new you …
That which was once old is made new … my house … my work … my circle of friends … my kids … my love … ME!
Goddess leads me home. The day has been a Ferris wheel climbing to the top then dropping me to the bottom. Standing on the beloved back deck I stare at the stars up in the sky.
Up there!
“I touched you this morning,” I say out loud, “before dropping back a bit. But I’ll be back. And this time I’m grabbing hold and not letting go.”
The stars are silent in response.
I laugh. “Fine,” I tell them. “But you’ve been warned.”
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Back to the Cesspool
Dr. Cathy Dunham is sitting in her Washington D. C. office talking on the phone to me who am on my back deck. Though she lives in Boston, she commutes to the nation’s Capitol where she is working to provide oral health care to homeless children.
A couple of years ago twelve year old Deamonte Driver had an abscessed molar that was untreated because he didn’t have insurance. The infection spread to his brain and killed him. The family’s Medicaid coverage had lapsed because enrollment paperwork had been sent to the wrong address. The Mother tried hard to get her son’s tooth treated by taking him to the Hospital Emergency room.
Doctors operated twice and Deamonte spent several weeks in rehabilitation which is where he died. A relative minor dental procedure could have prevented all of this but most dentists don’t treat Medicaid patients. So the hospital ate the cost of treating an emergency which is one of the reasons health care cost so much.
Cathy is working to fix this.
I first met her eleven years ago when she visited Savannah to inspect our work at Union Mission. Representing the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, Cathy was the founder of their “Community Health Leader” program; an effort to creative health care programs. She also runs the Access Project for Brandeis University out of her back pocket.
We had started the J. C. Lewis Health Center providing both health and oral health care to homeless people.
Cathy liked what she saw and so I was given an award at the National Press Club in D.C. along with nine other people who were really doing creative work (most of us remain very close friends). Part of the award was $100,000 in cash which I gave to Union Mission.
Now she is asking me if I know the story of Deamonte.
“I do,” I replied. “I was in D.C. when it happened. I remember the story in the Washington Post.”
“When are you coming back up here?” she asked.
“Aw I don’t know Cathy,” I stammered. The last place I want to return to these days is Washington D. C. I’ve had my fill of politicians and the “Baskin-Robbins” approach to doing business. You go to Congress, take a number, ask them to help fix something, have to keep returning and asking them, until one day the Congressman becomes convinced that it’s an idea that she or he can champion.
Then they fix the problem, or most often fix some of the problem.
Then you take a new number and go to the back of the line and start all over. That really is how most things happen in Washington!
“You need to come,” she scolded.
Damn! Back into the cesspool of politics?
Then again, I’d do anything for Cathy. She actually did a lot of things to make Savannah a better place. In addition to helping funnel well over half-a-million dollars in funding, she visited often, typically visiting the hospitals to solidify their support of our efforts. She also promoted our work nationally.
So I owe her. Actually, all of Savannah owes her. They just don’t know that they do.
“Micheal,” she said in her lilting, New England accent that always has a hint of laughter behind it, “seriously you could help with all of this. You are really good at this stuff.”
Damn! I’d called her asking for a favor. How did this happen? Then again … she’s Cathy Dunham for a reason.
“OK,” I sheepishly say.
“Perfect!” she laughs.
So now the nation’s Capitol is in my future again.
Dammit!
Then again … I’ve had my break. There is lots to do. Before other little boys and girls die for stupid reasons like money, Dentist profiling, and lack of access to the best health care system in the world.
A couple of years ago twelve year old Deamonte Driver had an abscessed molar that was untreated because he didn’t have insurance. The infection spread to his brain and killed him. The family’s Medicaid coverage had lapsed because enrollment paperwork had been sent to the wrong address. The Mother tried hard to get her son’s tooth treated by taking him to the Hospital Emergency room.
Doctors operated twice and Deamonte spent several weeks in rehabilitation which is where he died. A relative minor dental procedure could have prevented all of this but most dentists don’t treat Medicaid patients. So the hospital ate the cost of treating an emergency which is one of the reasons health care cost so much.
Cathy is working to fix this.
I first met her eleven years ago when she visited Savannah to inspect our work at Union Mission. Representing the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, Cathy was the founder of their “Community Health Leader” program; an effort to creative health care programs. She also runs the Access Project for Brandeis University out of her back pocket.
We had started the J. C. Lewis Health Center providing both health and oral health care to homeless people.
Cathy liked what she saw and so I was given an award at the National Press Club in D.C. along with nine other people who were really doing creative work (most of us remain very close friends). Part of the award was $100,000 in cash which I gave to Union Mission.
Now she is asking me if I know the story of Deamonte.
“I do,” I replied. “I was in D.C. when it happened. I remember the story in the Washington Post.”
“When are you coming back up here?” she asked.
“Aw I don’t know Cathy,” I stammered. The last place I want to return to these days is Washington D. C. I’ve had my fill of politicians and the “Baskin-Robbins” approach to doing business. You go to Congress, take a number, ask them to help fix something, have to keep returning and asking them, until one day the Congressman becomes convinced that it’s an idea that she or he can champion.
Then they fix the problem, or most often fix some of the problem.
Then you take a new number and go to the back of the line and start all over. That really is how most things happen in Washington!
“You need to come,” she scolded.
Damn! Back into the cesspool of politics?
Then again, I’d do anything for Cathy. She actually did a lot of things to make Savannah a better place. In addition to helping funnel well over half-a-million dollars in funding, she visited often, typically visiting the hospitals to solidify their support of our efforts. She also promoted our work nationally.
So I owe her. Actually, all of Savannah owes her. They just don’t know that they do.
“Micheal,” she said in her lilting, New England accent that always has a hint of laughter behind it, “seriously you could help with all of this. You are really good at this stuff.”
Damn! I’d called her asking for a favor. How did this happen? Then again … she’s Cathy Dunham for a reason.
“OK,” I sheepishly say.
“Perfect!” she laughs.
So now the nation’s Capitol is in my future again.
Dammit!
Then again … I’ve had my break. There is lots to do. Before other little boys and girls die for stupid reasons like money, Dentist profiling, and lack of access to the best health care system in the world.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Life Without A Net
Sometimes you wonder how you got to where you are. The things that you’d planned didn’t quite work out like you thought they would. People who said that they would be there for you weren’t. Others promised to do things for you and didn’t. Still others proved to be just wanting things from you and taking without giving back. And sometimes you let yourself down too by not fulfilling your potential.
After my run I kick my shoes off and wade into the ocean; salty sweat dripping into the salty sea. Salt preserves things. It adds spice and flavor. It enriches. I baptize myself in holy ritual of preservation.
I’m still alive after multiple crucifixions. I have no idea how that happens. It must be God. Sure as hell wasn’t me.
A huge yellow sun bathes me in light. The sky is a brilliant deep blue. Diamonds dance on the water. Cargo ships are in the distance hauling for the other side of the world. There is no one else on the beach. In the midst of God’s grand Cathedral, I feel small.
“How did I get here?” I ask God out loud.
She chooses to not answer in kind. Rather God just lets the truth of things speak for itself. I am standing with my feet in the ocean on an island that I love surrounded by a small group of people who love me fiercely. I’m living life without a safety net! It fell apart a year or so ago.
As bad as the bad days have been (and they were horrible) the sun continued to rise, the ocean kissed the shore every morning, and the people who really love me did (though I’m still mystified at exactly who they are and who they’re not).
I have this habit of slapping the top of the water and splashing it in a particular direction. I’m pretty good at it and can make huge splashes or very tight, focused ones. Absentmindedly, I start slapping the water. A flock of pelicans fly in V formation overhead.
Yesterday was a day full of work at two different levels. Most of the daylight hours were spent figuring out how to make money in a way that is self-fulfilling, rewarding and honors God. Luckily I have these partners who lost their minds and decided to do this with me. So we spent the morning together in my kitchen working on things. Then in the afternoon one stayed and we kept working until the phone rang and it was time to work on personal things.
When the call came late afternoon, I stopped the professional work to commence on the personal. One of the things I’ve learned is how these can really get out of whack. The professional will take everything if you let it. It rapes and keeps raping until there’s nothing left to rape.
So when the call came I immediately withdrew to the Beloved Back Deck in the shade of Fran’s thousand shades of green and focused all of my energy on who I was talking to. Rebekah was still inside working and finally figured out that I’d clocked out for the day. She blew me a kiss and left. I waved and remained intent in the phone conversation.
When I hung up, I propped my feet on the railing and pondered things. We rush through daily interactions and meaningful conversations without giving them proper focus. A friend of mine prepares for conversations by making notes of things and feeling left from previous talks and prepares for the next interaction. I respect that.
My I-phone buzzes and it is a friend from Princeton, New Jersey. Ted is retired from the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. I’d emailed him earlier asking for a favor. He wrote, “You’re not going to believe this but I was having lunch today at the Foundation and was asking about you. Then I get home and here you are! I’ll call soon.”
Hmmm … serendipity?
Then the night was filled with walks, talks, and digging through the events, false starts, stupid utterings and lucky breaks that got me to this moment.
I think about these things with my feet in the ocean, slapping the water, watching ships sail away.
While there is a lot that I wouldn’t wish on my worse enemies, everything that I’ve lived through has just been preparing me for this moment. I raise my hand out of the water and stand straight.
“OK God,” I say out loud. “I got it. It is what it is. Thanks.”
Then I turn and pick up my shoes from the sand and walk towards home to live this day … that gift from God to be lived.
After my run I kick my shoes off and wade into the ocean; salty sweat dripping into the salty sea. Salt preserves things. It adds spice and flavor. It enriches. I baptize myself in holy ritual of preservation.
I’m still alive after multiple crucifixions. I have no idea how that happens. It must be God. Sure as hell wasn’t me.
A huge yellow sun bathes me in light. The sky is a brilliant deep blue. Diamonds dance on the water. Cargo ships are in the distance hauling for the other side of the world. There is no one else on the beach. In the midst of God’s grand Cathedral, I feel small.
“How did I get here?” I ask God out loud.
She chooses to not answer in kind. Rather God just lets the truth of things speak for itself. I am standing with my feet in the ocean on an island that I love surrounded by a small group of people who love me fiercely. I’m living life without a safety net! It fell apart a year or so ago.
As bad as the bad days have been (and they were horrible) the sun continued to rise, the ocean kissed the shore every morning, and the people who really love me did (though I’m still mystified at exactly who they are and who they’re not).
I have this habit of slapping the top of the water and splashing it in a particular direction. I’m pretty good at it and can make huge splashes or very tight, focused ones. Absentmindedly, I start slapping the water. A flock of pelicans fly in V formation overhead.
Yesterday was a day full of work at two different levels. Most of the daylight hours were spent figuring out how to make money in a way that is self-fulfilling, rewarding and honors God. Luckily I have these partners who lost their minds and decided to do this with me. So we spent the morning together in my kitchen working on things. Then in the afternoon one stayed and we kept working until the phone rang and it was time to work on personal things.
When the call came late afternoon, I stopped the professional work to commence on the personal. One of the things I’ve learned is how these can really get out of whack. The professional will take everything if you let it. It rapes and keeps raping until there’s nothing left to rape.
So when the call came I immediately withdrew to the Beloved Back Deck in the shade of Fran’s thousand shades of green and focused all of my energy on who I was talking to. Rebekah was still inside working and finally figured out that I’d clocked out for the day. She blew me a kiss and left. I waved and remained intent in the phone conversation.
When I hung up, I propped my feet on the railing and pondered things. We rush through daily interactions and meaningful conversations without giving them proper focus. A friend of mine prepares for conversations by making notes of things and feeling left from previous talks and prepares for the next interaction. I respect that.
My I-phone buzzes and it is a friend from Princeton, New Jersey. Ted is retired from the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. I’d emailed him earlier asking for a favor. He wrote, “You’re not going to believe this but I was having lunch today at the Foundation and was asking about you. Then I get home and here you are! I’ll call soon.”
Hmmm … serendipity?
Then the night was filled with walks, talks, and digging through the events, false starts, stupid utterings and lucky breaks that got me to this moment.
I think about these things with my feet in the ocean, slapping the water, watching ships sail away.
While there is a lot that I wouldn’t wish on my worse enemies, everything that I’ve lived through has just been preparing me for this moment. I raise my hand out of the water and stand straight.
