The Ties With God

They come in the night, as though someone who hates you has a voodoo doll and they're sticking pins in its head sending bad thoughts into your mind mind. Half-conscious dreams that may be literally true or some exaggerated distortion of what actually happened force you to toss and turn throughout the night. Dreams sometimes are like science fiction with you in the staring role and you wake up with a jolt wondering where that came from. And sometimes they are so sensual and real you can feel and taste them. Night before last in Seattle, I had strange dreams. It was the night before travel so I was restless, ready to go and get there. It'd been a long day and Sarah and I had to get up at 5:30 to make our flight. So when my dead friend Joe Bridges came to see me in a dream, I was unprepared for the visit. Joe had been a homeless alcoholic who overcame those things to help us build Union Mission. He wanted me to take a ride with him on his motorcycle. This was the Joe before he lost his leg in an accident, a time when he was at his best in life. We rode until we came to another long dead friend Chester Fawbush. Chester was the first homeless person I ever became friends with in Louisville Kentucky when I was in Seminary. He was long dead before I ever met Joe but they got along fine in my dream. They were wanting to talk to me about something but I can't recall it was. But they were as real and alive as if they were sitting across from me right now. Yesterday we literally flew all day, finally arriving in Savannah around 7:30. An hour later we were home on Tybee and took Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, on an evening walk. Collapsing we were happy to be back in our own bed. There's nothing better than your own bed. We were exhausted and making the adjustment from West Coast time back to East Coast time. So when the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainey ... showed up in a dream, he was definitely unwelcome. Being the little Dictator that he is, he showed up anyway. Smiling evilly, he told me he'd won. I flipped him the finger. Then we both realized at the same time that we were surrounded by a crowd of homeless people watching us. I knew most of them. Joe and Chester were there. Jerry seemed confused. Waking up, I tossed in a fidgeting way. Sarah said, "It's hot isn't it?" She was half asleep and had kicked all of the covers off. Wrapping myself around her, I fell back asleep. I've never been one to dream while I slept (which is different from dreaming while I'm awake ... which I do a lot). If I did dream while I slept, I never remembered them ... until now. The Bible makes it pretty clear that God sometimes speaks through dreams. Beginning with Jacob in the Old Testament through Joseph in the New Testament, God gave instructions. Jacob, sees a bunch of angels coming and going making promises. After the Three Wise Men visited the baby Jesus, God told Joseph in a dream to get the hell out of there. There are other examples, Moses and Daniel. So it makes me wonder. Why am I suddenly remembering my dreams? It is a rainy morning on Tybee Island, a perfect ambiance for contemplating such things. Sarah is back in bed, the trees drip in wetness, the birds dart searching for places to perch and I sit under the umbrella on the Beloved Back Deck wondering if God's trying to tell me something. Why does God want to be subtle? It's God, for God's sake! Send lightening bolts or angels or a burning bush (but please don't burn one of mine, but my neighbor's bushes are fine)! What is She trying to tell me? Is there something else I should be doing? Some other place to go? Some other truth to know? I happen to be re-reading Graham Greene's wonderful The Heart of the Matter while I think these things. There is a line in it that touches me ... "The truth, he thought, has never been of any real value to any human being --- it is a symbol for mathematicians and philosophers to pursue. In human relations kindness and ties are worth a thousand truths." A common theme in my dreams have been the ties. Joe, Chester, and even the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous remain with me. We're surrounded by those who we've been kind to or have been kind to us ... or those we didn't really give a shit about. On a rainy Tybee morning, it is not the truth so much that I am seeking, but the ties with God. I suppose Joe and Chester are now angels delivering messages. The Little Dictator is still alive and I think he's a symbol of truth ... which I'm not particularly interested in. The ties with God however are far more intriguing. I'm going to spend my day pursuing those.

No Plane on Sunday

No Plane on Sunday Maybe one on Monday Just a hopeless situation Make the best of it that's all you can do I have often affirmed the phophetic utterances of Jimmy Buffett and this is another one of those times. Luckily, there is a plane on Monday though it's taking off 45 minutes after it's supposed to, meaning that we'll never make the connection in Atlanta. I was able to book us on a later flight home although God knows where our bags are going to end up. "Eventually we'll make it home," Sarah said as we boarded. And evenutally we will. When you travel a lot, most of the time it goes remarkably well. In spite of all of the ways that the airlines have screwed up the flying experience ... less flight options, more jam paced planes, $7 cocktails and $8 dollar stale sandwhiches ... what are you going to do? Especially if you want to see the world? So you have to spend some time in Travel Hell. Travel Hell now starts with booking your flight. Delta is no longer ready when you are but is ready when it is, so you have to book your time to fit in with their time. On this trip that meant a Red-Eye overnight flight with 12 inches of leg space. That's hard to do when you're wide awake on a five our flight. So we're on Alaska Airlines, a Delta partner for the daytime flight. Stage two of Travel Hell is T.S.A. which now has four times as many employers who it had just a month ago. You have to take off your jacket, belt, shoes and everything out of your pockets. Then a bored man waves you through the screening device which now requires that you spread your legs and hold your hands above your head. You look like you're being robbed, which of course you are. On a good day, Travel Hell ends here. On a bad day, it's just starting to get hot. For us, it started getting hot on Saturday night when my cell phone rang as we stood on the dock waiting for the sea plane. The nice voice on the other end of the line informed me that our flight was canceled due to bad weather, though it was pleasant where we were standing. This call came five minutes before we were scheduled to take off. Surely the airlines had been aware of this bad weather before now. "I see," I slowly replied. "Well, let me think about this ..." I was saying when Sarah jerked the phone out of my hand. "Let a northern girl handle it," she explained before exploding in the phone, "I don't have time to deal with you. Give me my money back! I'll deal with you later" Seeing that she had things under control, I looked at Conner who was looking at me. "You want a beer?" he asked. I nodded. So we made our way off the dock, dragging a loud Sarah along with us, and went to a party. The next morning I learned that there was no plane on Sunday so ... we went to Seattle and found a wonderful place called ... Elliott's! We highly recommend it. Then to accomodate the airlines, we got up at 5:30 this morning and made our way through parts one and two of Travel Hell. Then to torture us a bit, the airlines delayed our plane for 45 minutes and you know the rest of the story. Having said all of that, we saw whales up close and personal. We saw Eagles, otters, a Camel (why there was a Camel on San Juan island is a mystery to us but it's there), snow covered mountains, and the North Pacific Ocean. There were two quaint seaside harbor towns that are postcard perfect. We were with fun people. And Sarah and I are doing it together, rolling with the punches and enjoying the ride. There's lots to do when we get home. After a summer of constant travel, we're ready to spend the rest of the season on Tybee Island having cookouts, visiting with the kids, taking the girls to the beach, reuniting with the Carnival of Friends and taking Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, on walks. We'll do bike rides to The Bored Meeting and find music to listen to while we dance. We're both ready for this vacation to be over. So that vacation can begin.

