Week 2 of 29: Old Friends and New Friends

The first full week on the Cape has gone differently from what I expected when I was planning this writing retreat. I thought I would be able to just take a couple of days to get set up, and then get into the groove of writing right away. That’s not been the case at all, in part because of the extraordinary events of my last weekend at First Parish. I learned of Butch Redding’s first stroke Saturday, February 9, just a few hours before the farewell dinner celebrating the work First Parish and I had done together that had been planned from weeks before. During the dinner, I got a frantic call from a friend from my New York days. I found out the following morning that her 27-year-old son died unexpectedly, probably due to some combination of painkillers and preventative medications he was on.

My friend’s son’s funeral was this past Tuesday. As I was on a bus lay-over in Providence, I talked to Millie and got the word of Butch’s imminent death, which was later that same night.

So I’ve been talking with a number of old friends these days: Two old friends in New York about putting me up for the Tuesday night I was there; my friend who lost her son; friends from and friends of First Parish regarding Butch’s passing.

At the same time, I’m grateful to be making some new friends out here on the Cape. My writing colleague and I are finding ways of working together and supporting each other on our respective projects, and I’ve been blessed to make some new friends here in Provincetown and Truro who have been generous with their time and hospitality, and have shown me some new sights and gotten me oriented to this part of the world. I’m truly glad for the gift of friendship.

Despite my intention to be somewhat regimented and focused here right off the bat, my soul seems to be saying, “Slow down – I need a breather!” I’m accepting that I must have needed more unstructured time to transition from the Boston area to being out here.

I’m enjoying the quiet and the slower pace. I can look out the window to the street that’s two backyards away and see a vehicle passing by every now and then. It’s different from the moderate busyness of Arlington Center and the unrelenting busyness that a got reacquainted with briefly while I was in Manhattan last week.

The busyness I am getting most acquainted with is that within my own mind. I remember being at a talk back in the fall given by Barbara Brown Taylor, the author of Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith. That evening, she was talking about the concept of sabbatical, and it’s erosion over the generations and decades. During the Q&A time following her talk, I mentioned my own sabbatical, and asked what her advice would be for me as one taking his first leave. She acknowledged that she didn’t know me, but that during my leave, I would become intimately acquainted with what drives me.

That’s what I’ve been paying attention to as much as anything this past week. I’m looking and seeing a lot of motivation emerging out of anxiety. It’s something like, “You better (fill in the blank), because if you don’t, something bad will happen.” Or I find myself avoiding doing something that I am doubtful will turn out in a way that I would expect and like.

Confronted with the task of finishing a novel, I am reminded of what it was like for me 30 or so years ago when I stopped practicing piano. I couldn’t bear to be with my beginner’s status, my place as a novice, especially when I knew other people my same age or younger who were much further along. What if I wasn’t any good, and would never be any good, as a musician? Rather than stay with that question and continuing to play, I stopped playing all together. Now when I reflect, I wonder what my life might have been like had I continued to practice. It’s never to late to start, it’s true, but there’s a way in which the past 30 years of not practicing can ever be regained. Not having a written a novel myself, I keep thinking about the masterworks of Zora Neale Hurston, James Agee, D.H. Lawrence, Alice Walker, James Baldwin and so many others, and coming up short. In her book The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron notes that emerging artists don’t compare their work to the beginning work of they favorite artists, but to the published works of masters of their craft.

I see the unfinished novel as an old friend who has been lounging on the couch watching television, while the finished novel is a new friend who is ringing on the doorbell, excitedly trying to enter my life. Will I continue to comfortably hang out with the unfinished, or will I muster the strength, courage and hope to get up, open the door and let the finished in?

(c) 2008 by Carlton Elliott Smith. All rights reserved.

Week 1.5 of 29: Remembering Butch Redding

I found out last night that Butch Redding, the beloved Parish Manager of First Parish of Arlington, died after of a series of strokes and other complications he had had since February 8.

There’s so much that can be said about him, it’s hard to know where to begin.

When I applied to be the Interim Assistant Minister at First Parish in the Spring of 2002, Butch was one of the staff members I interviewed with. He thought I was too serious, and asked me, “Am I going to be able to make you laugh?” And with that I burst into laughter. That was the first of many, many laughs we shared over the five and a half years we worked together, facing challenges great and small with a sense of humor and of deep appreciation.

What an artist. First Parish of Arlington is full of wildly creative people, and Butch was among the most wildly creative and talented of all. He never ceased to amaze me with the things he created. Whether it was a fabulous costume for an evening soiree, a miniature golden arc of the covenant for the stewardship campaign, a beautiful imitation flaming log for the holiday pageant – it seemed there was little or nothing that he couldn’t bring into existence through his great imagination.

What a leader. For years, Butch has been one of the most active and dedicated lay leaders in the MassBay District of Unitarian Universalist Congregations. At First Parish, he led most of the New UU courses over the past six years, with great heart and warmth. Without a question, there were times when he was prickly – very prickly. He could get very upset with himself and others when things were not going smoothly or as planned. The work inside a congregation as vibrant and energetic as First Parish never ends. Over the years, I saw Butch evolve and grow in his ability to manage himself and his deep emotions when the work was its most demanding.

What a colleague. I gave the sermon the last Sunday in the 2007 calendar year. The title of the sermon was “Practicing Friendship,” and I had made a photocopy of the reading I was to do that morning. Unfortunately, when the time for the reading came, I could not find it among my notes. Butch could see me starting to panic a little bit, and while the congregation sang the song that was switched in place of the reading, he searched the pulpit with me. Then Butch dashed from the sanctuary, through the fellowship hall, back to the Religious Education wing to my office, where he found the book I had taken the reading from and brought it back to the sanctuary, and handed it to me just as the song was ending. I said to the congregation, “What a friend we have in Butch Redding.” They applauded. I caught my breath, and the service went forward. This is a tiny example of one of the countless ways and times Butch intervened and made a difference for the better at the church.