“OK God,” I say out loud. “I got it. It is what it is. Thanks.”
Then I turn and pick up my shoes from the sand and walk towards home to live this day … that gift from God to be lived.
Monday, May 9, 2011
I'm Not Dead Yet
At 5:41 this morning a bird assumed its normal position in the tree outside of my bedroom window. I imagined she settled herself in on the right branch, probably looked around, then sucked in air and burst into song. For the next 19 minutes I lay there listening to her. It was impossible not to.
It had been a great weekend! Friday was just this fantastic day of wonderment. I worked most of Saturday but went to a great beach party that night surrounded by friends who love me and Randy “Hatman” Smith playing live music on a third floor porch overlooking the ocean. Sunday was Bar Church, conversations with my Mom, and the most delightful afternoon visit. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so consistently for so long in … I don’t remember.
There is lots of work to do this week. I have a staff meeting first thing then there is a public relations plan to finish, scheduled conference calls, eight different trips to plan across the United States and a Board meeting that I’m staffing in Chicago next week. I also have a book to edit (actually more than one), devotions to write which will be recorded and I’ve agreed to serve on another Board of Directors and now I’m being asked to Chair it.
Suddenly I’m in need of office supplies.
So when the bird burst into her morning song, all of these things exploded in my mind at the same time!
So I prioritized!
First I lay there and remembered a terrific weekend and said prayers of thanksgiving for the wonderful things that now occupy my life. I did that for 15 of the 19 minutes. I’ve gotten to where this is how I start every day. That bird is my companion. She shows up at roughly the same time and sings me awake. I lay there and remember the good things and celebrate them. She sings throughout this celebration.
Then I move on to everything else in the last few minutes before getting up. Today I reminded myself of the things that I want to accomplish in this staff meeting and then assigned myself things to get done on certain days this week.
Tomorrow is a conference call with Boston. Friday is lunch with my dear friend Stacy downtown. I left a message for Skip last night because I’d like to see him again. A few others from my Union Mission days are also wanting to hook up. I think these things as I stumble to the shower.
Goddess opens her eyes as I do so though she doesn’t move. Half of her body is in the living room and half in our bedroom. She’s making sure that I’m safe from hurt.
In the shower my friend Mary Ann pops into my head. We had lunch together last week and she has this way of saying things that immediately snap things into perspective.
So we’re sitting there laughing and catching one another up. She is chiding me because I’ve basically dropped out of sight for a year. I tell her about the Sabbatical, what it’s like to heal and from what, a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, the work I’m now doing and what it’s like to run into people who used to want everything from you but now when they see me, they’re stunned.
“Shouldn’t you be dead?” is the message they convey in their eyes and mannerisms.
Mary Ann burst into laughter which in turn makes me laugh.
“I’m not dead yet,” we quote Monty Python at the same time.
Our food comes. We grow quiet for a minute.
“You know Micheal,” she thoughtfully says. “You’ve done your office time. In Louisville and at Union Mission you took an office and filled it with creativity birthing all of these new things that no one had ever done before. The thousands of lives that you impacted is just staggering. But you know what?”
“What?” I asked with a mouth full of salad soaked in Ranch dressing.
“You’ve outgrown office.”
Swallowing and putting my fork down at the same time, I looked at her. What?” I repeated.
“You had nothing else to accomplish in an office,” she kept going, picking at her chicken salad but focused on the things she was telling me. “You outgrew office.”
I can’t believe what she’s saying.
“There was nothing more to accomplish in one. You look at the people who are doing the most interesting things. The ones creating and making the world better. They don’t have an office. They do it in their garage, mountain retreats or boats.”
I just sat there.
“People who have offices just worry about one thing,” she said.
“What?”
“Corners with more windows,” she laughed.
So I clean the pollen on the table and chairs under the umbrella on the Beloved Back deck getting it ready for staff meeting.
It’s time to create.
It had been a great weekend! Friday was just this fantastic day of wonderment. I worked most of Saturday but went to a great beach party that night surrounded by friends who love me and Randy “Hatman” Smith playing live music on a third floor porch overlooking the ocean. Sunday was Bar Church, conversations with my Mom, and the most delightful afternoon visit. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so consistently for so long in … I don’t remember.
There is lots of work to do this week. I have a staff meeting first thing then there is a public relations plan to finish, scheduled conference calls, eight different trips to plan across the United States and a Board meeting that I’m staffing in Chicago next week. I also have a book to edit (actually more than one), devotions to write which will be recorded and I’ve agreed to serve on another Board of Directors and now I’m being asked to Chair it.
Suddenly I’m in need of office supplies.
So when the bird burst into her morning song, all of these things exploded in my mind at the same time!
So I prioritized!
First I lay there and remembered a terrific weekend and said prayers of thanksgiving for the wonderful things that now occupy my life. I did that for 15 of the 19 minutes. I’ve gotten to where this is how I start every day. That bird is my companion. She shows up at roughly the same time and sings me awake. I lay there and remember the good things and celebrate them. She sings throughout this celebration.
Then I move on to everything else in the last few minutes before getting up. Today I reminded myself of the things that I want to accomplish in this staff meeting and then assigned myself things to get done on certain days this week.
Tomorrow is a conference call with Boston. Friday is lunch with my dear friend Stacy downtown. I left a message for Skip last night because I’d like to see him again. A few others from my Union Mission days are also wanting to hook up. I think these things as I stumble to the shower.
Goddess opens her eyes as I do so though she doesn’t move. Half of her body is in the living room and half in our bedroom. She’s making sure that I’m safe from hurt.
In the shower my friend Mary Ann pops into my head. We had lunch together last week and she has this way of saying things that immediately snap things into perspective.
So we’re sitting there laughing and catching one another up. She is chiding me because I’ve basically dropped out of sight for a year. I tell her about the Sabbatical, what it’s like to heal and from what, a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, the work I’m now doing and what it’s like to run into people who used to want everything from you but now when they see me, they’re stunned.
“Shouldn’t you be dead?” is the message they convey in their eyes and mannerisms.
Mary Ann burst into laughter which in turn makes me laugh.
“I’m not dead yet,” we quote Monty Python at the same time.
Our food comes. We grow quiet for a minute.
“You know Micheal,” she thoughtfully says. “You’ve done your office time. In Louisville and at Union Mission you took an office and filled it with creativity birthing all of these new things that no one had ever done before. The thousands of lives that you impacted is just staggering. But you know what?”
“What?” I asked with a mouth full of salad soaked in Ranch dressing.
“You’ve outgrown office.”
Swallowing and putting my fork down at the same time, I looked at her. What?” I repeated.
“You had nothing else to accomplish in an office,” she kept going, picking at her chicken salad but focused on the things she was telling me. “You outgrew office.”
I can’t believe what she’s saying.
“There was nothing more to accomplish in one. You look at the people who are doing the most interesting things. The ones creating and making the world better. They don’t have an office. They do it in their garage, mountain retreats or boats.”
I just sat there.
“People who have offices just worry about one thing,” she said.
“What?”
“Corners with more windows,” she laughed.
So I clean the pollen on the table and chairs under the umbrella on the Beloved Back deck getting it ready for staff meeting.
It’s time to create.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
64 yrs old and my Mom still gets mad!
Now I’m way past the age of my Mom getting on to me but that doesn’t stop her when she wants to get on to me.
So she did.
I was talking to her on the phone standing on the Beloved Back Deck when said, “I need to tell you something.”
“Shit,” I thought to myself. “I’m in trouble.”
Throughout my life when Mom starts “I need to tell you something,” I was normally in trouble.
I always liked it a lot more when Mom looked at Angi or David and told them that she needed to tell them something.
Now that was fun!
When directed at me though … not so much.
I do believe that I still hold the family record for being spoken to by my Mom in her attempt to orchestrate “pre-emptive strikes” or, as in most cases if I’d already done it, “corrective activity.”
Let’s recount the top five, shall we?
(1) When Robert Mixon, Gene Prevatt and I stole every flag from the Port Wentworth Elementary School so the next morning no one could say the “Pledge of Allegiance.”
(2) The night I snuck out of my bedroom to go dancing and was run over by four college kids on their way to Florida for the first time in their lives, shattering my leg and putting me in the hospital for months. She wanted to put me on restriction but I was in traction.
(3) When Robert Mixon, Gene Prevatt and I stole all of the fire extinguishers out of the company on the other side of the viaduct and the police brought me home from softball practice to inform Mom while she was cooking supper.
(4) The night Mom and Dad left me in charge of the house while they went away for a romantic night and I hosted the party of all parties along with my brother David who was found hiding under the bed when the Port Wentworth Police Department showed up … I think that we just had stuck Age in a drawer … it’s kind of foggy … she was there when Mom and Dad left and there when they returned early from their trip but I have no recollection of her at all in between).
(5) When Robert Mixon, Gene Prevatt and I orchestrated a photograph at the “Root Beer Drive In” of black and white kids dressed as 1950s “Greasers” and I’m sitting on the roof of the car in a black cut off tee with my arm around Debbie Hendrix flipping a finger at the photographer and it ended up being a full page photo in my High School annual.
(6) I know I said Top 5 … but the memories are flooding back now and are overwhelming me … the night Mom and Dad were chaperoning the Mercer Middle School Dance and I started dancing with the black girl in the middle of the black side of the room and never came back to the other side. It was big stuff back then.
Ah … good times.
Not so much for my Mom!
After each of these things she would look at me sternly and say, “I need to tell you something.”
“Shit,” I’d say.
But, she stuck with me.
And she still does.
So I’m standing on the Beloved Back Deck and she’s giving me shit …, er … I mean … engaging in “corrective activity” … over a blog I wrote last week.
“You’re starting all of this new work,” she said, “you can’t write about having staff meetings on your back deck without wearing a shirt or confusing Bar Church with Bra Church. That is just … unacceptable.”
I was looking at the thousand shades of green in the trees searching for some guidance.
“Mom,” I finally said.
It never worked before.
I’m not certain what possessed me to think it would work now.
So she finished telling me what she what she wanted me to do and I said something clever like, “Yes Mam.”
I’m a big believer that life is a gift. It’s one that all of us share though none of us asked for. It’s ours to do with what we want. To share with whoever we wish to share it with … and to withhold from those that we don’t.
None of us know how long the gift of life last or how long the gift of others we love in our lives last either. That’s what makes it a gift to be celebrated every second that we have it.
And I’ve had this gift of this Mom. She’s put up with a lot. She’s also seen a lot. And she just keeps on keeping on.
And I love you Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Hey Jesus! (The King James Version(s) of the Bible
May 2011 marks the 400th anniversary of the translation of the King James Version of the Bible into English. I’m not exactly certain which of the 16 different versions of the King James Bible that we’re actually celebrating but that is not the point. Jesus finally became an American when everything got translated to English!
While it’s only May 7th I’m exhausted from the non-stop parties celebrating the King James Version of the Bible. Every day and every night, it’s something! It seems as I’ve been wearing my robe non-stop since last week! (Of course I don’t mind wearing the robe because it means I don’t have any underwear on.)
Then Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music with Gordon and Davy, called me and asked if I would write some devotions that could be set to music for Bar Church. They will become CDs and distributed to anyone who may actually happen to want one.
Of course I am honored. So I grabbed one of the sixteen different versions of the King James Bible that I have and went to work. Before I wrote a word I got to thinking. “Why are devotionals so freekin’ serious?” I’ve never heard a rip roaring funny devotion. Now Bar Church is a lot of fun so the devotions need to fit the ambiance.
Then I was sharing this with a friend at a King James 400th Anniversary celebration party. The theme of this party was “Which of the sixteen different translations of the King James Bible are we actually celebrating?”
It took us no time at all to figure out why this is a question … editors! They cut, paste, change and do all kinds of stuff. Sixteen different editors mean sixteen different versions.
Then we got to wondering about all of the stuff that got edited out.
Hmmmm…..
I immediately got in touch with Mitch who is an expert on all sixteen versions of the King James Bible. “Surely,” I asked, “the Apostles asked a lot more questions than were included in one the sixteen different versions of the King James Version of the Bible that we are celebrating.”
“Don’t call me Shirley,” Mitch fired back. “Of course they did. I mean think about. They’re all walking down the road and it’s a hot and dusty day. Nobody else is around. This is their opportunity to ask Jesus the stuff they really want to know.”