Easy Going Love

It had been Conner again who'd asked me to do it. Would I come to the Florida Keys to perform the wedding of two of his best friends, Christy and Ronnie. He promised that it would be fun. I told him that I would because Conner asking and we always seem to have fun ... plus it was a trip to the Keys! I love it down there. I was also in desperate need of diversions. After a 23 year career, I'd burned out and was no longer working. I was also suddenly single, living alone in the house that we'd used to share so it was like living in an empty tomb. Aside from my dog Goddess, there was a tiny collection of people who were part of my life. I was sad, tired, questioning everything about how it could have happened to me, and full of uncertainty about what to do next. "Have fun with them," Conner instructed. "They are really good people." Eventually we set a time so that we could talk on the phone and I could get to know them. "Hello, I'm the Reverend Micheal Elliott," I said in my deepest and most solumn preacher's voice. "And before I can agree to do your wedding, I need you to answer some questions." They said fine though there was clear apprehension in their voices. Conner had told them that I was a crazy minister and a fun loving guy. "Now, which church do you attend?" After a moment of silence, Christy said "Um, we don't go to church." "I see," I gravely replied. "How many times have you read the Bible?" A longer period of silence followed. "We're not sure." "So you have read the Bible?" Silence again before they meekly said, "We haven't read the Bible." "I see," I said with even more gravity in my voice. "Do you beleive in God?" "Um," they said in a lingering sort of way. "OK," I continued, "Have you ever used God's name while having sex?" "YES!," they both exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Fine," I concluded, "we can proceed with this ceremony. Several weeks later, on the island of Islandmorada, as the sun set, I conducted their ceremony beside the ocean. It was a glorious affair with lots of laughter and affirmation of easy going love. They sailed away on a boat to commence their marriage. We all burst into laughter. If you go to Christy's Face Book page, her profile picture is the three of us standing there. She's looking stuningly beautiful in a formal wedding dress. Her face is radiant. Ronnie is wearing a flowered shirt and a broad smile as he celebrates with those watching. And I'm standing there with my arms raised in blessing, wearing a black robe and a UGA baseball cap. They are laughing because I'd just put the cap on my head before pronouncing them husband and wife. Last night, Sarah and I were with Christy and the story was retold in laughter the way friends do. We were at the wedding of Conner and Hania's son. It was another beautiful ceremony and The Nines were blasting good dance music. We all danced and celebrated. And there was a moment when I was back there on Islandmorado, suffering through the worst times of my life but being reminded by Christy and Ronnie that when love happens, it is a joyous explosion of happiness.

Homesick

The sun rises above the snow capped mountain throwing a blinding light on the calm waters of Puget Sound. Lush green fern trees seperate the two. No boats dot the water and I cannot see another house from where I sit drinking coffee from a giant brown mug. There is a peaceful scerenity to it all. A light chilled breeze is blowing so the branches are waving their tips wishing me a good morning. I find myself just sitting and staring at it, breathing it in and feeling as though I'm living a prayer. Others are asleep. It was a big night. After a rehersal for a wedding, there was a party in Roche Harbor, a quaint little fishing village that Norman Rockwell must have designed. Salmon was grilled, mussells steamed and wine flowed freely. Sitting around a huge fire pit, we laughed, toasted, spoke in pairs or found ourselves staring in silence at the beauty of our surroundings. Earlier in the day we'd made our way to Lime Klinn Park where pods of Orca Whales live. The mountains of Canada are across the sound. Otters and Sea Lions break the surface and sun. A tiny lighthouse sits atop a cliff and we sit there waiting and watching. The only sounds are those of nature ... the breaking of a tree limb, water slapping against rocks, the roaring silence of creation. Sarah snapped photographs when we weren't holding hands, walking and appreciating the experience. Conner keeps us laughing when he's around. His kids and grandchildren bring a youthful enthusiasm to it all when we're around them. They search the shore for eels and large purple Starfish or gleefully throw rocks in the water. "We should have booked more time here," I say. "We've come to the other side of the country and we're only staying for a couple of days. We could have driven south to Portland and that area." Nodding her head, Sarah replied, "Yeah but I'm ready to be home ... in our house. We've been gone a lot and we're still setting up our home. The girls will be away another week and I want to finish painting, get their rooms done and clean out the storage room." She's right. It's been a busy few months for us beginnning with our marriage in March. We went to Belize, took the girls to Daytona and then I had to share St. Martin with Sarah. Now we're in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington waiting on whales. "We've hardly been in our home," she sighs, surrounded by uncommon beauty and a question of who knows when we get to do this again. "Yeah," I softly answer. Homesickness happens ... often when you least expect it. It's Chelsea's birthday and I'm far, far away. There hasn't been enough Tybee time in our lives. We've taken the girls to the beach once this summer. There's only been scant skirmishes with the Carnival of Friends. Attendace at the daily Bored Meetings in front of Fannies-on-the-Beach have been brief and random. Goddess and I have barley touched the sad, little, holy dock. Winston, the little gay dog, still isn't properly trained for life inside. Fran and her thousand shades of green are lonely standing guard on the Beloved Back Deck without us. The charcoal in the grill is old. I miss the smell of the marsh and the feel of salt sticking to my skin. Sarah is looking at me. She has this way of being very intensely thinking while staring so deeply it cuts right through you. I look back at her, nodding my head. We're ready to come home.

