Dear Friends:
I was alarmed to hear that there was another church shooting in our country yesterday, and then my jaw dropped to find out that it was the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville that had been attacked. My reaction was equal to what people say in some neighborhoods when a crime occurs: How could this happen in our denomination? I asked myself. And now the reality sets in, that UUs are no less vulnerable to hate crimes, or being drawn into a sick person's externalized psychodrama than any other faith tradition. Just because we see ourselves as nonthreatening doesn't mean that others hold the same view.
The details are still unfolding, and I am watching our denominational website, www.uua.org, to keep posted myself. We can be thankful for the heroes and heroines who lept into action to mitigate the violence done, especially usher Greg McKendry, 60, who gave his life when he stepped between bullets and helpless church-goers. I hear the other person who was fatally wounded, Linda Kreager, 61, was a visitor that day, there to see her grandchild perform in a version of the musical Annie.
Let our thoughts and prayers be with those families who have lost loved ones, and those who anxiously wait to know how their lives will be different after this senseless act. And, if you are so inclined, I invite you to join me in posting a word of encouragment on the blog set up by the UUA for the Tennessee Valley UU Church. I'm very appreciative of how our UUA President Bill Sinkford, members of the UUA Trauma Response Team and other representatives of our wider movement are speaking and acting out our values on the ground. My heart goes out as well to my colleague, Rev. Chris Buice. I can hardly imagine what he must be going through at this incredibly sad and painful time in the life of his congregation.
Here at the Transitional Minister Training at Boston University, my colleagues and I are remembering the people at TVUUC, and asking ourselves, Could it happen at my congregation? What would I do? Can I understand the motivation of someone to act out so viciously? Could I forgive? The questions are endless. I pray that the grief of those most effected by this heinous crime is not.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Week 24 of 26: A Cabin in the Woods
This post is going to be brief: I am within an hour of leaving Easton Mountain in upstate New York on my way to Boston University for an Interim Ministry Training that starts this evening.
I moved into my cabin a week ago today. I really loved it ... for me it was the perfect marriage between being in the great outdoors and having the creature comforts that were essential. It rained almost all week long, and not just light sprinkles. Big buckets of torrential downpours. And it was magnificent to watch it, the flashes of lightning through the big windows in the night, the fireflies flashing here and there, the sound of the frogs on the pond, and the birds in the morning ... and often heard footfalls around the cabin, too loud and heavy to be a squirrel or chipmunk, unlikely to be another human ... rather than to be afraid with only a window screen separating me from the forest, I chose to think of them as the sound of my spirit guide or guardian, keeping watch for me in the night.
The young people seemed to have enjoyed themselves during Queer Spirit Camp. I mostly stayed at a distance, tending to the tasks that were mine regarding the functioning of the place. Monday night, I did have a chance to go into Troy with some of the other staff and volunteers, to a knitting/spinning circle that some of them belong to in Little Italy, that meets at a coffee shop called Flavours. A nice spot.
Okay, that's it for now ... next stop: Beantown.
I moved into my cabin a week ago today. I really loved it ... for me it was the perfect marriage between being in the great outdoors and having the creature comforts that were essential. It rained almost all week long, and not just light sprinkles. Big buckets of torrential downpours. And it was magnificent to watch it, the flashes of lightning through the big windows in the night, the fireflies flashing here and there, the sound of the frogs on the pond, and the birds in the morning ... and often heard footfalls around the cabin, too loud and heavy to be a squirrel or chipmunk, unlikely to be another human ... rather than to be afraid with only a window screen separating me from the forest, I chose to think of them as the sound of my spirit guide or guardian, keeping watch for me in the night.
The young people seemed to have enjoyed themselves during Queer Spirit Camp. I mostly stayed at a distance, tending to the tasks that were mine regarding the functioning of the place. Monday night, I did have a chance to go into Troy with some of the other staff and volunteers, to a knitting/spinning circle that some of them belong to in Little Italy, that meets at a coffee shop called Flavours. A nice spot.
Okay, that's it for now ... next stop: Beantown.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Week 23 of 26: Out in the Sticks, and Deeply Grateful
Monday morning (July 14) began with yoga. Tim, who I understand is the longest-term resident here at Easton Mountain, led it every morning this week. My first experience of yoga goes back to PBS in the 70s, when I was a child, watching Lilias, Yoga & You, but I haven't had any kind of regular practice since then. Maybe this is an opportunity to bring this aspect of self-care and mindfulness back into my life as I begin my service at a new congregation. I don't enjoy all of the positions -- somehow I dread downward dog -- but at the end of it, when I've made it through the full hour, I feel awake and alive.
Also Monday, my work in support of the upcoming programs began in earnest. I agreed to take on the laundry room, and see to it that the towels and sheets were cleaned, sorted, folded and ready to go as needed onto the beds, outside the sauna and by the hot-tub. It took the better part of two days to get it handled, but with the help of others working on it, we managed it. I couldn't help thinking of a show that I saw and loved at the Boston Center for the Arts, and that was Caroline, or Change, an extremely moving musical by Tony Kuschner. Jacqui Parker, who I know from my days with the Boston African American Theatre Festival, was great in the title role. Caroline felt oppressed and stifled by her laundry work, and I didn't at all last week -- it was of my choosing, which I think made much of the difference. And, unlike Caroline, I'm not trying to raise two children on a meager income, I have health insurance and access to good medical care, I live and grew up in the United States in the post-legalized segregation era ... and I thank the generations of women, in my own family and beyond, who did such work because they had limited employment options. They secured a future for me and so many others, such that we can choose from a wide range of possibilities, including laundry work as meditation and an expression of solidarity, rather than an economic necessity.