“You mean the stuff that the editors of the sixteen different versions of the King James Version of the Bible took out?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve actually seen the clippings from the scrolls that ended up on the cutting room floor. You wouldn’t believe the insightfulness of the Apostles questions.”
“Really” I was beside myself with anticipation.
“Yep,” Mitch continued. “Like Peter asked right off the bat … Hey Jesus why did you wait until now to turn water into wine?’ We could have used that a long time ago.”
“Makes perfect sense,” I said in admiration of Mitch’s scholarly passions. “What else?”
“Matthew wanted to know why there were no girls in the Club,” he said.
Again I was dumbfounded at the perfectly legitimate question.
“Judas asked, ‘Hey Jesus why do we have to walk everywhere? Can’t we afford a wagon?’”
James asked, “Hey Jesus! Let’s just start a band. You can sing lead!”
Of course Jesus, being Jesus and all, took it all in good stride. He was focused on bigger things saving the world and all. And in the end Jesus proved right on it all.
But you have to admit. Wouldn’t you like to know the answers to the other questions that the Apostle’s asked?
I’m just saying … it’s something to think about on the 400th anniversary of the sixteen different versions of the King James Version of the Bible.
While it’s only May 7th I’m exhausted from the non-stop parties celebrating the King James Version of the Bible. Every day and every night, it’s something! It seems as I’ve been wearing my robe non-stop since last week! (Of course I don’t mind wearing the robe because it means I don’t have any underwear on.)
Then Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music with Gordon and Davy, called me and asked if I would write some devotions that could be set to music for Bar Church. They will become CDs and distributed to anyone who may actually happen to want one.
Of course I am honored. So I grabbed one of the sixteen different versions of the King James Bible that I have and went to work. Before I wrote a word I got to thinking. “Why are devotionals so freekin’ serious?” I’ve never heard a rip roaring funny devotion. Now Bar Church is a lot of fun so the devotions need to fit the ambiance.
Then I was sharing this with a friend at a King James 400th Anniversary celebration party. The theme of this party was “Which of the sixteen different translations of the King James Bible are we actually celebrating?”
It took us no time at all to figure out why this is a question … editors! They cut, paste, change and do all kinds of stuff. Sixteen different editors mean sixteen different versions.
Then we got to wondering about all of the stuff that got edited out.
Hmmmm…..
I immediately got in touch with Mitch who is an expert on all sixteen versions of the King James Bible. “Surely,” I asked, “the Apostles asked a lot more questions than were included in one the sixteen different versions of the King James Version of the Bible that we are celebrating.”
“Don’t call me Shirley,” Mitch fired back. “Of course they did. I mean think about. They’re all walking down the road and it’s a hot and dusty day. Nobody else is around. This is their opportunity to ask Jesus the stuff they really want to know.”
“You mean the stuff that the editors of the sixteen different versions of the King James Version of the Bible took out?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve actually seen the clippings from the scrolls that ended up on the cutting room floor. You wouldn’t believe the insightfulness of the Apostles questions.”
“Really” I was beside myself with anticipation.
“Yep,” Mitch continued. “Like Peter asked right off the bat … Hey Jesus why did you wait until now to turn water into wine?’ We could have used that a long time ago.”
“Makes perfect sense,” I said in admiration of Mitch’s scholarly passions. “What else?”
“Matthew wanted to know why there were no girls in the Club,” he said.
Again I was dumbfounded at the perfectly legitimate question.
“Judas asked, ‘Hey Jesus why do we have to walk everywhere? Can’t we afford a wagon?’”
James asked, “Hey Jesus! Let’s just start a band. You can sing lead!”
Of course Jesus, being Jesus and all, took it all in good stride. He was focused on bigger things saving the world and all. And in the end Jesus proved right on it all.
But you have to admit. Wouldn’t you like to know the answers to the other questions that the Apostle’s asked?
I’m just saying … it’s something to think about on the 400th anniversary of the sixteen different versions of the King James Version of the Bible.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Gifts
The thing about gifts is you never know when they’re going to happen. That’s what makes them special. Then the unexpected happens and it’s something that you really needed or wanted and joy is born in an instant.
You also never know how long gifts last so it’s best to enjoy them while you have them and not put it off to later. There may never be a later.
This has been a long and busy week with multiple trips into Savannah and long hours doing new work and creating fresh and different things. While it’s been invigorating it also takes its toll.
Talking to my Mom the other day on the phone she said, “You sound tired. Your voice is low. I haven’t heard you sound like that in a long time.”
It was a good tired though; the kind that is born from doing good and worthwhile things.
Most of the past few years, my voice was low because I was weary and spent. I was running on empty and the things that had charged me back up had left and were no more. When my back’s up against the wall I try even harder and you can try too hard, as James Taylor puts it. And I did so it all just got worse.
So yesterday my friend Val at the Breakfast Club chided me because I haven’t been doing things with them lately. After hanging up with my Mom I petted Goddess, hopped on my very sober bicycle and glided to “Social” one of Tybee’s restaurants.
For Cinco de Mayo they were having chiwawa races. Val and Nick own Brutes, a chiwawa who loves sausage. The plan was for Nick to stand at the end of the finish line with sausage, scream “Who’s your Daddy?” and Brutes would set new chiwawa speed records.
It was a hoot!
Phil and Katie were there (though much younger than me Katie functions as a surrogate Mother to me) from the Breakfast Club, Helen, Grayson and others. We drank, cheered and laughed the evening away. We mostly laughed.
At one point I stopped and just noticed everything that was happening around me. Friends were together. The music of joy was in the air. The only thing that mattered in the entire universe was how fast a chiwawa could run.
What a gift!
This morning at the Breakfast Club we celebrated again the joys of last night telling stories of how the race was fixed (Brutes came in second).
Then I went home and Goddess and I played. Just as I started working Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music with Gordon and Davy, called asking me things. I love Sam, his music and his spirit.
Then I got a call and it was unexpected good news that made me happy.
Then Art and I talked forever in his Drive-way while he feed Goddess treats.
The choirs of birds were singing.
A friend who I love stopped by and surprised me.
By 9:30 in the morning I was full of the gifts of life!
And I celebrated.
As I made a joyful noise unto the Lord.
You also never know how long gifts last so it’s best to enjoy them while you have them and not put it off to later. There may never be a later.
This has been a long and busy week with multiple trips into Savannah and long hours doing new work and creating fresh and different things. While it’s been invigorating it also takes its toll.
Talking to my Mom the other day on the phone she said, “You sound tired. Your voice is low. I haven’t heard you sound like that in a long time.”
It was a good tired though; the kind that is born from doing good and worthwhile things.
Most of the past few years, my voice was low because I was weary and spent. I was running on empty and the things that had charged me back up had left and were no more. When my back’s up against the wall I try even harder and you can try too hard, as James Taylor puts it. And I did so it all just got worse.
So yesterday my friend Val at the Breakfast Club chided me because I haven’t been doing things with them lately. After hanging up with my Mom I petted Goddess, hopped on my very sober bicycle and glided to “Social” one of Tybee’s restaurants.
For Cinco de Mayo they were having chiwawa races. Val and Nick own Brutes, a chiwawa who loves sausage. The plan was for Nick to stand at the end of the finish line with sausage, scream “Who’s your Daddy?” and Brutes would set new chiwawa speed records.
It was a hoot!
Phil and Katie were there (though much younger than me Katie functions as a surrogate Mother to me) from the Breakfast Club, Helen, Grayson and others. We drank, cheered and laughed the evening away. We mostly laughed.
At one point I stopped and just noticed everything that was happening around me. Friends were together. The music of joy was in the air. The only thing that mattered in the entire universe was how fast a chiwawa could run.
What a gift!
This morning at the Breakfast Club we celebrated again the joys of last night telling stories of how the race was fixed (Brutes came in second).
Then I went home and Goddess and I played. Just as I started working Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music with Gordon and Davy, called asking me things. I love Sam, his music and his spirit.
Then I got a call and it was unexpected good news that made me happy.
Then Art and I talked forever in his Drive-way while he feed Goddess treats.
The choirs of birds were singing.
A friend who I love stopped by and surprised me.
By 9:30 in the morning I was full of the gifts of life!
And I celebrated.
As I made a joyful noise unto the Lord.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Blowing in the Wind
Archie Davis was driving me to a meeting at St. Joseph/Candler Hospital. We were putting together the collaborative that started the J. C. Lewis Health System and Memorial Health was already a partner contributing a quarter of a million dollars. Archie was convinced that St. Joe/Candler would do the same.
Archie was my Board Chair and was the founding President of the Savannah Bank. My Mom had worked for him years ago so we connected at many levels. I remember before every Board meeting that he chaired he’d ask if I was ready. I’d nod then he’d lean over and say, “Good. Don’t f*ck it up.”
Rebekah on the other side of me would always start giggling when Archie did this which was the beginning of every Board meeting that he ever chaired.
It is very hard not to love Archie!
So as he was driving I was asking him questions. He’d started the Savannah Bank from scratch and it had become the city’s most successful local bank, on the cutting edge of the growth movement of local banks. Archie’s office was close to the Teller’s stations so that anybody could stick their head in and say hello, complain or start a conversation.
He was the opposite of those asses who ran the local National Banks. Archie is down-to-earth, a southern boy, and a very smart business man.
“What makes you successful Archie?” I ask.
He ponders for just a second while driving along before saying, “The people around me.”
I don’t remember what I thought his answer would be but I wasn’t expecting that. Most Bank Presidents are all about themselves. Archie was saying it was the people he chosen to work with who made him successful.
“Sure,” I replied, “but sometimes those people let you down. What do you do then?”
Taking half-a-second before he answered he shot, “Micheal you take care of the people who take care of you.”
And I internalized that lesson immediately. It became one of my mantras.
Take care of the people who take care of you.
“Shower the people you love with love,” is how James Taylor puts it.
The truth of the matter is that things don’t always work out that way. Sometimes it all gets out of whack. You’re doing all the giving and they’re doing the taking. Or you screw up and are never allowed to forget it. Faults, which are just part being human, are exaggerated and used as emotional currency to blackmail.
I don’t know about you but this just makes me try harder. And the funny thing about that is the harder you try the more it gets out of whack.
“Try not to try too hard,” James Taylor was quoted in a wedding I was once in.
But I did and the promises of that wedding blew away in the wind.
Archie is staring at me now. He’s taken aback by my questions.
“So Archie,” I asked contemplatively, “how did you get started with all of this?”
He laughs out loud.
“Oh I got fired.”
“What?” I ask in disbelief. He’d been an icon at the C&S Bank, now Bank of America when my Mother worked for him.
“Yeah,” he continues still laughing, “I took a year off and then they asked me to start the Savannah Bank. It’s all been good since.”
I remember being stunned.
An hour later, Archie delivered St. Joe/Candler as an equal funding partner with Memorial Health in the creation of the J. C. Lewis Health Center. Two competing hospital systems immediately drew the attention of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation who matched both hospitals contributions with half-a-million dollars.
There’s big money in homelessness!
That’s not true. There’s big money in creativity!
And the secret to meaningful relationships, which is not the same as longevity, is always creating and re-creating yourself. Stay the same and die is a new mantra of mine.
Archie had his year. I’m finishing mine.
It’s time to create.
I’ll try not to try too hard.
Archie was my Board Chair and was the founding President of the Savannah Bank. My Mom had worked for him years ago so we connected at many levels. I remember before every Board meeting that he chaired he’d ask if I was ready. I’d nod then he’d lean over and say, “Good. Don’t f*ck it up.”
Rebekah on the other side of me would always start giggling when Archie did this which was the beginning of every Board meeting that he ever chaired.
It is very hard not to love Archie!
So as he was driving I was asking him questions. He’d started the Savannah Bank from scratch and it had become the city’s most successful local bank, on the cutting edge of the growth movement of local banks. Archie’s office was close to the Teller’s stations so that anybody could stick their head in and say hello, complain or start a conversation.
He was the opposite of those asses who ran the local National Banks. Archie is down-to-earth, a southern boy, and a very smart business man.
“What makes you successful Archie?” I ask.
He ponders for just a second while driving along before saying, “The people around me.”
I don’t remember what I thought his answer would be but I wasn’t expecting that. Most Bank Presidents are all about themselves. Archie was saying it was the people he chosen to work with who made him successful.