Waiting for Whales

It never seemed to get dark last night. The sky was more of a dirty grey and the heavy dark drapes had the one crack where they didn't quite close so the little bit of light shone directly on me. On West Coast time we went to bed relatively early, 10:30, but we're still on east coast time so things are moving slow this morning. Roche Harbor is a drop dead gorgeous place ... a seaside harbor with quaint shops, houses on mountain sides and a retro hotels that look like a movie set. The restaurant sat above it all, off a cobblestone street with paroramic views of the boats, the mountains and the harbor town. It's a chore to get here. Fly to Seattle, drive 80 miles north, and then you catch a Ferry for an hour. The Ferry has a bar so it was a easy glide across Puget Sound. Sea Lions swam beside the Ferry and I found myself on the constant lookout for whales. Getting up front and personal with a whale has long been on my bucket list and this is my chance. When Conner first asked me to conduct the wedding of his son, he said that the service would be in Key West. Island Boy that I am, I immediately said I was available. Of course this is Conner. We've had many adventures together and this is the opportunity for a new one. I would have done it for him and Hania regardless of where and when. Plus, I love Key West and have been wanting to take Sarah for a while so this made for the perfect opportunity. Things don't always go according to plan in life so when Conner called me to say we would now be going to the San Juan Islands in Washington state, I cussed. I'd never heard of them but Washington state sounded cold ... even in late June. I hate cold. My enthusiasm for the entire thing suddenly was something that I was no longer looking forward to. Until now. First it is uncommingly warm here (though last week it apparently wasn't). There is plenty of snow but it's all on top of the mountains and luckily I'm at the bottom of the mountains. Mountains are everywhere. So is water. The mountains are covered with trees that reach for the sky covered in green. The water is grey and flat. The sun shines brightly sprinking diamonds on the sound. Bald Eagles are keeping an eye on things. I'm sipping coffee watching for whales. The house we're in sits at the base of a mountain so when I look to the left, the glass walls display a wall of stone and trees covered in lush greens. When I look to the right, the glass walls display a smattering of trees that hang over the water highlighted by the sun. There is a solitude and peacefulness here that I hadn't anticipated. Refreshing my coffee, I walk outside on to the deck and breath in a cleanness that I've rarely smelled. I'm used to salt hanging in the air. Sitting back in one of the deck chairs, I become one with it all. Steam rises from the coffee mug. Everything is still and the quiet roars. I keep my eyes open. I do not want to miss the whales.

Things You've Never Done Before

We're in the sky on a plane heading to Atlanta ... because you can't go anywhere in Georgia without going through Atlanta. It thinks its the center of the universe drenched in bar-b-que sauce and politicians. The world's busiest airport is there and it will spew us out on another plane for the west coast. It professes to be a world class city but its not. It's more of a bunch of suburbs connected by the worst transportation scheme ever designed. Of course we had to drive through Savannah to get to the airport there. The Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) is located on the other side of the county from Tybee Island where we live. Savannah thinks its the center of the universe too but in a more laid back way. Race, cocktails and half-truths are what the city's political system is designed around. It professes to be a religious city but it's not. We had the top down and were enjoying the ride in. It was cool. The view of the marsh across the Lazaretto Creek Bridge was stunning. We talked about our future and the things that we're going to do. We held hands and shared excitment for this trip. Driving through Savannah ... and flying through Atlanta ... I don't miss it. I've spent several life times in both. To quote Bob Dylan, "I've done that once. Why would I want to do it again? I'll do something else." Both cities treated me as a prince ... then later as a pauper. Now they're just settings for old stories that come in handy from time to time. Both are also lightly sprinkled with friends whom I still love ... and who still love me. It's funny to travel through such places. At one time they meant everything, demanded everything, consumed everything and ... in the end ... took everything. Tybee Island is a much more forgiving place. It has it's quirks, and the political system is as screwy as Congress, but holiness resides beside the sea. Celebrations are often because people either ran away from what they needed to distance themselves from or found what they were looking for ... all on the same clump of sand. This is a future flight though. I've spent decades traveling alone. Today Sarah sits beside me napping because its a long way to Seattle and then a couple of hours in a car and on a boat after that. We will hook up with Conner and Hania and a celebration will commence. We'll all see and do things that we've never done before. That's one of the secrets of staying young I think. Do things you've never done before ... and keep doing them. That's what Sarah and I are doing today. I hope that you are too.

Born Again ... again.

First Conner calls and leaves me a message to call him. It was Conner so I had to call him back. We've shared momentous occasions together in St. Martin, Islandmorada, New Orleans, Fort Lauderdale and here on Tybee Island. We actually remember some of them. His wife Hania is our historian. She reminds us of the things we did. "Melliott," he said answering the phone, melding my name together as a group of crazy Canadians known as the Koster's do. "What do you want?" I fired with love and admiration. "I have no idea why I called," he explained Sitting on the Beloved Back deck on a hot summer night with my feet propped on the railing with a glass of wine, I gave him time. You always have to give Conner time ... he doesn't walk ... he strolls. "Oh yeah," he finally says, "what time are we meeting?" So I gave him the details before saying, "You didn't tell me it was going to be freaking cold you bastard." Sarah had checked the weather for Roche Harbor in the San Juan Islands ... north of Seattle! The high is going to be in the low 60s and the lows in 40s! I am going to freeze. I hate cold with everything in me and let Conner know it. "Ah, it'll be fine," Conner said. "Wear something under your robe." So we're getting ready to head to the West Coast to hook up with best friends who've lived with me through hell and back. It is a joyous occasion as their son Ryan is marrying the beautiful Abby. They've lost their minds and asked me to perform the ceremony. It'll be fun though. I actually like Seattle, Portland, Stevenson ... a lot. I've been there many times ... though never north of there. Conner hangs up on me, apparently finished with our conversation. Sarah's inside talking to the girls who are in New York. Dedra and her son J.R. had left after a feast of steaks on the deck. Winston, the little gay dog, lay next to Sarah while Goddess was laying beside me. God had hung the stars brilliantly in a pitch black sky. The sound of waves crashing were in the distance. The pungent aromas of the Marsh hung in the air. Birds sang goodnight lullabies to one another. I sat thinking. Friends come and go ... and sometimes they come back. Most times they don't. I'd spoken with an old friend earlier, someone that I haven't spoken with in a few years. Immediately, she wanted me to be who I was back then. So I listened and tried to conjure up the things that I used to do, but ... that's not who I am anymore. I am being born again ... again. Goddess follows me inside and I make Winston, the little gay dog, move so that I can sit sit beside Sarah. Locking arms, we don't say much. We just are And what we are is incredibly blessed to be together, where we are, with the people we're with and a whole life unfolding in front of us

Reflections (of my Life's work)