What a minister. Sometimes, when there was some glitch in the operation of the church, I would attempt to frame it in the light of an opportunity for growth, as an occasion to practice forgiveness. Butch would turn to me and say, “That’s why you’re the minister and I’m not!” But the truth of the matter is that he was a kind of minister in the parish. Because of where his office was positioned, he and our Office Assistant, Kim Tracy, were often the front line of pastoral care in the church. Though his own tender heart was often broken by the illnesses and deaths of friends, and the suffering in the wider world, he never failed to let it be broken again when tragedy struck the congregation. He responded with comforting hugs, kind words and healing tears.

He and I certainly had our disagreements, misunderstandings and disappointments with each other over the years. The constants through it all were shared love, respect and esteem.

I saw him the afternoon of my final service at First Parish February 10, and again last Friday before I left for my writing retreat on the Cape. Neither time did he see me – he was in an induced coma and healing, I hoped. Somehow, I sensed that he was in for a very long recovery at best, and that the Butch so many others and I had known and loved was already gone forever.

I’m glad that his beloved friends Millie and Patrick were there to accompany him to the point of his transition.

In the spring of 2003, Butch preached and led a worship service called “Swimming to the Other Side,” based on a song by Pat Humphries, which he led with his resonant tenor voice. Here are the lyrics, which express so much of his spirit:

We are living 'neath the great Big Dipper
We are washed by the very same rain
We are swimming in the stream together
Some in power and some in pain
We can worship this ground we walk on
Cherishing the beings that we live beside
Loving spirits will live forever
We're all swimming to the other side

I am alone, and I am searching
Hungering for answers in my time
I am balanced at the brink of wisdom
I'm impatient to receive a sign
I move forward with my senses open
Imperfection, it be my crime
In humility I will listen
We're all swimming to the other side

On this journey through thoughts and feelings
Binding intuition, my head, my heart
I am gathering the tools together
I'm preparing to do my part
All of those who have come before me
Band together and be my guide
Loving lessons that I will follow
We're all swimming to the other side

When we get there we'll discover
All of the gifts we've been given to share
Have been with us since life's beginning
And we never noticed they were there
We can balance at the brink of wisdom
Never recognizing that we've arrived
Loving spirits will live together
We're all swimming to the other side


What a friend we had in Butch Redding, our beloved one who’s crossed over to the other side. What a friend, indeed.

Week 1 of 29: Endings and Beginnings

It’s 10:00 a.m. on the first Sunday since I completed my five-and-a-half year tenure at First Parish. I am sitting at a table in the upstairs of a cottage in the East End of Provincetown, looking over to the Monument to the Pilgrims, which I can see only because it’s winter and there are no leaves on the two or three elegant trees between it and me. The sun shines bright, and will be beaming through the ceiling windows soon.

I’m jumping up every few minutes to stir the enormous pot of spaghetti sauce that Tony is making so that as we are writing over the next three weeks, we won’t be so distracted by always having to go out to eat. My eyes watered and stung as he cut up the onions this morning. He’s gone to the gym now and to rent a bicycle.

We went grocery shopping shortly after we arrived yesterday afternoon, which was also bright hand chilly. After unpacking and putting the groceries away, we went to Napi’s, a local eatery that specializes in seafood dishes from the town’s Portuguese legacy. I could hardly stay awake I was so weary from the travel. The drive wasn’t a hard one, but so much of what’s happened over the past couple of weeks has been in preparation for this time – purging and paring down to the essentials – has been physically and emotionally demanding.

I’m so grateful for the friends I have who have supported me along the way: Those who helped me break down and vacate my apartment by the end of January, those that have welcomed me into their homes and at their tables, those who have given gifts and other tokens of appreciation, and written cards and notes and made calls, and done the many other things that have brought me to this present moment. Wrapping my mind around the blessedness of this time seems futile, so instead I will just be mindful of it.

I’m glad for this blog as an opportunity to bring mindfulness to this break. The historic bell that sits at the back of the sanctuary at First Parish reads, “Come to the house of prayer/Mark the flight of time.” Mark the flight of time. Time is so fleeting that it is unmarkable, like trying to tie water in a knot or keep the sun from setting. But maybe through little attempts at writing or painting or singing, through some act of creation, we can make an imprint. In time, all our creations and creating may be turned to ashes, dust, ether. Most of it probably will. I hope that even after memory fades, there will be something of the love of life in what we’ve done that remains and will be passed forward.

This past week was my farewell to the Boston area for the time being. I will pass through briefly to reorganize at the end of the sojourn in P’town, then head down South through New York, Philadelphia, DC and other stops, on my way to Gulfport. Last week, I took my car to the shop so it would be ready for the road, paid my last gas and electric bills, said my goodbyes, shed my tears. This week, I continue trying to stitch a cohesive narrative together from the fragments I’ve been collecting over the past 20 years.

At the end of the service last Sunday, I stepped through a beautiful saffron gate, patterned after Cristo’s Gates in Central Park three years ago. Just before that, the First Parish Jazz Ensemble offered it’s beautiful rendition of the song “Bridges,” written by Sergio Mendes and Kevyn Lettau. One of the verses I’ve been returning to over the past several days is

There’s a bridge to tomorrow
There’s a bridge to the past
There’s a bridge made of sorrow
That I pray will not last
There’s a bridge made of colors
In the sky high above
And I know that there must be
Bridges made out of love

I intend that this six-month break be a bridge made out of love, and that I constitute myself and the novel I’m completing to be the same.

Meanwhile, it’s time to stir the sauce again …

(c) 2008 by Carlton Elliott Smith. All rights reserved.