“Sure,” I replied, “but sometimes those people let you down. What do you do then?”
Taking half-a-second before he answered he shot, “Micheal you take care of the people who take care of you.”
And I internalized that lesson immediately. It became one of my mantras.
Take care of the people who take care of you.
“Shower the people you love with love,” is how James Taylor puts it.
The truth of the matter is that things don’t always work out that way. Sometimes it all gets out of whack. You’re doing all the giving and they’re doing the taking. Or you screw up and are never allowed to forget it. Faults, which are just part being human, are exaggerated and used as emotional currency to blackmail.
I don’t know about you but this just makes me try harder. And the funny thing about that is the harder you try the more it gets out of whack.
“Try not to try too hard,” James Taylor was quoted in a wedding I was once in.
But I did and the promises of that wedding blew away in the wind.
Archie is staring at me now. He’s taken aback by my questions.
“So Archie,” I asked contemplatively, “how did you get started with all of this?”
He laughs out loud.
“Oh I got fired.”
“What?” I ask in disbelief. He’d been an icon at the C&S Bank, now Bank of America when my Mother worked for him.
“Yeah,” he continues still laughing, “I took a year off and then they asked me to start the Savannah Bank. It’s all been good since.”
I remember being stunned.
An hour later, Archie delivered St. Joe/Candler as an equal funding partner with Memorial Health in the creation of the J. C. Lewis Health Center. Two competing hospital systems immediately drew the attention of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation who matched both hospitals contributions with half-a-million dollars.
There’s big money in homelessness!
That’s not true. There’s big money in creativity!
And the secret to meaningful relationships, which is not the same as longevity, is always creating and re-creating yourself. Stay the same and die is a new mantra of mine.
Archie had his year. I’m finishing mine.
It’s time to create.
I’ll try not to try too hard.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Balance
Every morning and every afternoon I check the mail, meaning e-mail, Face Book, Instant messages and Twitter notifications. I go to the Post Office once a week, maybe, to get regular mail which usually must be pried from the box. Yesterday I noticed that the number of emails now pale in comparison to these other ways of communicating.
Of course snail mail is mostly mass advertising and credit card applications.
On a daily basis from Alaska to south Florida and from New York to Hawaii my conversations take place in real time. Most are about my daily musings, followed by work related questions then travel planning because of work and finally just having fun.
Snail mail and most email are now mostly passé. Aside from the occasional personal note, they are impersonal and take out the human factor of life and work.
The more immediate and instant modes of communication are taking their place. Web pages are also quickly becoming passé because they’re not interactive and people want communication, answers and service in real time. So I can talk to Ida in Alaska and immediately answer her question. Or my daughter is in London and we Skype and Face Book to stay current on a daily basis.
Communicating this way has led to meeting new friends in person, reconnecting with old friends, questions about work have led to business, and even when a tornado blew through my son’s living room volunteers were immediately available and friends from State and Federal agencies were letting me know how they can help … in real time!
For most of the past year my life has been on Tybee Island but my discussions have been World-wide. Jose in San Juan, Jacob in Norway and Kurt in Croatia all chime in with regularity. Of course my St. Martin friends want to know how Goddess is doing and when Conner and I will return.
This is the way that the world now works.
So yesterday it was funny when I left this way of doing things to meet my mentor and friend Ben Barnes for lunch at the Starfish Café. And though cyber-hugs are great they’ll never replace the real touch of people who love you when they see you. When I walked in Chef Paul and Gloria came running with real hugs and kisses.
People I used to work came and did the same. Francis Carter who now runs Union Mission was hosting a women’s gathering for United Way. As ladies arrived many saw me for the first time in a year and made their way over for hugs and conversations.
“Micheal!” one yelled, “I thought you were …”
“Dead” I finished for her.
She released me from the hug and finished for herself, “Gone.”
“Nope,” I replied “just been lying low.”
But the fact of the matter is that I really haven’t laid low. I’ve just used different ways to stay in touch. For the most part I’ve left Savannah to Francis, a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, and those now in charge of things. I had my run and made my differences and how it’s their turn (well not the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … he’s done).
Every day I’ve posted what’s been happening in my life, both personally and professionally. When I discovered that I was suddenly single, I wrote about what it was like and I was overwhelmed with how people responded. I said things that many felt but keep to themselves and don’t say. They reached out and these dialogues began that led to … support, personal meetings and church (in the real sense of the word).
I wrote about living on Tybee Island, the Bored meeting, drunken bicycles, my deck, my dog, Bar Church and a sad little holy dock. And people responded in ways I never would have imagined. One wrote asking for a photograph for Face Book of me on the Beloved Back deck with Goddess and my drunken bicycle (Nancy or Julia … we might have to do this).
Another asked if I would conduct a worship service on Shirley’s sad little holy dock? If anybody actually showed up, it would collapse.
Describing my travels and the amazing work that I see and get to participate in, lots of people have gotten in touch and I either answered their questions or made cyber-introductions to those who are the experts.
Other times I just share what is going on, funny or sad, personal or professional, inside or outside. Again I remain stunned at the response. One friend got on the Internet and took a virtual tour of the walk that I take Goddess on every day. He found aerial views of the beloved back deck, the sad little holy dock and even where Art gives Goddess treats. He is a long retired Georgia Tech man and though he doesn’t travel outside of a five mile radius, the man gets around!
So last week I decided it was time for balance (meaning Rebekah and Jodi were telling me to get out in public in the old fashion way). I’m starting close at home. There are meetings in Savannah all week and all through next week. I’ll enter the juggling act of balancing the new with the old.
Now that I think about it … that’s what I’ve always done.
Of course snail mail is mostly mass advertising and credit card applications.
On a daily basis from Alaska to south Florida and from New York to Hawaii my conversations take place in real time. Most are about my daily musings, followed by work related questions then travel planning because of work and finally just having fun.
Snail mail and most email are now mostly passé. Aside from the occasional personal note, they are impersonal and take out the human factor of life and work.
The more immediate and instant modes of communication are taking their place. Web pages are also quickly becoming passé because they’re not interactive and people want communication, answers and service in real time. So I can talk to Ida in Alaska and immediately answer her question. Or my daughter is in London and we Skype and Face Book to stay current on a daily basis.
Communicating this way has led to meeting new friends in person, reconnecting with old friends, questions about work have led to business, and even when a tornado blew through my son’s living room volunteers were immediately available and friends from State and Federal agencies were letting me know how they can help … in real time!
For most of the past year my life has been on Tybee Island but my discussions have been World-wide. Jose in San Juan, Jacob in Norway and Kurt in Croatia all chime in with regularity. Of course my St. Martin friends want to know how Goddess is doing and when Conner and I will return.
This is the way that the world now works.
So yesterday it was funny when I left this way of doing things to meet my mentor and friend Ben Barnes for lunch at the Starfish Café. And though cyber-hugs are great they’ll never replace the real touch of people who love you when they see you. When I walked in Chef Paul and Gloria came running with real hugs and kisses.
People I used to work came and did the same. Francis Carter who now runs Union Mission was hosting a women’s gathering for United Way. As ladies arrived many saw me for the first time in a year and made their way over for hugs and conversations.
“Micheal!” one yelled, “I thought you were …”
“Dead” I finished for her.
She released me from the hug and finished for herself, “Gone.”
“Nope,” I replied “just been lying low.”
But the fact of the matter is that I really haven’t laid low. I’ve just used different ways to stay in touch. For the most part I’ve left Savannah to Francis, a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, and those now in charge of things. I had my run and made my differences and how it’s their turn (well not the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … he’s done).
Every day I’ve posted what’s been happening in my life, both personally and professionally. When I discovered that I was suddenly single, I wrote about what it was like and I was overwhelmed with how people responded. I said things that many felt but keep to themselves and don’t say. They reached out and these dialogues began that led to … support, personal meetings and church (in the real sense of the word).
I wrote about living on Tybee Island, the Bored meeting, drunken bicycles, my deck, my dog, Bar Church and a sad little holy dock. And people responded in ways I never would have imagined. One wrote asking for a photograph for Face Book of me on the Beloved Back deck with Goddess and my drunken bicycle (Nancy or Julia … we might have to do this).
Another asked if I would conduct a worship service on Shirley’s sad little holy dock? If anybody actually showed up, it would collapse.
Describing my travels and the amazing work that I see and get to participate in, lots of people have gotten in touch and I either answered their questions or made cyber-introductions to those who are the experts.
Other times I just share what is going on, funny or sad, personal or professional, inside or outside. Again I remain stunned at the response. One friend got on the Internet and took a virtual tour of the walk that I take Goddess on every day. He found aerial views of the beloved back deck, the sad little holy dock and even where Art gives Goddess treats. He is a long retired Georgia Tech man and though he doesn’t travel outside of a five mile radius, the man gets around!
So last week I decided it was time for balance (meaning Rebekah and Jodi were telling me to get out in public in the old fashion way). I’m starting close at home. There are meetings in Savannah all week and all through next week. I’ll enter the juggling act of balancing the new with the old.
Now that I think about it … that’s what I’ve always done.
Scars
I’m standing in the still of the night under a hazy silver of moon that looks like a bowl just of above the trees that I call Fran’s thousands of green. There are stars above it and they look like sprinkles dropping into the bowl or cereal.
My neighbor has left all of the lights are on in her house, on her back porch and her television is on. She lives alone so maybe this is her way of adding additional protection. Maybe she just doesn’t want to feel alone. There is no sign of her anywhere so I assume she’s asleep on her sofa.
It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m lost in thought standing on the back deck.
There is no breeze … no rustling of leaves and no birds are singing. There is no traffic in the distance. The only sound is that of my own breathing.
Goddess is asleep in the doorway of my bedroom with half of her body in the bedroom and half in the living room. She used to sleep on her benches or her bed but sometime over the past year some protective spirit kicked in and she sleeps like this every night so that whatever she thinks is coming to hurt me has to get by her first.
After half an hour of staring out of the five windows that I can see out of in my bedroom, I get up and step over her and come outside. I am restless for the future to arrive now. I want the things that I’m wishing for. I’m telling myself to concentrate on these things and go back to bed.
I’d woken up with the image of scars ... and the people who inflicted them on me ... and the ones that are self-inflicted. I reach down and rub the scar just below my right knee where the pin had been placed to straighten out a shattered leg.
I rub the scar under the upside down moon in the bright darkness of a funny night.
This scar is self-inflicted. I’d snuck out of the house to go dancing only to be hit by car shattering my leg. Six weeks in traction in the hospital, followed by eight weeks in a body cast, was followed by a shriveled leg half the size of its companion.
I remember going back to school for the first time in months, embarrassed when it was time for P. E. I remember Maurice making fun of the shriveled leg. We’d played football together. Then Coach Greg Talley told us to line up and run.
I couldn’t believe it!
But I ran, one strong leg followed by a remnant of a leg going through the motions. And it hurt. And the embarrassment grew because I was no longer what I was. Maurice and others laughed as I made my way to the finish line far behind the last person in front of me. I was sweating, gasping for far, my leg was killing me and I hated every damn one them.
“The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places,” Hemingway wrote. “But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good, and the very gentle, and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.”
In the midst of being broken … things were born inside of me that day.
I began to run. I did leg squats like nobody else would. I’d stand on the edge of steps and bounce up and down building my calf. Then I remember later racing past Maurice at the finish line and immediately turning just to watch him cross it behind me. Then I slapped my hand in the air dismissing him.
My finger traces the scar in the bright dark of an upside down moon.
The scars that were inflicted by others run through my mind. And I call each of them by name in the still of the night.
And I cuss them.
Something moves in the yard and I look down. The Palm Tree has a face … eyes, nose and mouth made out of oyster shells … and the haze of the moon illuminates the face. It smiles at me.
I stare at it, amused by my thoughts and its smile.
Then I’m struck that I’ll always have these scars. And the ones inflicted by others are far worse than the ones that I inflicted on myself. And I cuss them again in the middle of the night for stealing sleep from me when they’ve already taken so many other things.
But ...
It is that future that I care about.
And I will race passed the past …
Then I’ll turn around and smile ...
… because I am strong at the broken places ...
Then I go back inside, step over Goddess and sleep soundly.