There is a story about the singer Harry Nilsson picking up the famous song writer Jimmy Webb one night for a ride. Nilsson was very sick and knew that he wasn't going to be alive much longer. As he drove, he popped tapes into the cassette player ... one after the other. Some had been hits and others were things that Webb had never heard. This went on for a couple of hours. Few words were spoken. "Well," Nilsson finally concluded as the car pulled up to Webb's house, "that's it. My life's work." It was the last time the two spoke. This is a different Nilsson from the one known for the way he partied. "Harry spent his entire life in pursuit of a a good party and he caught it," says Eric Idle of Monty Python fame, "and it caught him in the end." He was a man of extremes. At the end, it wasn't all of the good times he'd experienced that mattered ... it was what he was leaving behind. He became fiercely devoted to his children and his wife, leaving them love notes, playing with them without ceasing, appreciating what he had. And there was the music. Nilsson never followed rules ... he's the only rock star to have never performed live ... and he recorded an album of standards 25 years before anyone else thought to do so ... and he did this at the height of his popularity when the company wanted to keep doing what he had been doing. You can see why I like him. I was very struck by his struggle to share his Life's Work with his friend before he died. I wonder about my life's work. I've done a lot, been most places I've wanted to go, and have boxes of stuff documenting achievements. I am fiercely devoted to my children and delight in the ways they are making their ways in the world. I have friends sprinkled around the world and a very tight collection here on Tybee Island which is where I've always wanted to live. There are eight books on Library shelves so my name will still be around when I'm not. For the most part, I look backwards with pride. At the same time, "I am changing, rearranging, changing everything, ah everything around me" as the old song goes (Reflections of my Life). Sarah and I are redoing the house. A little gay dog runs around my feet while my aging Goddess sleepily watches him. Three little girls have freaking "Justin Bieber" posters hanging inside but they ask me the most interesting questions. I am still in pursuit of a good party but no longer care if I catch it or not. I still enjoy being on center stage, doing television interviews, and writing but ... love the solitude of the Beloved Back Deck more, rarely turn the television on and they don't have to be books anymore. The highlight of my day is when Sarah gets up. I am very much in a reflective period in my life. For whatever reason, God has blessed with with this time. I like to think I earned it but it could be that She just likes me and it's a blessing that I don't deserve but have anyway. I'm young and feisty, always on the lookout for the new stuff, yet have mountains of experiences and have amassed enough to keep doing what I'm doing (at least for a while longer). I am humbled and thankful for this time ... but frightened and apprehensive about how to keep going. Sometimes it is hard to focus on enjoying the present when you know there is more to do. But I am determined. It's all been great so far. Now is blissfully wonderful. Tomorrow is going to be much better.

Me Dad

"When your father dies," Peter Doliber told me after his father had died, "I'll be there to help you get through it." I remember that Peter was full of emotion at the time. His life was already going through major transitions so his father's timing couldn't have been worse. I was trying to show him love and help the best way I knew how. A couple of years later, my Dad died. He was actually pretty good about it. I was in St. Martin and he waited around until I got back. My understanding is that he'd been laying in bed and would likely be gone before I got there. Driving to the hospital directly from the airport, I walked inside his room and was surprised to see him sitting there fully dressed, staring at his hands, looking inside of another universe somewhere. My Mother and brother were also sitting there. "Hey Bub," Dad said when he saw me. "You look good." "Hey Dad, you don't look too bad yourself. I thought you were dead." He didn't respond but kept looking at his hands. A little bit later, exasperated Dad said loudly, "Mike! what do you think I should do?" I got up and sat in front of him. Placing my hand on his knee, I looked in his face but he was looking at the floor. "I dunno Dad. About what?" "I think I'm ready," he softly said to the floor. All of the air was sucked out of the room. "Hey Dad, if you're ready, that's cool." Turning, I looked at David, my brother, who came and sat in the chair that I'd been sitting in. David held Dad's hand. Dad kept looking at the floor. "If you're ready to be with Jesus Dad, he's ready for you." I heard Mom crying. Dad nodded his head but didn't say anything. Then things happened quickly. He moved to Hospice. We took turns spending the night. It was only three days later when he died. His last words were "It was beautiful." Father's Day is funny when you don't have your Dad around anymore. And in spite of what Peter had said, nobody can really do anything to help you with it. There are lots of good memories and I'm lucky enough to have been a son who split pitchers of beer with his Dad talking about ... everything. "You love everybody," Sarah said to me yesterday. I'm not sure about that. I've met my share of assholes. But I get my heart from my Dad. He mostly loved everybody and was forever trying to help a single mother who was a waitress, a gardener without health insurance or a niece who needed money. He was that way. He never preached but he practiced a lot. He also passed on a love of the ocean to me ... the sea, salt, smell of the marsh, sitting in the sun with as little on as possible, admiring girls in bikinis, and listening to good music. My first visit to Doc's Bar was with my Dad. So something's missing today. Having said that ... Dad would be the first to say, "Enjoy it son. It's beautiful!" Thanks Dad. I will.

55 Going on 17

I haven't hung out in many Tattoo Parlors in my life but we strolled into one last night. Tybrissa Street (formerly 16th Street and located between 15th and 17th Streets but inexplicably named Tybrissa) was packed with tourists and locals having a good time on a pleasant summer evening. After dinner and listening to the Sam Adams Band, who play damn good live music, we were making our way back home when we passed it. "You going to do it?" Sarah asked. Pausing, I looked inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dedra looking at me. "Let's do," I said grabbing Sarah's hand and we went inside. The first thing we saw was a guy having his tongue pierced. I thought Dedra was going to pass out. My son Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have tongue rings so I'm used to the way they roll their mouth bling around when they're thinking. It was interesting to see a needle five miles long go through the guy's tongue, but ... he likes it I'm OK with it too. I'm open that way. My daughter Chelsea has a nose ring but she doesn't wear it much anymore. It's probably because she's being held captive on the campus of the Georgia Institute of Technology by her fiancee Sam. But she used to wear it when she was at the much cooler University of Georgia. Sarah has three ear rings in one ear and one in the other. She used to have a belly button ring but I've yet to see her wear any bling in it and believe you me ... I like her belly button and spend a lot of time around it. Regardless, I don't know why I never got my ear pierced. I always intended to. Once Johnny O bought us fake ear rings ... the clip on kind and we wore them around the island. Whitley was the only one who thought we'd actually done it. "With all of the rules you've broken," Sarah said, "I can't believe you haven't done this yet. What do you think your Mother will say?" "Oh she'll be mad," I quickly replied without hesitation. "I know my Mom." Then I thought of my friend Trolly Joe who died a couple of years ago. Before he did, he got his ear pierced AND ... he started having Pedicures (which is one of life's great pleasures. I like walking in with a cooler full of beer, make them change the television to ESPN and have a woman play with my feet. It's great! And if any of you macho men haven't done this yet ... well Trolly Joe and I sure celebrate this ... I'm talking to you Mark Wood and Mitch Wesley!). So I sat in the chair, had some alcohol splashed on my ear lobe and felt a pin prick. "You're done," Aaron said. Aaron had one piercing and two Tattoos. He didn't have an ass so I'm uncertain how his jeans didn't fall down. I assume he hocked it to pay for either the piercing or the Tattoos. So that was it. At fifty-five years of age, I finally got around to doing something that I meant to doing in High School. It's never too late to do something that you've always wanted to do. Besides ... Sarah thinks it's hot. O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) has already written wanting to plan his piercing upon (a) his retirement or (b) his birthday. Either way it's a party! Plus I like it. Fifty-five going on seventeen.

Music Rains

Music rains down on this island. Most every night you can find it somewhere. Sunday night we went to North Beach Grill to hear The Velvet Caravan then moved on to Doc's Bar to hear Jefferson Owens. It was grand, vastly different, and wonderfully celebratory (except for the house wine at Doc's, which sucks. So I walked across the street to Bernie's to get some and brought it back to Doc's). We learned that night, there is no such thing as Ordinary People ... and C. S. Lewis says so. Tuesday night we returned to Doc's Bar for the Acoustic Jam, which is held in the back room away from the bar. I ended up with a guitar in my lap, Dedra breezed in and she and Sarah sang. Chip and I played. Dave banged the bongos. We didn't have a bass player but we did have fun. Wednesday night we went to The Rock House to hear Samuel Adams and Davy play damn good live music. Sitting there, a party broke out as a bunch of friends joined us. Last night, Sarah and I rode our bicycles to Social's to listen to Bottles and Cans, a very excellent blues band. We nibbled on food and had a nice visit with Roy Swindel who is the lead musician at Doc's Bar. It's funny that all of the players on the island are friends who support one another. Roy often shows up to listen to Samuel Adams and Samuel often gives electric cords to Roy when his break. I must point out that Roy is the only musician on the island with his own bobble-head doll. It's pretty cool actually and can be purchased to sit on your mantle back home. Now it's the weekend and music is everywhere. Fannies-on-the-Beach or Marlin Monroe's will have Liquid Ginger or Savannah Steve. Roy will be playing. Samuel will too. I'm think American Honey Band is at the Rock House tonight. Sunday at Bar Church the service is built around music. It's mostly "Happy Jack" stuff, but it's fun. Then it starts all over again next week. "I miss the birds singing in the morning," I said to Sarah yesterday. "Well lets open the windows again," she replied. So we did. It had been raining a lot so they had been shut. This morning, I lay in her arms, listening to the birds sing me awake. Palm Trees danced in the ocean breeze. The sun was lazy, slowly dragging the blanket of clouds off his shinny face. Stumbling downstairs for the morning baptism in the outdoor shower, our neighbor Scott is listening to Rolling Stones. "Wild Horses" couldn't drag him away. Me either. I love this place.

The Road (so far)

Standing in Lafayette Square across from the White House, I'm surrounded by white tents with small signs in front of each. Each bears the name of a homeless person who died on the streets. Each tent is unoccupied. A handful of people are in President's Park though this is Mitch Snyder's show. He's got long black hair, a droopy mustache, wears a green Army shirt and white jeans. He looks tired staring at the White House in defiance of President Reagan. This protest has been going on for months. We'd met in Atlanta though mutual friends, Jim and Anita Beaty, back in the days when we all got along. He'd been wearing the same thing that day while I was in a suit. Our approaches to helping the homeless were very different. I remember Jim also showing up wearing a green Army jacket and Anita showed up looking like herself ... angry. In Washington D.C. for meetings, I'd joined Mitch in Lafayette Square and it was my first Presidential Protest. As far as rallies go, it was pretty sedate. Empty tents don't make a lot of noise. "Thanks for coming," Mitch said with his hands stuffed in his pockets on a cold night. "Yeah sure," I replied ... freezing. "How long you going to do this?" He looked at me with his tired eyes and shrugged his shoulders. "Long as it takes," he signed. In the end, before he killed himself, Mitch won. President Regan caved into the public pressure of empty tents with dead people's names on them. A piece of prime Capitol real estate was given to Mitch along with hundreds of thousands of dollars so homeless people would have a place to go. The President was seen as a compassionate man though he believed people living on sidewalks on freezing nights should just get a job and move. He had no understanding of self-medicated mental illness. After the victory, Mitch hung himself in the shelter that he'd opened. It is still there. Last time that I was in Washington D.C., I walked by it. It's a filthy dump of a place surrounded by filthy people. I'd been inside many times and had no inclination to return so I kept walking. Stopping in Lafayette Square, I stared at the White House. The tents were long gone and the park was immaculate. There were two protesters demonstrating though for the life of me I can't recall what made them outraged. This time it was my eyes that were tired and sad. My shoulders drooped like Mitch's had all of those years ago. I cried with my hands stuffed in my pockets on a cold winter's night. After thirty years, I couldn't do anymore. I self-destructed like Mitch did but ... I kept my life. Winston, the little gay dog, plays under my feet, as I remember these things. Goddess is intensely watching him on the Beloved Back Deck. Sarah is sleeping and I'm determined they do not bother her. The sun shines through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt. Hibiscus blooms surround me. I hear waves breaking in the distance. The long and winding road ... In the beauty of a summer morning, wearing next to nothing, I remember the wild and windy nights. Mitch is long dead. President Reagan is too. Others have taken their places. The problems remain the same. Someone is standing in Lafayette Square staring at the White House and somebody else is protesting the President. And I'm still here. I'm not sure how ... or why ... but I am. I am deeply in love. I adore all of my kids. I'm blessed with friends who celebrate me. I live in Paradise. But ... there is something else left inside of me to do. I reflect on all of the places that I've been ... which are many. My gaze is ahead though ... wondering what's around the bend.