My neighbor has left all of the lights are on in her house, on her back porch and her television is on. She lives alone so maybe this is her way of adding additional protection. Maybe she just doesn’t want to feel alone. There is no sign of her anywhere so I assume she’s asleep on her sofa.
It’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m lost in thought standing on the back deck.
There is no breeze … no rustling of leaves and no birds are singing. There is no traffic in the distance. The only sound is that of my own breathing.
Goddess is asleep in the doorway of my bedroom with half of her body in the bedroom and half in the living room. She used to sleep on her benches or her bed but sometime over the past year some protective spirit kicked in and she sleeps like this every night so that whatever she thinks is coming to hurt me has to get by her first.
After half an hour of staring out of the five windows that I can see out of in my bedroom, I get up and step over her and come outside. I am restless for the future to arrive now. I want the things that I’m wishing for. I’m telling myself to concentrate on these things and go back to bed.
I’d woken up with the image of scars ... and the people who inflicted them on me ... and the ones that are self-inflicted. I reach down and rub the scar just below my right knee where the pin had been placed to straighten out a shattered leg.
I rub the scar under the upside down moon in the bright darkness of a funny night.
This scar is self-inflicted. I’d snuck out of the house to go dancing only to be hit by car shattering my leg. Six weeks in traction in the hospital, followed by eight weeks in a body cast, was followed by a shriveled leg half the size of its companion.
I remember going back to school for the first time in months, embarrassed when it was time for P. E. I remember Maurice making fun of the shriveled leg. We’d played football together. Then Coach Greg Talley told us to line up and run.
I couldn’t believe it!
But I ran, one strong leg followed by a remnant of a leg going through the motions. And it hurt. And the embarrassment grew because I was no longer what I was. Maurice and others laughed as I made my way to the finish line far behind the last person in front of me. I was sweating, gasping for far, my leg was killing me and I hated every damn one them.
“The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places,” Hemingway wrote. “But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good, and the very gentle, and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.”
In the midst of being broken … things were born inside of me that day.
I began to run. I did leg squats like nobody else would. I’d stand on the edge of steps and bounce up and down building my calf. Then I remember later racing past Maurice at the finish line and immediately turning just to watch him cross it behind me. Then I slapped my hand in the air dismissing him.
My finger traces the scar in the bright dark of an upside down moon.
The scars that were inflicted by others run through my mind. And I call each of them by name in the still of the night.
And I cuss them.
Something moves in the yard and I look down. The Palm Tree has a face … eyes, nose and mouth made out of oyster shells … and the haze of the moon illuminates the face. It smiles at me.
I stare at it, amused by my thoughts and its smile.
Then I’m struck that I’ll always have these scars. And the ones inflicted by others are far worse than the ones that I inflicted on myself. And I cuss them again in the middle of the night for stealing sleep from me when they’ve already taken so many other things.
But ...
It is that future that I care about.
And I will race passed the past …
Then I’ll turn around and smile ...
… because I am strong at the broken places ...
Then I go back inside, step over Goddess and sleep soundly.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Staff Meeting
The three of us huddled around my tiny kitchen table with notebooks spread out before us running through a diverse agenda. My kitchen also serves as the Executive Conference Room for the new company we’ve started. It’s kind of nice because the fridge is right there if anybody wants anything. “Acoustic Café” my Sunday morning ritual is playing on the radio. If things get touchy, the liquor cabinet is also within arm’s reach.
The kitchen/Executive Conference Room is adjacent to my Beloved Back Deck which also serves as the Executive Offices of the President/CEO. We’re establishing satellite offices on Wilmington Island and Pooler (more on the expansion plans later). The living room completes the Corporate Headquarters although we haven’t figured out its use yet.
We’re having our first staff meeting. We’ve meet over lunch a couple of times but this is the first official staff meeting and we’re dressed for the occasion. I have on running shorts and a tee shirt.
I’ve really missed corporate life!
For years I ran a weekly management meeting with all of my direct reports. I tried to keep it light and fun because the issues we were managing were so serious and dark. Over time, I turned over the management of the management meeting to a Chief Operating Officer. She was a bit more serious about it all than me though she rarely showed up on time.
Towards the end at Union Mission I took to taking the entire management team out to lunch for meetings at Johnny Harris’s, a Savannah institution. None of the African-Americans liked it but it is where old Savannah goes (all white) for meetings. In Savannah most every important decision takes place over lunch. I’m not sure why this is, but it is.
Besides I really like their “Noon Special”
We’d gotten through a lot of trauma and everybody was working killer hours so I thought it important to lighten everything up a bit. Not that I was especially light at the time. I was depressed.
Anyway a year has passed since I’ve haven’t hosted a staff meeting ... or a meeting of any kind. I do attend Bored meeting but I don’t think that counts.
But yesterday we met for about three hours. One showed up Bra-less because she thought we were going to Bar Church and when she’d asked me what people wear to Bar Church, I thought she’d said Bra-Church and told her that I’d never seen one there.
The other wore blue jean shorts and some designer tee shirt.
I must say that I’m very pleased with the corporate culture we are establishing in the new Corporate Headquarters of the new company we have started.
To commemorate the “soft” launch of the new company I’d cooked sausage gravy and biscuits for brunch which was served in the kitchen/Corporate Board Room. This was a symbolic decision on my part. Sausage gravy and biscuits launched my career in Louisville when I’d craw out of bed on Sunday mornings and cook it for over a hundred homeless people because all of the soup kitchens were closed for the weekend (who knew hunger took time off?).
Those Sunday morning breakfasts were the starting point of a career that has been amazing. Well … up until last year. But it’s kind of like the wedding renewal vows that I’m conducting on the beach later today. They’ve been married 25 years and want to renew their vows. So we’ll gather on the beach and I’ll say something like …
“Dearly Beloved! We are here today to celebrate O Johnny and Judy’s 25th wedding anniversary … 16 of the happiest years of their lives.”
21 out of 23 years for me isn’t too shabby!
Anyway … I wanted to signify the launch of this effort is going to be just as amazing as that first one was. Jesus started the whole “Born Again” movement with a Last Supper consisting of bread and wine. I figured sausage gravy and biscuits, served with screwdrivers is perfect for this endeavor.
At some point we left the kitchen/Corporate Board Room and retreated to the Beloved Back Deck/Corporate Executive Office of the President/CEO. It’s at this point that I lost the tee shirt. But we sat out under Fran’s thousand shades of green talking about how committed we are to this. How the opportunities are there! How the needs for what we have to off are incredible. How business has already sought us out. Even Union Mission could use some of what we got.
Then “Acoustic Café” was over and they started playing regular rock ‘n’ roll. I called the meeting to an end and everyone left with their assignments. I played Frisbee with Goddess.
Last night I returned to the Beloved Back Deck/Corporate Executive Office of the President/CEO and propped by feet on the railing. I was thinking deep thoughts like “Is your foot equal to the size of our face”?
Then I had to go to bed. The rest of the week is full of stuff that I’m now obligated to do. It’s a good thing that Corporate Headquarters is located beside the ocean. Cause we’re diving in the deep end.
And it’s going to be a beautiful dive!
The kitchen/Executive Conference Room is adjacent to my Beloved Back Deck which also serves as the Executive Offices of the President/CEO. We’re establishing satellite offices on Wilmington Island and Pooler (more on the expansion plans later). The living room completes the Corporate Headquarters although we haven’t figured out its use yet.
We’re having our first staff meeting. We’ve meet over lunch a couple of times but this is the first official staff meeting and we’re dressed for the occasion. I have on running shorts and a tee shirt.
I’ve really missed corporate life!
For years I ran a weekly management meeting with all of my direct reports. I tried to keep it light and fun because the issues we were managing were so serious and dark. Over time, I turned over the management of the management meeting to a Chief Operating Officer. She was a bit more serious about it all than me though she rarely showed up on time.
Towards the end at Union Mission I took to taking the entire management team out to lunch for meetings at Johnny Harris’s, a Savannah institution. None of the African-Americans liked it but it is where old Savannah goes (all white) for meetings. In Savannah most every important decision takes place over lunch. I’m not sure why this is, but it is.
Besides I really like their “Noon Special”
We’d gotten through a lot of trauma and everybody was working killer hours so I thought it important to lighten everything up a bit. Not that I was especially light at the time. I was depressed.
Anyway a year has passed since I’ve haven’t hosted a staff meeting ... or a meeting of any kind. I do attend Bored meeting but I don’t think that counts.
But yesterday we met for about three hours. One showed up Bra-less because she thought we were going to Bar Church and when she’d asked me what people wear to Bar Church, I thought she’d said Bra-Church and told her that I’d never seen one there.
The other wore blue jean shorts and some designer tee shirt.
I must say that I’m very pleased with the corporate culture we are establishing in the new Corporate Headquarters of the new company we have started.
To commemorate the “soft” launch of the new company I’d cooked sausage gravy and biscuits for brunch which was served in the kitchen/Corporate Board Room. This was a symbolic decision on my part. Sausage gravy and biscuits launched my career in Louisville when I’d craw out of bed on Sunday mornings and cook it for over a hundred homeless people because all of the soup kitchens were closed for the weekend (who knew hunger took time off?).
Those Sunday morning breakfasts were the starting point of a career that has been amazing. Well … up until last year. But it’s kind of like the wedding renewal vows that I’m conducting on the beach later today. They’ve been married 25 years and want to renew their vows. So we’ll gather on the beach and I’ll say something like …
“Dearly Beloved! We are here today to celebrate O Johnny and Judy’s 25th wedding anniversary … 16 of the happiest years of their lives.”
21 out of 23 years for me isn’t too shabby!
Anyway … I wanted to signify the launch of this effort is going to be just as amazing as that first one was. Jesus started the whole “Born Again” movement with a Last Supper consisting of bread and wine. I figured sausage gravy and biscuits, served with screwdrivers is perfect for this endeavor.
At some point we left the kitchen/Corporate Board Room and retreated to the Beloved Back Deck/Corporate Executive Office of the President/CEO. It’s at this point that I lost the tee shirt. But we sat out under Fran’s thousand shades of green talking about how committed we are to this. How the opportunities are there! How the needs for what we have to off are incredible. How business has already sought us out. Even Union Mission could use some of what we got.
Then “Acoustic Café” was over and they started playing regular rock ‘n’ roll. I called the meeting to an end and everyone left with their assignments. I played Frisbee with Goddess.
Last night I returned to the Beloved Back Deck/Corporate Executive Office of the President/CEO and propped by feet on the railing. I was thinking deep thoughts like “Is your foot equal to the size of our face”?
Then I had to go to bed. The rest of the week is full of stuff that I’m now obligated to do. It’s a good thing that Corporate Headquarters is located beside the ocean. Cause we’re diving in the deep end.
And it’s going to be a beautiful dive!
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Masterpiece
Even the choirs of birds are mindful of the quiet of this Sunday morning. The tide doesn’t move and is still over the marsh grass. Goddess bows on Shirley’s sad little holy dock. In the distance a lone kayaker floats across the Back River which is glistening in the morning sun. The sky is painted deep blue and the lush green trees stand proudly in contrast. Red, yellow and purple flowers mean that the bushes are wearing their Sunday best.
It is a holy day.
Every morning I take Goddess for a walk. Some mornings are more special than others. Today God has painted a masterpiece! I find that I can’t move because I want to be a part of it. Goddess seems to understand this. After all she is a dog who believes that she is a person. She lies contently, almost prayerfully, at my feet.
So I stand at the end of the sad little holy dock and raise my arms in Thanksgiving. This is the day that the Lord has made.
Indeed.
No one is out and about on this part of the island. They’re getting ready for church or standing in line at the Breakfast Club. Many are still sleeping while others take long drags off of cigarettes and try to remember what yesterday was like. Runners are running and walkers are walking along the beach. Somewhere someone is singing.
I figure it’s a good time to count my blessings. After a shitty couple of years, I am happy. On a morning like this I am mindful of the special things that have made me so.
Somehow, I’m still not quite sure how, I was given the gift of time ... to be quiet … to have solitude and time for reflection. I was able to take inventory. Over time I began to notice the things around me in new and deeper ways. Sitting on this dock or underneath Fran’s thousand shades of green all of the hurt in my life began to … heal.
I’m not one to dwell on regrets. I did the best that I could and, sure I screwed up some along the way, but everybody screws somewhere along the way. It’s just the way life works. Sure, if I could do things over again I would do some differently but we don’t get to do things over again.