My Poor Wife

Sarah is a northern girl. There are things that she simply does not understand. She is stunningly beautiful, a terrific conversationalist, is well read, has done fascinating things and often draws a crowd. Last night at dinner, I tried to explain the wonderful things about being born and bred in the South. She stared at me with a blank expression on her face. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. A few things need to be said before I get started. She gloated last night when the highest paid team of thugs to play baseball, the Yankees, beat the Braves which proves that Satan does indeed exist. She has a dark side. Second, she is under some illusion that professional football is anywhere near same level of accomplishment, entertainment or devotion as college football. She did intern with the Buffalo Bills and dated several of the players. Let's be honest ... the mothers of the players of the Buffalo Bills don't even bother to watch them play. Now a confession ... "I don't hate Yankees," Lewis Grizzard once said. "I have a friend who hates them. His hobby is reading the obituary section of the New York Times." Having said all of that ... I adore my wife but ... She does not understand that college football is a religion that is far more significant than any church service which is why it has it's own day ... Saturday ... dedicated to it (Thursday nights too thanks to ESPN!). She does not comprehend why I have almost one hundred VHR tapes of Larry Munson's Greatest Calls that I refuse to part with because ... it's freaking Larry Munson. Munson talked God how to speak! Then there are the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia, God's chosen team. Sure God's making them wander around in the wilderness for a while but it's just a matter of time before they reclaim their appointed position on the heavenly throne. Sarah doesn't know that Philistines attend the University of Florida, heathens go to Tennessee, and Sodomites occupy South Carolina. I don't know why she doesn't know these things but ... she doesn't. She has no appreciation for Bar-B-Que. This left me speechless. She makes no distinction between Bar-B-Q beef and Pork ... knows that pigs are smarter than dogs ... that charcoal is the only thing you use on a grill or that Johnny Harris Bar-B-Que sauce is the nectar of the Gods. She has never been graced with a Bar-B-Que sandwich from the Georgia Pig in Brunswick or supper at Sprayberry's in Cowetta County. Seafood is not on her diet. This is completely foreign to me. How does one survive without fried shrimp, oysters, fish, hushpuppies, french fries and Cole Slaw? She has no idea that Mahi-Mahi is just a name that we made up to sell Dolphin fish to northerners because they though they were eating Flipper. I couldn't eat by the time I tried to explain all of these things. I'll give her this though ... she drinks sweet tea. As anyone who listens to good music knows ... on the eighth day, God made sweet tea. And she is stunningly beautiful. So ... I grabbed her hand and we walked outside into a Tybee night where the salt from the water stuck to our skin, the music from Doc's Bar called us in, and the moon danced above the clouds.

Off Island

"You have to get up!" the Mother screamed from the bottom of the staircase. Her son covered his head with his pillow and shifted his body to ignore her bellows. "Get up now!" she screamed again. "You're going to be late for Church." Grabbing a second pillow, he stuffed it against his ear and tightened the covers around his body. "Do not make me come up there!" she screeched. Exasperated, he sat up and yelled, "Give me one good reason why I have to get up!" "You're the Priest," was her answer. "Shit," he muttered as his head returned to the pillow. This was a favorite story of my long departed friend Father Vernon Robertson. He was an impish man, bordering on being a Hobbit, with short grey hair and a Devil's smile. Ordained by Pope Paul VI, Vernon loved Mother Church with everything within him. Me? Not so much. Though I did love Vernon with everything in me. I have to go Off Island today which is rarely a pleasant experience. Vernon's story popped into my head while I was having coffee at the Breakfast Club so I suppose he's up there somewhere making fun of the fact that I have meetings in Savannah. Tybeities is the dreaded fear of crossing the Lazaretto Bridge. I have a particularly bad case. "My life's goal is to figure out a way to finance this lifestyle," I once explained to someone who asked what I do for a living. This lifestyle is being a Beach Bum. "I love living on an island and vacationing on another island," I describe myself on Face Book. The other island is St. Martin. But today there are obligations to meet. Meetings that may lead to money, a visit with the Tax Man, and we may as well stop at Wall Mart while we're off island because God knows The Three Wise Men stopped there on their way to buy something for the Baby Jesus. It sucks though. I suppose I should count my blessings. I have to leave the island so that I can come back on it. My Dad once said, "When you hit the Tybee road and cross the Bull River Bridge, it's like this giant door slams shut on the rest of the world. When you get to Tybee you're in a completely different universe." Dad taught me a lot about living right and he was certainly right about this clump of sand. I can hear he and Vernon arguing in heaven now. They'd be laughing like they always did whenever they were together ... at my expense. Anyway ... I gearing up and taking preventive medicine for the trip across the bridge ... a screwdriver. Almost time to go ... dammit.

The Velvet Caravan

It used to be 60 Minutes that defined Sundays for me. The culmination of the weekend was watching the show. When I was a "Professional Christian" inexplicably in charge of a Baptist Church I set time records for the evening service ending so that I would be home in time for Andy Rooney. I think several of the little old ladies who were the core of the congregation got whip-lash because as soon as they arrived for church ... it was over. Homeless guys just shrugged their shoulders and split another bottle of communal wine. After the Baptists left me ... or I left the Baptists, I'd spend Sundays on the beach looking at girls in Bikinis. It was great! Towards the end of the day, I'd lumber home, throw something on the grill, uncork a bottle, and settle in with 60 Minutes. I'm not certain what the draw was. Initially perhaps it was intellectual curiosity. In those days I walked around reading four books at once while chancing Jeremy and Kristen's diapers. Later, Chelsea and I would log hours on the beach together while I read novels about Travis McGee and I suppose 60 Minutes had become an addiction. Besides, I've always thought Lesley Stall was hot. Those days are over. It was a cloudy, rainy day at the beach yesterday so Sarah and I sat on the porch that we conducted a hostile takeover of from Rocky. The Braves game was on the television though I was napping. Sarah was speed reading a Grisham novel (a page a minute!). The rain fell harder. "There is music with no words tonight that I want to hear," she said though whatever fog I was in. "Then there is music with words that we can go to for you." Sarah often speaks in tongues. I had no idea what she was talking about. But at six o'clock we wandered onto the decks of North Beach Grill where I was immediately accosted by their hoodlum waiter Sean, the lovely bartender Amanda and the other not-so-lovely bartender Travis. Sarah stood in horror while these people attacked me. After I fought them off, we found a table. Dedra ... known on the island as D-Luv ... as opposed to Jeremy who is know as J-Luv ... joined us ... walking like an Egyptian. We ordered crab cakes, meat loaf, red beans and rice as the band occupied the deck next to us. Our friend Al joined us. Laughter erupted. The band consisted of a violin, classic guitar, upright base and an electric piano ... The Velvet Caravan. They were freakin' great! A little blond haired girl with blazing blue eyes danced in front of them. Grayson, who apparently forget to pay his Al Qaeda dues, stood clean shaving and smiling. The congregation of listeners all seemed happy and content. "You ever been been to Splash Mountain?" Sean the hoodlum waiter asked in my ear. "This is the band." We cracked up. Then it was off to Doc's Bar for "Singer/Songwriter" night. Commandeering stools at the bar, Jefferson Owens told us that there is no such thing as "Ordinary People" and that C. S. Lewis told him so. It was wonderful news. While all of this was happening, 60 Minutes was on television. I have no idea what they talked about. But I do wonder ... is Leslie Stall still hot? Ah, it doesn't matter. Sarah and I came home together. There are kids. Sarah is hot and got on the velvet caravan.