Over this time, I’ve thought long and hard about this. There are a handful of regrets. As much as I would like for there not to be any, they are. Uninformed decisions, poor choices or selfish reasons were the foundation of each.
Sometimes it was me just being me and having to pay the consequences It’s amazing to me the people who don’t want me to be me … who I am. They want me to be someone else. They want me to be who they want me to be.
To hell with them! There is unholy evil in that. God made me. I trust her to be live my life as me. They can go to church and pray for me if it makes them feel better.
But … I feel fine.
With my arms raised on the end of Shirley’s sad little holy dock I say a one word prayer.
“Thanks”
And at that moment, the choir of birds burst into their songs. The sun climbs higher and sprinkles more diamonds on the Back River. The lightest of breezes suddenly kisses my face. Goddess stands and nudges my leg. A dolphin jumps and returns to the same hole in the water that she made when she leaped into the air.
All of this happening at the same time takes my breath away.
God’s not finished with her masterpiece.
She’s just getting started.
And I’m gonna play.
It is a holy day.
Every morning I take Goddess for a walk. Some mornings are more special than others. Today God has painted a masterpiece! I find that I can’t move because I want to be a part of it. Goddess seems to understand this. After all she is a dog who believes that she is a person. She lies contently, almost prayerfully, at my feet.
So I stand at the end of the sad little holy dock and raise my arms in Thanksgiving. This is the day that the Lord has made.
Indeed.
No one is out and about on this part of the island. They’re getting ready for church or standing in line at the Breakfast Club. Many are still sleeping while others take long drags off of cigarettes and try to remember what yesterday was like. Runners are running and walkers are walking along the beach. Somewhere someone is singing.
I figure it’s a good time to count my blessings. After a shitty couple of years, I am happy. On a morning like this I am mindful of the special things that have made me so.
Somehow, I’m still not quite sure how, I was given the gift of time ... to be quiet … to have solitude and time for reflection. I was able to take inventory. Over time I began to notice the things around me in new and deeper ways. Sitting on this dock or underneath Fran’s thousand shades of green all of the hurt in my life began to … heal.
I’m not one to dwell on regrets. I did the best that I could and, sure I screwed up some along the way, but everybody screws somewhere along the way. It’s just the way life works. Sure, if I could do things over again I would do some differently but we don’t get to do things over again.
Over this time, I’ve thought long and hard about this. There are a handful of regrets. As much as I would like for there not to be any, they are. Uninformed decisions, poor choices or selfish reasons were the foundation of each.
Sometimes it was me just being me and having to pay the consequences It’s amazing to me the people who don’t want me to be me … who I am. They want me to be someone else. They want me to be who they want me to be.
To hell with them! There is unholy evil in that. God made me. I trust her to be live my life as me. They can go to church and pray for me if it makes them feel better.
But … I feel fine.
With my arms raised on the end of Shirley’s sad little holy dock I say a one word prayer.
“Thanks”
And at that moment, the choir of birds burst into their songs. The sun climbs higher and sprinkles more diamonds on the Back River. The lightest of breezes suddenly kisses my face. Goddess stands and nudges my leg. A dolphin jumps and returns to the same hole in the water that she made when she leaped into the air.
All of this happening at the same time takes my breath away.
God’s not finished with her masterpiece.
She’s just getting started.
And I’m gonna play.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Beach Run
A few hundred of us showed up for today’s “Turtle Trot” 5K race for the Marine Science Center here on Tybee. It’s the first time that I’ve officially registered and participated. A friend asked me to do it then Kristen and her boyfriend Sterling wanted in so it became a family affair.
I’d run by it for the past several years but had never got around to actually registering. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have this year either were it not for the specific invitation. Kristen and Sterling arrived at the Pier first and registered for us.
We arrived and got ready.
Sterling has this thing about wanting to compete with me on anything. We shot pool together Friday night and he’s a real trash talker. For the race he said, “I’ll be waiting on you at the finish line, sitting in a beach chair and having a beer.”
“Uh-huh” I say.
“By the time you cross the finish line I’ll probably have killed a six-pack.”
“Uh-huh,” is my witty reply.
It is a glorious day on Tybee Island. The sun is bright, the sea is calm and there are no clouds in the sky. It’s a day that has “beach” written all over it!
I don’t recognize most of the people in the crowd. They all seem to be from somewhere else. A handful are friends from Tybee. It’s a funny collection of serious runners dressed in spandex, compression socks up to their knees, special caps and sunglasses. Then there’s the rest of us.
I have on a “St. Marteen Drinking Team” tee shirt, black shorts and shoes off of the sales rack.
Kristen has lost her mind and is wearing sweat pants. By far my most independent child, she’s always done things her own way and I never give it much thought anymore.
The thing about trying to organize a serious run on the beach is … you’re on the beach. Only the ones in Spandex and compression socks seem to be unaware of this. They stretch and run in place.
I’m looking at girls in bikinis.
Bob Marley is blasting from my I-Pop. “Livy yourself up,” he sings, “nobody will do it for you.”
People start running pass me and I surmise that the race has started. So we run.
There are maybe 300 of us including a midget who is serious runner. And she could fly! It was fascinating watching her dart through the people of all shapes and sizes moving at various speeds. She kept checking her running watch as she did so. The woman is a runner!
After about a mile I’m sliding into a zone. Bob is now telling me to “Stir it up.” My pace quickens as the sweat comes. I stay with my friend and try not to run into people as I keep looking at the sunlight dancing like diamonds on the ocean. A giant cargo ship is on the horizon. Dolphins swim to the side of us running. Cannonball jellyfish litter the beach.
I think about picking one up and throwing it at Sterling as he runs passes me but think better of it. Most people don’t know that these are the only jellyfish that don’t sting and I could start a riot.
In the middle of the race my friend has to pee. I run faster. This could be uglier than me throwing a jellyfish. The wind is in our face so if she pees while running the people behind her could get sprayed.
I don’t want anything to with this. I decide to catch up with Sterling and kick it up a notch.
Bob’s now telling me “No Woman, No Cry.”
“Tell me about it,” I tell him back.
As I cross the finish line a few short steps behind Sterling, Bob is saying “Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright!”
Sterling high-fives me and I tell Bob.
“It already is.”
Then I turn around to see what damage my friend has done.
I’d run by it for the past several years but had never got around to actually registering. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have this year either were it not for the specific invitation. Kristen and Sterling arrived at the Pier first and registered for us.
We arrived and got ready.
Sterling has this thing about wanting to compete with me on anything. We shot pool together Friday night and he’s a real trash talker. For the race he said, “I’ll be waiting on you at the finish line, sitting in a beach chair and having a beer.”
“Uh-huh” I say.
“By the time you cross the finish line I’ll probably have killed a six-pack.”
“Uh-huh,” is my witty reply.
It is a glorious day on Tybee Island. The sun is bright, the sea is calm and there are no clouds in the sky. It’s a day that has “beach” written all over it!
I don’t recognize most of the people in the crowd. They all seem to be from somewhere else. A handful are friends from Tybee. It’s a funny collection of serious runners dressed in spandex, compression socks up to their knees, special caps and sunglasses. Then there’s the rest of us.
I have on a “St. Marteen Drinking Team” tee shirt, black shorts and shoes off of the sales rack.
Kristen has lost her mind and is wearing sweat pants. By far my most independent child, she’s always done things her own way and I never give it much thought anymore.
The thing about trying to organize a serious run on the beach is … you’re on the beach. Only the ones in Spandex and compression socks seem to be unaware of this. They stretch and run in place.
I’m looking at girls in bikinis.
Bob Marley is blasting from my I-Pop. “Livy yourself up,” he sings, “nobody will do it for you.”
People start running pass me and I surmise that the race has started. So we run.
There are maybe 300 of us including a midget who is serious runner. And she could fly! It was fascinating watching her dart through the people of all shapes and sizes moving at various speeds. She kept checking her running watch as she did so. The woman is a runner!
After about a mile I’m sliding into a zone. Bob is now telling me to “Stir it up.” My pace quickens as the sweat comes. I stay with my friend and try not to run into people as I keep looking at the sunlight dancing like diamonds on the ocean. A giant cargo ship is on the horizon. Dolphins swim to the side of us running. Cannonball jellyfish litter the beach.
I think about picking one up and throwing it at Sterling as he runs passes me but think better of it. Most people don’t know that these are the only jellyfish that don’t sting and I could start a riot.
In the middle of the race my friend has to pee. I run faster. This could be uglier than me throwing a jellyfish. The wind is in our face so if she pees while running the people behind her could get sprayed.
I don’t want anything to with this. I decide to catch up with Sterling and kick it up a notch.
Bob’s now telling me “No Woman, No Cry.”
“Tell me about it,” I tell him back.
As I cross the finish line a few short steps behind Sterling, Bob is saying “Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright!”
Sterling high-fives me and I tell Bob.
“It already is.”
Then I turn around to see what damage my friend has done.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Reconvening the Kitchen Cabinet
“Well if it’s not the Prodigal Son,” said Ben Barnes into the phone after his wife Betty had told him that it was me calling.
“Hi Prodigal Pop,” I replied.
Ben is 92 years old, the former Chairman of the Board of Union Mission, my partner in starting the Employment & Training Center, J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Starfish Café, and a dear friend. He is a long retired banking God (First Atlanta, Bank of England and started the now Wells Fargo Bank in Savannah for fun in his retirement).
We would travel together bringing money from other places to Savannah. At 5:00 every afternoon I would go to his hotel room and he would open his briefcase and pull out a bottle of triple malt scotch.
“Nectar of the Gods,” he would say while pouring.
It’s hard not to love Ben. We would sit in his room processing the day and making plans for tomorrow.
“What are you doing?” he demanded into the phone.
So I told him. We’re meeting for lunch at the Starfish Café next week so that he can advise me on things. Ben is a mentor and member of my kitchen cabinet.
Back when Andrew Jackson was President he got sick of the bad advice from people he worked with so he fired them all. In their place he collected people he trusted to give him advice. They were dubbed the Kitchen Cabinet.
Throughout my career I’ve had a Kitchen Cabinet. They have guided me well. Those last years at Union Mission the work got so messy and complicated and I stopped convening them.
I had a small minded person who never met anything that he didn’t like to rape asking me to justify everything that I was doing. Plus the agenda was suddenly daunting though … very manageable but he zapped my time and energy with minutia and small minded matters. At the same time I’d fired those who proved untrustworthy. It was emotional and taxing. Then my wife left and it got worse and I stopped calling on the Kitchen Cabinet.
That was a mistake!
Now it’s time to do things again. So I’m reconvening the Kitchen Cabinet.
After Ben I called his daughter Carole Beeson, also a former Board Chair of Union Mission. She was the first woman to ever chair the Board and is a fireball. “Well, my brother is finally back from the dead,” she exclaimed into the phone.
After catching one another up on personal stuff she told that it was time to straighten things out.
“You mean rearrange the past?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said with utmost confidence.
Then Philip and I had an email conversation. Joe Daniel and I have been going back and forth. Herb will be back soon. Mary Ann Beil and I are getting together next week after I meet with Ben. Terry Ball will be in town soon. I still have to track Thurmond Tillman down but he’s a minister and damn near impossible to get hold of. I’m thinking about adding Tony and DaVena Jordon because they make it all younger. And youth is the secret to creativity!
For the first time in a long time, I sit at a table and roll my fingers across the top. My leg shakes under the table full of energy and vigor. My senses are exploding. It’s time to create!
When I was at Union Mission I would end every meeting with every staff person with the mantra “Go create something.”
And we did.
The likes of which have never been created before.
It was the youthfulness of the people I worked with coupled with the wisdom of the Kitchen Cabinet that made it so.
Today, I’m young again after a couple of years of being old. I’ve surrounded myself with the youthful thinking of creative people regardless of their age.
It’s time to kick ass.
And I need my Kitchen Cabinet again.
Everybody else … needs to get out of the way.
“Hi Prodigal Pop,” I replied.
Ben is 92 years old, the former Chairman of the Board of Union Mission, my partner in starting the Employment & Training Center, J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Starfish Café, and a dear friend. He is a long retired banking God (First Atlanta, Bank of England and started the now Wells Fargo Bank in Savannah for fun in his retirement).