Today's Party

Parties break out on Tybee Island like spontaneous combustion. You can be doing anything ... paying bills, praying, cutting the grass, going to a funeral ... and a party will break out. I am not certain why this is, but it is. The Euchee Indians discovered Tybee Island. They were a sun worshiping people who would build mounds to get closer to the sun until they discovered this clump of sand. They stood in amazement at the sand dunes already there. Who needed to build mounds? So they had a party to celebrate this fact. The Spirit continues. Later, Robert E. Lee helped build Fort Pulaski on Cockspur Island which is next to Tybee. It's a nice place. It's famous for two things: (1) They played baseball in the middle of the Fort using a log for a bat; and (2) They invented Military Punch, which is basically mixing every kind of alcohol ever invented into one drink! Now this is how military service should be performed! When the Civil War broke out, the Union forces set up on Tybee and proceeded to bomb Fort Pulaski. The soldiers of the Fort were already bombed from the Military Punch. A couple of hours later, they grabbed the log they'd been using as a baseball bat, stuck a white flag on it and surrendered. "Thanks God that's over," General Olmstead reportedly said. "Let's have a party to celebrate that nobody was hurt in the battle." So it should come as no surprise that at 4:30 yesterday afternoon, Cruise Director Cheryl Sadowski, though recovering from surgery, decided we needed a party. And so it came to pass. Then Sean and Wen wanted another party. And so it came to pass. When Sarah and I got home ... we had another one. And so it came to pass. Then we passed out. This is a crazy island. Salt, Sand, water, sun ... mixed with testosterone, hormones, bikinis and alcohol are key ingredients to a successful party. "There is a thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning," explained the major prophet Jimmy Buffett. Sarah and I were still partying when we crossed that line. This morning I'm throwing up prayers for forgiveness and watching where they land. Sarah's still asleep. Everybody else ... is planning today's party.

My Life in Rehab

The whole world is glued to cable TV It looks so real on the big LCD Murder and violence are rated PG, too bad for children they are what they see The words from Joe Walsh's new album leap out at me. It's true! For more than thirty years I danced in the world of murder and violence. I saw children of homeless women grow up to be homeless themselves. I had a friend who was beaten to death over a bottle of wine. I was submerged in the reality that drugs really are far more prevalent than anyone wishes to recognize. It far outstrips the income generated by tourism in Savannah where I live. Once I showed up to work sick at Union Mission. Apparently I looked and sounded far worse than I thought. Homeless guys love me because I love them. They rushed up all concerned. "Hey Rev," Ken exclaimed through the long red hair that covered his eyes, "tell us your symptoms. We got a drug for whatever's ailing you." Of course, Union Mission had a Zero Tolerance policy. Then I'd go into the world of those who understand the world from what they see on television, at the movies, from the Pulpit or from the Wall Street Journal. Many lived in Gated Communities. Most had gates around their hearts and locks on their minds. They are nice people. They care. They want to help. So they send money to causes they see on television without ever leaving home. They try to understand why the world is the way it is at the Movies. Churches organize annual field trips to help the poor ... rich Churches go to exotic places in other countries while poorer churches travel to another state. Those reading the Wall Street Journal mostly ... read the Wall Street Journal. Of course there are exceptions to each of these but for the most part, it's all still true. Today I still dabble in both worlds. Mostly though, I am in recovery from them. A thirty year addiction to trying to bring both worlds together in the belief that "for the Bible told me so" ended up costing a lot. "Red and yellow, back and white, they are precious in his sight." Maybe in His. Not in ours. It's hard to be not be cynical. I still hold onto heavily beliefs but have been crucified by earthy realities. So I'm staying in rehab a while longer. I still have the drunken dream that the Kingdom can come on earth as it is in heaven. For now, I need gentle Palm Trees ... the sea and the sky ... I'll know where I stand. Sounds just the angels up in heaven when they sing Welcome Home, Welcome Home Instead of some sad Salvation Army Sister Singer 'Nearer my God to Thee' (James Taylor)

Island Transitions

I never thought of life as being breezy I never thought of time as time to play I never thought that I could take it easy But all those feelings changed for me today So says Norman Paperman in Jimmy Buffett's excellent musical adaptation of Herman Wouk's "Don't Stop the Carnival." It's the story of a New York newspaper critic of Broadway plays has a mild heart attack and decides life is too short. Packs it all in, he heads to the islands to run a hotel. It's an adventure of culture shock, Palm Trees, affairs, corruption, beauty and finally coming to terms with the fact that he is who he really is. In the end he goes back to who he was ... though it's the adventure that defined who he really is. That remains the question doesn't it? Is this who I really am? The core of my soul is being a banker? My life's purpose is to get company's to buy adds for the newspaper? I really do love spending each day trying to make a sell? It's all about the money and in a few years I'll almost have enough? If it wasn't for the children I'd travel the world but I can't because "good mothers" don't do things like that? The Preacher told me that God told him that life is supposed to be lived one way only? I can't afford to be me? If I don"t take care of her, she'll die? For thirty years I was a pretty relentless person. Life was a series of never ending accomplishments, each besting the last. Time was deadlines and pressures with occasional lapses into moments of peace or love. Easy would come later because there was too much to do. Everybody needed me to do define myself in these ways or ... the entire world would go to hell, clocks would stop, children would starve, and God would personally hand me a first class ticket to hell. It's all bullshit. We're made to be who we really are. Maybe for those thirty years that was who I was really made to be, but it's not now. There isn't much I'd change about the way its all working out. But I've already did that. I don't want to do it again. I'll do something else. For the past while we were in St. Martin which is an island I love. It's freedom, Trade Winds, Palm Trees, aqua-blue water, good friends and contentment. Yesterday we got home and it was unplanned meetings, deadlines, expectations, failed deliveries, people talking too loud and collapsing into bed too exhausted to sleep. I was noticing a change in myself through yesterday. I no longer have to be in charge. I don't have to fix it. I can sit back and let others do the things they need to do for themselves because ... God knows the world would end if they didn't get what they want. I can slide into the calmness of a Bay protected by a reef. God really can be in charge if She wants to because ... I'm not going to fight about that anymore. This morning there are remnants of a Tropical Storm off of Tybee Island, which is home. Clouds thickly roll over the sun trying to prevent it from sending light, but there is light ... enough to see anyway. I water the plants and flip the laundry. Strolling to the Beloved Back Deck, I brush Goddess' hair. There are things to do and places to be in a little bit. It's all good. In the past twenty-four hours, I've transitioned islands. In the past few years, I've transitioned life. I'm keenly aware of so many people ... a lot I love deeply ... who are navigating their own transitions. Or panning the beginning of one. Or cussing the fact that they're too trapped to change anything. It's all alright. Do the best you can. Tomorrow ... try to do a little bit better. That's pretty much what Jesus had to say about it all. But in the end ... try to be as close to the person that you were really meant to be. Otherwise, worlds go to hell ... clocks stop ... children starve ... and tickets to hell are abundant.