We would travel together bringing money from other places to Savannah. At 5:00 every afternoon I would go to his hotel room and he would open his briefcase and pull out a bottle of triple malt scotch.
“Nectar of the Gods,” he would say while pouring.
It’s hard not to love Ben. We would sit in his room processing the day and making plans for tomorrow.
“What are you doing?” he demanded into the phone.
So I told him. We’re meeting for lunch at the Starfish Café next week so that he can advise me on things. Ben is a mentor and member of my kitchen cabinet.
Back when Andrew Jackson was President he got sick of the bad advice from people he worked with so he fired them all. In their place he collected people he trusted to give him advice. They were dubbed the Kitchen Cabinet.
Throughout my career I’ve had a Kitchen Cabinet. They have guided me well. Those last years at Union Mission the work got so messy and complicated and I stopped convening them.
I had a small minded person who never met anything that he didn’t like to rape asking me to justify everything that I was doing. Plus the agenda was suddenly daunting though … very manageable but he zapped my time and energy with minutia and small minded matters. At the same time I’d fired those who proved untrustworthy. It was emotional and taxing. Then my wife left and it got worse and I stopped calling on the Kitchen Cabinet.
That was a mistake!
Now it’s time to do things again. So I’m reconvening the Kitchen Cabinet.
After Ben I called his daughter Carole Beeson, also a former Board Chair of Union Mission. She was the first woman to ever chair the Board and is a fireball. “Well, my brother is finally back from the dead,” she exclaimed into the phone.
After catching one another up on personal stuff she told that it was time to straighten things out.
“You mean rearrange the past?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said with utmost confidence.
Then Philip and I had an email conversation. Joe Daniel and I have been going back and forth. Herb will be back soon. Mary Ann Beil and I are getting together next week after I meet with Ben. Terry Ball will be in town soon. I still have to track Thurmond Tillman down but he’s a minister and damn near impossible to get hold of. I’m thinking about adding Tony and DaVena Jordon because they make it all younger. And youth is the secret to creativity!
For the first time in a long time, I sit at a table and roll my fingers across the top. My leg shakes under the table full of energy and vigor. My senses are exploding. It’s time to create!
When I was at Union Mission I would end every meeting with every staff person with the mantra “Go create something.”
And we did.
The likes of which have never been created before.
It was the youthfulness of the people I worked with coupled with the wisdom of the Kitchen Cabinet that made it so.
Today, I’m young again after a couple of years of being old. I’ve surrounded myself with the youthful thinking of creative people regardless of their age.
It’s time to kick ass.
And I need my Kitchen Cabinet again.
Everybody else … needs to get out of the way.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Theater of Bad Things
Last night a tornado decided to take a stroll down Park Lane in Madison, Georgia which happens to be where my son lives. Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have this killer house on a beautiful street in a drop dead gorgeous area in one of the country’s most picturesque southern towns.
As much of a beach bum as I am their place is one of the only non-ocean retreats that I like. Every view is a postcard view. We enjoy one another anyway and our senses of humor complement one another’s so we laugh a lot. We can also have prolonged serious conversations about most anything. But when you get to do it in a setting as charming as where they live … it is this quaint bonus.
Coming home from Pittsburgh yesterday I kept hearing about storms coming. They were supposed to sit the Steel City around 4:00 and I was hoping that I could get out early. Because of pre-planning we finished a meeting scheduled for six hours in three. I was back at the airport booking myself on an earlier flight.
That flight was delayed.
So I chatted on the phone for an hour with my friend about dancing, the state of homeless work in Savannah, angels, assholes and which church we would like to attend. The hour passed quickly and then my plane was delayed for another hour … because of storms. I finally made it to Atlanta which was of course a cluster. There were long lines at every gate.
As soon as I got off the plane I looked at the monitors for the first flight to Savannah though the one I was booked for was now leaving well after midnight. Luckily it was on the same concourse so I ran down, showed them my ticket, got a seat, ordered a glass of wine and came home.
When I got home from the Breakfast Club this morning, Age my sister … her real name is Angi but I’ve always called her Age … was texting me asking me if I’d talked to Jeremy.
“Why?” I texted back.
Before she could respond a voice mail message popped up from Jeremy. The quaint massive oak tree in their front yard is now in their living room. Jeremy, Marie, Smoo and Beans (their cats) made it into the basement with about three minutes to spare.
“Damn storms,” I muttered.
But my kids are safe. None of that other stuff matters. It’s just stuff. Stuff can be replaced. Kids cannot.
My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie calls and describes what had happened. After she finished she said, “One day we have to have a long talk about all of this.”
I understood her meaning.
Why do bad things happen to good people?
Throughout my career I’ve had a front row seat at the theater of bad things. Homelessness ... AIDS ... The worst access to the best health care in the world … The hell that is behavioral health ... The Georgia State Capitol ... Congress ... Mega-churches … Tybee Parking Services. I’ve had first-hand experience with it all of it.
After I hung up with Marie the first thing I did was to say the most holy and simplest of prayers.
“Thank God.”
Then I told my friend what had happened. Then I talked to Janice and Kristen … and Chelsea and Sam just need to keep having a good old time being engaged in Europe right now with no worries.
So Goddess and I wandered out to the beloved back deck and took our places. The tree in my backyard is growing its own mushroom. Who knew that trees do mushrooms like we did in college (not you Dedra, Mark and Mitch … oh … by the way … that’s where I was all of those Baptist Student Union nights that I didn’t show up to)?
But my kids are alright.
Saltwater fills my eyes and the prayer becomes even holier.
“Thank God.”
I hate the theater of bad things.
Then I keep praying.
“Hey God. Just why in the hell did you make it?”
As much of a beach bum as I am their place is one of the only non-ocean retreats that I like. Every view is a postcard view. We enjoy one another anyway and our senses of humor complement one another’s so we laugh a lot. We can also have prolonged serious conversations about most anything. But when you get to do it in a setting as charming as where they live … it is this quaint bonus.
Coming home from Pittsburgh yesterday I kept hearing about storms coming. They were supposed to sit the Steel City around 4:00 and I was hoping that I could get out early. Because of pre-planning we finished a meeting scheduled for six hours in three. I was back at the airport booking myself on an earlier flight.
That flight was delayed.
So I chatted on the phone for an hour with my friend about dancing, the state of homeless work in Savannah, angels, assholes and which church we would like to attend. The hour passed quickly and then my plane was delayed for another hour … because of storms. I finally made it to Atlanta which was of course a cluster. There were long lines at every gate.
As soon as I got off the plane I looked at the monitors for the first flight to Savannah though the one I was booked for was now leaving well after midnight. Luckily it was on the same concourse so I ran down, showed them my ticket, got a seat, ordered a glass of wine and came home.
When I got home from the Breakfast Club this morning, Age my sister … her real name is Angi but I’ve always called her Age … was texting me asking me if I’d talked to Jeremy.
“Why?” I texted back.
Before she could respond a voice mail message popped up from Jeremy. The quaint massive oak tree in their front yard is now in their living room. Jeremy, Marie, Smoo and Beans (their cats) made it into the basement with about three minutes to spare.
“Damn storms,” I muttered.
But my kids are safe. None of that other stuff matters. It’s just stuff. Stuff can be replaced. Kids cannot.
My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie calls and describes what had happened. After she finished she said, “One day we have to have a long talk about all of this.”
I understood her meaning.
Why do bad things happen to good people?
Throughout my career I’ve had a front row seat at the theater of bad things. Homelessness ... AIDS ... The worst access to the best health care in the world … The hell that is behavioral health ... The Georgia State Capitol ... Congress ... Mega-churches … Tybee Parking Services. I’ve had first-hand experience with it all of it.
After I hung up with Marie the first thing I did was to say the most holy and simplest of prayers.
“Thank God.”
Then I told my friend what had happened. Then I talked to Janice and Kristen … and Chelsea and Sam just need to keep having a good old time being engaged in Europe right now with no worries.
So Goddess and I wandered out to the beloved back deck and took our places. The tree in my backyard is growing its own mushroom. Who knew that trees do mushrooms like we did in college (not you Dedra, Mark and Mitch … oh … by the way … that’s where I was all of those Baptist Student Union nights that I didn’t show up to)?
But my kids are alright.
Saltwater fills my eyes and the prayer becomes even holier.
“Thank God.”
I hate the theater of bad things.
Then I keep praying.
“Hey God. Just why in the hell did you make it?”
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
I Feel Fine
“Morning Rev. Elliott,” she called as I made my way through the airport.
She looked vaguely familiar and was surrounded by High School kids who were all taking over the Starbucks near the Delta gates.
“I’m Dora. I used to work at Union Mission,” she beamed as we shook hands. She was there with a Bulloch County High School is on their way to New York City for an “Educational” trip she explained while making quotation marks with her fingers.
I laughed. “Good for you!”
“You look good” she said rubbing my shoulder.
“Thanks. I am good.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Pittsburgh.”
“OK … hey I just want to say that I loved working for you. It was a wonderful time.”
I smiled and rubbed her shoulder. “I want to thank you for everything you did to make us do all of those things. We helped a lot of people.”
“We sure did,” she exclaimed.
Making my way through the kids I couldn’t help but think that this is a nice way to start the day. It’s funny I fly out of Savannah a lot and rarely do I encounter people that I know. Most seem to be going to and from Hilton Head. I see more Savannah people in the Atlanta airport than I do in Savannah.
Settling into my seat on the plane I spy a couple in the seats in front of me whispering intently. Then this elderly couple stands and turns towards me awkwardly.
“Are you Micheal Elliott?” both ask at the same time.
“I am,” I reply awkwardly standing to shake their hands.
They smile at me. “You helped our son a while back. We never said thank you. We thought that it was you.”
What does one say?
“You’re welcome,” I reply. “That’s why we were there.”
They sit back down. I sit back down. I have no idea who they are ... or who their son is.
Last week and this week Jodi has had me getting in touch with people that I haven’t talked with in a year. So I sent them an email asking for a favor and it’s been interesting. There was this immediate burst of replies from people across the country … Atlanta, Idaho, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Chicago …
Then typical Savannah waited a few days before responding (well, aside from Peter Doliber who is always fast on the draw) so over the weekend and the first of this week I started getting responses. Also in typical Savannah fashion most said that they would but only if I would meet them for lunch first.
Hmmmm … this could become a pain in the ass. Of course in Savannah all business actually takes place during lunch, Happy Hour, dinner or on somebody’s boat. I’m not really sure why anybody has an office.
But … I feel good. I evidently look good too. Who knew? And though I’ve been doing this work sporadically over the past few months, it begins in earnest today.
I’ve signed a contract and work starts in Pittsburgh before moving on to Anchorage, Austin, Cleveland, San Juan, and Santa Barbara. There is also this thing in Philadelphia that I’m committed too. Atlanta keeps calling but … it’s Atlanta.
This Sabbatical that I’ve been on has been long was overdue and it has been good for me. If you ever feel that you need one, or have to just get away from it all, then I strongly encourage you to listen to yourself.
I didn’t and it costs me.
But then it sent me on this journey because I had no choice. At first I simply went around in circles like dying Horseshoe crabs on the shore. Then I said to myself, “To hell with this. I got one life to live. I’m not going to spend the rest of it like this. I’m living to love another day.”
And I do.
And it’s time to go back to work.
So today I am.
But there is nothing the same about who I am.
And I feel fine.
She looked vaguely familiar and was surrounded by High School kids who were all taking over the Starbucks near the Delta gates.
“I’m Dora. I used to work at Union Mission,” she beamed as we shook hands. She was there with a Bulloch County High School is on their way to New York City for an “Educational” trip she explained while making quotation marks with her fingers.
I laughed. “Good for you!”
“You look good” she said rubbing my shoulder.
“Thanks. I am good.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Pittsburgh.”
“OK … hey I just want to say that I loved working for you. It was a wonderful time.”
I smiled and rubbed her shoulder. “I want to thank you for everything you did to make us do all of those things. We helped a lot of people.”
“We sure did,” she exclaimed.
Making my way through the kids I couldn’t help but think that this is a nice way to start the day. It’s funny I fly out of Savannah a lot and rarely do I encounter people that I know. Most seem to be going to and from Hilton Head. I see more Savannah people in the Atlanta airport than I do in Savannah.
Settling into my seat on the plane I spy a couple in the seats in front of me whispering intently. Then this elderly couple stands and turns towards me awkwardly.
“Are you Micheal Elliott?” both ask at the same time.
“I am,” I reply awkwardly standing to shake their hands.
They smile at me. “You helped our son a while back. We never said thank you. We thought that it was you.”
What does one say?
“You’re welcome,” I reply. “That’s why we were there.”
They sit back down. I sit back down. I have no idea who they are ... or who their son is.
Last week and this week Jodi has had me getting in touch with people that I haven’t talked with in a year. So I sent them an email asking for a favor and it’s been interesting. There was this immediate burst of replies from people across the country … Atlanta, Idaho, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Chicago …
Then typical Savannah waited a few days before responding (well, aside from Peter Doliber who is always fast on the draw) so over the weekend and the first of this week I started getting responses. Also in typical Savannah fashion most said that they would but only if I would meet them for lunch first.
Hmmmm … this could become a pain in the ass. Of course in Savannah all business actually takes place during lunch, Happy Hour, dinner or on somebody’s boat. I’m not really sure why anybody has an office.
But … I feel good. I evidently look good too. Who knew? And though I’ve been doing this work sporadically over the past few months, it begins in earnest today.
I’ve signed a contract and work starts in Pittsburgh before moving on to Anchorage, Austin, Cleveland, San Juan, and Santa Barbara. There is also this thing in Philadelphia that I’m committed too. Atlanta keeps calling but … it’s Atlanta.
This Sabbatical that I’ve been on has been long was overdue and it has been good for me. If you ever feel that you need one, or have to just get away from it all, then I strongly encourage you to listen to yourself.
I didn’t and it costs me.
But then it sent me on this journey because I had no choice. At first I simply went around in circles like dying Horseshoe crabs on the shore. Then I said to myself, “To hell with this. I got one life to live. I’m not going to spend the rest of it like this. I’m living to love another day.”
And I do.
And it’s time to go back to work.
So today I am.
But there is nothing the same about who I am.
And I feel fine.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Dead Love
Running in the soft sand of the mouth of the Back River the shore is littered with dead Horseshoe Crabs and Cannonball Jellyfish. The banks of the shore are steep here so when the tides go out it leaves them behind. In the sand are the tracks of the desperate attempts of the Horseshoe Crabs to claw themselves back into the water. Some become disoriented and go in circles. Others make a straighter dash to the ocean and live to see another day.
It is a sad sight.
What makes it sadder is that Horseshoe Crabs only come ashore to mate.
Looking for love literally kills them.
The theme from M*A*S*H pops into head and plays over and over as I run through the sands of dead love.
Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me, I realize and I can see …
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please
It’s the punk rock version that plays … lyrics relentlessly spit out over crashing drums, fiery guitars and a haunting piano melody. It’s the opposite of the sweet version on the reruns of the show.
It reeks of the pain that envelopes dying things.
“The game of life is hard to fake …” the band changes the lyric and I realize it for the first time. And I note how true it is. We stay in places we don’t like. Our relationships are unfulfilling. We go through motions we hate. We remain in rotten relationships for the kids. We sleepwalk through life with little joy, less laughter and precious little love.
We … settle.
Yesterday a friend of mine up and quit her job. She doesn’t have another one but she hated the one that she had so she quit. What makes this even more shocking is that she’s going through a divorce. Talk about guts! I can’t help but admire that! Throwing caution to the wind is one thing … kicking it in the ass is another!
Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be …
Growing up is not the absence of dreaming. Ah, but having the guts to chase your dreams …well… that is a rare thing.
I turn at the of the mouth of the ocean and there is no more dead love here. The shore has a gradual slope. The beach is clean aside from the occasional dead Jellyfish who don’t have a mind to make up anyway and let life take them … whereevs.
I keep thinking about the crabs and the two kinds of tracks that they left in the sand. Most ran in circles never making up their minds to … live.
Some realized though that there is only this one life. They had experienced love on the shore but it wasn’t what they needed so I imagine they said to themselves, “To hell with this! There’s better out there. I’m living to love another day!”
So they did.
The rest gave their lives away and litter the shore.
It is a sad sight.
What makes it sadder is that Horseshoe Crabs only come ashore to mate.
Looking for love literally kills them.
The theme from M*A*S*H pops into head and plays over and over as I run through the sands of dead love.
Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me, I realize and I can see …
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please
It’s the punk rock version that plays … lyrics relentlessly spit out over crashing drums, fiery guitars and a haunting piano melody. It’s the opposite of the sweet version on the reruns of the show.
It reeks of the pain that envelopes dying things.
“The game of life is hard to fake …” the band changes the lyric and I realize it for the first time. And I note how true it is. We stay in places we don’t like. Our relationships are unfulfilling. We go through motions we hate. We remain in rotten relationships for the kids. We sleepwalk through life with little joy, less laughter and precious little love.
We … settle.
Yesterday a friend of mine up and quit her job. She doesn’t have another one but she hated the one that she had so she quit. What makes this even more shocking is that she’s going through a divorce. Talk about guts! I can’t help but admire that! Throwing caution to the wind is one thing … kicking it in the ass is another!
Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be …
Growing up is not the absence of dreaming. Ah, but having the guts to chase your dreams …well… that is a rare thing.
I turn at the of the mouth of the ocean and there is no more dead love here. The shore has a gradual slope. The beach is clean aside from the occasional dead Jellyfish who don’t have a mind to make up anyway and let life take them … whereevs.
I keep thinking about the crabs and the two kinds of tracks that they left in the sand. Most ran in circles never making up their minds to … live.
Some realized though that there is only this one life. They had experienced love on the shore but it wasn’t what they needed so I imagine they said to themselves, “To hell with this! There’s better out there. I’m living to love another day!”
So they did.
The rest gave their lives away and litter the shore.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Premature
Today there is all of this stuff that I’m supposed to do in town. Homeless guys who are my Face Book friends have been after me forever to see them. Some want advice. Others just want to catch up. One has a business proposition for me and guarantees me big money if I come out of retirement to help him start a Fortune 500 Company.
So I picked a day and it’s today to meet with all of them.
Lunch is with my old friend and accountant Carlton.
Then it’s back to corporate headquarters to finalize stuff which should have been finalized last week (ummmm…Rebekah, exactly where are we?). There is lots of work and planning to do and I have timelines again … sigh …
This is big because I don’t go to Savannah much anymore except for the airport which really belongs to Hilton Head anyway. Hilton Head has also purchased the thunderstorm rights to Tybee so it rains there but not here.
But yesterday I took a nap and woke up with an infected ear. Normally, like most males, I would ignore this knowing that it will either go away or get worse. Either way it would work itself out. But I have to fly to Pittsburgh later this week and remember something about ears blowing up on airplanes if they’re not healthy so I resolved to get in touch with Jerry Williams this morning to make sure I’m not a terrorist threat.
Then I got in my car and the battery was dead.
Hmmmm … Is God trying to tell me something?
So … I hopped on my bike and rode it to the Breakfast Club. Johnny O was back after a week of being on loan to the Legends Golf tournament in Savannah. Over coffee he was telling me all about the tournament and I couldn’t hear anything that he said.
I reframed the entire question about God trying to tell me something. I was being blessed and didn’t know it. So Johnny O talked and I nodded my head not hearing anything that he said. Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord!
Riding my bike back home, I got to thinking. Are these things signs? Should I be focusing on the things around me rather than the people demanding my attention who are elsewhere? My focus for the past year has been on me, healing and finding my way back to me again.
I was telling my best friend how excited I am about the future and all of the things that I’m ready to do. Hell, Skutch and I had a long funny conversation on the phone Friday (Skutch is like an actor in “B” movie playing a reporter but he really is a reporter and covered me for the past decade.). She told me that it’s nice to see me excited again.
But now I can’t help but wonder … am I being premature about all of this? Is God reminding me to not rush? To completely finish healing before I dive back in to the world and its unrelenting demands? Did God stick her wet finger in my ear to remind me that I’m not quite healed yet?
A few months ago, in a Ft. Lauderdale restaurant Dr. Jane Lowe of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and I were having dinner. She looked at me firmly and said, “Micheal do not rush this Sabbatical. It would be like having heart surgery and then going on one of your five mile runs before you can take it. You’d be far worse off than you are now.”
She’s really the only person to be so blatantly affirming of how I’ve spent the past year. Even now there are all of these people who want me to do things. Or they want to do things with me. I’m being cautious. It seems premature somehow.
My friend Samuel Admas, who plays damn good live music for a living and is the mastermind behind Bar Church, was after me last week to be a part of yesterday’s Easter Sunrise Service on the Pier. As soon as he asked me I said no. So typical Sam he asked me again. I said “Hell no.” He smiled and said “Fine, I’ll text you.”
But I stood in the back yesterday enjoying and watching it all. Tybee Church blew the other churches away (and I can’t get “Amazing Grace” to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun” out of my head. Thanks Sam!).
I was struck though, that I’d made the right decision. As they sang a funky version of “Holy, Holy, Holy” I slipped away. I’ve had my time in the limelight of the crowds. And I’ll have it again. But … now would be premature.
And God can be funny sticking a wet finger in your ear to give it an infection to remind you of the things that are most important.
So I picked a day and it’s today to meet with all of them.
Lunch is with my old friend and accountant Carlton.
Then it’s back to corporate headquarters to finalize stuff which should have been finalized last week (ummmm…Rebekah, exactly where are we?). There is lots of work and planning to do and I have timelines again … sigh …
This is big because I don’t go to Savannah much anymore except for the airport which really belongs to Hilton Head anyway. Hilton Head has also purchased the thunderstorm rights to Tybee so it rains there but not here.
But yesterday I took a nap and woke up with an infected ear. Normally, like most males, I would ignore this knowing that it will either go away or get worse. Either way it would work itself out. But I have to fly to Pittsburgh later this week and remember something about ears blowing up on airplanes if they’re not healthy so I resolved to get in touch with Jerry Williams this morning to make sure I’m not a terrorist threat.
Then I got in my car and the battery was dead.
Hmmmm … Is God trying to tell me something?
So … I hopped on my bike and rode it to the Breakfast Club. Johnny O was back after a week of being on loan to the Legends Golf tournament in Savannah. Over coffee he was telling me all about the tournament and I couldn’t hear anything that he said.
I reframed the entire question about God trying to tell me something. I was being blessed and didn’t know it. So Johnny O talked and I nodded my head not hearing anything that he said. Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord!
Riding my bike back home, I got to thinking. Are these things signs? Should I be focusing on the things around me rather than the people demanding my attention who are elsewhere? My focus for the past year has been on me, healing and finding my way back to me again.
I was telling my best friend how excited I am about the future and all of the things that I’m ready to do. Hell, Skutch and I had a long funny conversation on the phone Friday (Skutch is like an actor in “B” movie playing a reporter but he really is a reporter and covered me for the past decade.). She told me that it’s nice to see me excited again.
But now I can’t help but wonder … am I being premature about all of this? Is God reminding me to not rush? To completely finish healing before I dive back in to the world and its unrelenting demands? Did God stick her wet finger in my ear to remind me that I’m not quite healed yet?
A few months ago, in a Ft. Lauderdale restaurant Dr. Jane Lowe of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and I were having dinner. She looked at me firmly and said, “Micheal do not rush this Sabbatical. It would be like having heart surgery and then going on one of your five mile runs before you can take it. You’d be far worse off than you are now.”
She’s really the only person to be so blatantly affirming of how I’ve spent the past year. Even now there are all of these people who want me to do things. Or they want to do things with me. I’m being cautious. It seems premature somehow.
My friend Samuel Admas, who plays damn good live music for a living and is the mastermind behind Bar Church, was after me last week to be a part of yesterday’s Easter Sunrise Service on the Pier. As soon as he asked me I said no. So typical Sam he asked me again. I said “Hell no.” He smiled and said “Fine, I’ll text you.”
But I stood in the back yesterday enjoying and watching it all. Tybee Church blew the other churches away (and I can’t get “Amazing Grace” to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun” out of my head. Thanks Sam!).
I was struck though, that I’d made the right decision. As they sang a funky version of “Holy, Holy, Holy” I slipped away. I’ve had my time in the limelight of the crowds. And I’ll have it again. But … now would be premature.
And God can be funny sticking a wet finger in your ear to give it an infection to remind you of the things that are most important.
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