Thanks Joe

Joe Bridges has died. He was an important character in my life and my career would never have achieved the things it did without him. I owe him a lot. A chain smoking, coffee drinking alcoholic, he could build or fix anything. As loyal a friend as I have ever had, we would spend hours sitting lone talking about how to get things done.  A resident of Potter's Place, a twelve bed rooming house for people in recovery, he was one of the first people I met when I returned to Savannah. Potter's was the one program Union Mission had then. Along with Roger Pack, Robert Watkins, Joe rounded out the core support system that made the place so successful.  At a book signing, I looked up and found Joe standing with a copy for me to sign. "Lookie here," he said followed by a loud sniff of his nose, "I keep up." and even though it had been a couple of years since he had moved from Potters, he proceeded to recount everything I'd done of that time. From 1987 through 1990' we'd opened four new housing programs for the city's homeless. Grace House, the Magdalene Project, Phoenix Place And The Hacienda.   Joe showed up at my office when the last one opened. "Lookie here," he explained followed with the loud nose sniff, "You need a maintenance man." "I can't afford one," I told him. "You can with all of the money I'm going to save you," he shot back. And he did. For the next decade Joe took care of everything. His house also became an overflow shelter for alcoholics when the shelters were full. He was the banker for addicts who needed to quit shaking, the counselor for them when they did, and their sponsor in AA meetings. He allowed the children of active addicts to move into his house and served as their father until they could be reunited.  He oversaw the expansion of Phoenix Place, the building of the Daniel-Flag Villas, and the construction of the J.C. Lewis Health Center.  Then he got into high speed Go Kart racing. I was in Florida when I heard that Joe had crashed into a wall at 60 mile per hour. I rushed back to Savannah to check on him and it was not good. Eventually he lost his leg. For a while I didn't think it would matter. One morning I looked up from my stool at "The Breakfast Club" to see him climbing off his motorcycle and hobbling in to have coffee with me. But then he slowly started losing his health. I visited him and did my best to talk him into coming back to work. We'd find a way to make it work. But his mind moved on to other things. He moved into a tiny trailer outside of Midway and our conversations were reduced to occasional phone calls. He didn't like that we'd sold Potters Place or was building Dutchtown on the south side. He thought that I spent too much time in other cities expanding the work. The last time I saw him he came to me. Hobbling in my office, he viewed it with disdain. I was no longer located in Grace house but in a larger more expansive and plush setting. "Are you a freaking banker nowadays." We talked about the old days and caught each other up on our kids. He asked me if I ever saw Roger or Robert. He hobbled out to a van that he drove and said with a sniff, "It sure as hell ain't what it used to be." And it sure as hell ain't.  Life is a gift that each of us share but none of us asked for. If we're lucky we get to share it with others. I was fortunate to have had so much of Joe in mine. So were thousands of others. It is amazing to see the difference that someone can make when they want to. Joe Bridges did as much for hurting, hungry and lost people as anybody I've ever met. He did it from the "Been there and done that" perspective. He believed that smaller is more beautiful than big. He taught me a lot about how to  appreciate everything that I've got. He reminded me that if he could survive hell then I could too. So Joe, Lookie here ... Sniff ... I love you man.

Celebrating the Moments

The full moon was so bright that the Palm Trees couldn't sleep as they towered over us. Not that they would want to as we sat on a patio listening to Noah and Levi play the blues with our friend Marty wailing on the mouth harp. The music was really good and the beauty of the night was spectacular. Giant green Geckos darted on the ground in perfect rhythm with sand crabs. The waves breaking on the reef hummed quietly in the background. Flags on top of sails boats slapped in the Trade Winds keeping beat to the songs. Sarah leaned against me sitting on the bench of the picnic table. Denise sat across and Hugh was swaying to the tunes beside me. Perhaps thirty of us sat there listening enjoying the majestic beauty of such simplicity. Everybody was smiling.  I sat watching them for a while and the music became a background noise. It was one of those moments where everything muted, blending into one seamless experience. No one thing dominated another. Everything was one. Th e feel of Sarah's skin on mine, the music, the smiles, the dancing, the Palm Trees and Geckos under the full moon were all one joyous celebration of life. Detached objectivity is what I call it. It's a moment when you leave yourself ... like those stories of dying people who leave their bodies and float over themselves  taking it all in before flying away. Or when you find yourself sitting there staring off into some other universe and when you recognize it, twenty minutes have passed. It's when you are so connected to everything around you, and everything within you, that you become a spiritual person. Then the filters came back on. Several people had disappeared. A Song fizzled out just as it had started. A cloud covered the moon. Sarah shifted her body causing me to shift mine.  The moment was over. Most everything that had caused it was still present but suddenly it wasn't as simple or as joyous as it had just been a second ago. What happened to the gift of the moment? Spirituality is a funny thing. It is a fleeting moment of pure participation of the life that God gave us. It is worship. It is holy.  It's community with people and creation at the same time. It doesn't last long ... though I wished it did. Whispering in Sarah's ear I said, "Let's go." She seemed surprised. She knows how important music is to my life ... and the beach ... and these people ... and the full moon. Hugh was surprised as we stood. "You're leaving?" Nodding,  I smiled. He smiled back and returned to his moment. Sarah and I held hands and walked to the Chalet that home for one more day. And we celebrated our moments.