Wednesday, Dexter* arrived for a few days from metro New York. In addition to being someone involved in the creation and leading of worship, he also is a composer and lyricist. I had a chance to hear some of the pieces that he's been working on that may one day end up as show-tunes on Broadway. He encouraged me to go forward with a project I'd been rolling around in my head for some time, and that was to write lyrics for a musical based on the novel that continually moves and inspires me: Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Friday, when I wasn't loading and unloading the washers and dryers, I was trying to tease out rhymes and tunes, with mixed degrees of success ... still, I had three rough drafts of songs/scenes worked out by noon Saturday, and I'm glad for that.
My work shifted later in the week to the care of the lower level of the lodge, which is the main house on the grounds. Before I began, some of the other volunteers and members of the EM residential community had gone through and cleaned it after the departure of the guest from the previous week, and I can feel the difference. It's fresh, renewed ... similar to the experience I would have after we did 'spiritual housekeeping' at First Parish in Arlington. My goal is to have that experience of freshness be sustained through my attention to how the place looks, and to its sense of order and purposefulness.
There were two groups of a dozen or so men each who came: one that started Wednesday, focused on healing the spirit, and the other starting Friday, for men who do various forms of bodywork (massage, reiki, yoga, etc.). There was good energy among them, and at the same time I found myself verging on speechlessness at some points at the subtle and overt racialized language white men directed at me and the few other 'men of color' on the grounds, and even the attacking language that one man of color can use on another. For certain, I'll leave paying even more attention to my own speech, and the power I have to affirm or undermine other people's experience of wholeness and inclusion simply by the words I allow out of my mouth.
And, when I perceive such sleights, it becomes another opportunity to practice forgiveness and cultivate my sense of humor. Every situation, as far as I can tell, holds the possibility of being workable and/or transformative.
Saturday, I went for a walk in the garden, where a good amount of the produce that ends up on our plates here is grown. It seems to be guarded by a few very vigilant and aggressive flies and bees, so it's a little bit like going through a gauntlet to get there. It is lovely, however -- quite varied with both flowers and food-bearing plants, and laid out in a labyrinthine way that includes some of the meadow's original growth. And there, at different points throughout, were wooden placards with handwritten quotes on them. The first one I saw and drew me in enough that I went back to write it down was this one from Goethe: "What is the hardest thing of all? What seems the easiest to you: to use your eyes to see what lies in front of them."
Both Saturday and early Monday, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for my eyes, my lifelong friends, so often taken for granted, and even abused through overuse or strain. And yet they have always been there, making the life I know and love possible. I can see ... I can see. Every morning I open my eyes, and the miracle begins again, whether acknowledged for what it is or not. Glory -- glory in the highest.
By yesterday morning, most of the men from the previous week's programs were gone, and the young adults for Queer Spirit Camp had begun to arrive. And I started to pack for my move from my room (with private bath) in the guest house, to one of the woodland cabins -- which is pretty close to Thoreau's abode on Walden Pond, including not having electricity.
* a pseudonym
Also Monday, my work in support of the upcoming programs began in earnest. I agreed to take on the laundry room, and see to it that the towels and sheets were cleaned, sorted, folded and ready to go as needed onto the beds, outside the sauna and by the hot-tub. It took the better part of two days to get it handled, but with the help of others working on it, we managed it. I couldn't help thinking of a show that I saw and loved at the Boston Center for the Arts, and that was Caroline, or Change, an extremely moving musical by Tony Kuschner. Jacqui Parker, who I know from my days with the Boston African American Theatre Festival, was great in the title role. Caroline felt oppressed and stifled by her laundry work, and I didn't at all last week -- it was of my choosing, which I think made much of the difference. And, unlike Caroline, I'm not trying to raise two children on a meager income, I have health insurance and access to good medical care, I live and grew up in the United States in the post-legalized segregation era ... and I thank the generations of women, in my own family and beyond, who did such work because they had limited employment options. They secured a future for me and so many others, such that we can choose from a wide range of possibilities, including laundry work as meditation and an expression of solidarity, rather than an economic necessity.
Wednesday, Dexter* arrived for a few days from metro New York. In addition to being someone involved in the creation and leading of worship, he also is a composer and lyricist. I had a chance to hear some of the pieces that he's been working on that may one day end up as show-tunes on Broadway. He encouraged me to go forward with a project I'd been rolling around in my head for some time, and that was to write lyrics for a musical based on the novel that continually moves and inspires me: Zora Neale Hurston's Their Eyes Were Watching God. Friday, when I wasn't loading and unloading the washers and dryers, I was trying to tease out rhymes and tunes, with mixed degrees of success ... still, I had three rough drafts of songs/scenes worked out by noon Saturday, and I'm glad for that.
My work shifted later in the week to the care of the lower level of the lodge, which is the main house on the grounds. Before I began, some of the other volunteers and members of the EM residential community had gone through and cleaned it after the departure of the guest from the previous week, and I can feel the difference. It's fresh, renewed ... similar to the experience I would have after we did 'spiritual housekeeping' at First Parish in Arlington. My goal is to have that experience of freshness be sustained through my attention to how the place looks, and to its sense of order and purposefulness.
There were two groups of a dozen or so men each who came: one that started Wednesday, focused on healing the spirit, and the other starting Friday, for men who do various forms of bodywork (massage, reiki, yoga, etc.). There was good energy among them, and at the same time I found myself verging on speechlessness at some points at the subtle and overt racialized language white men directed at me and the few other 'men of color' on the grounds, and even the attacking language that one man of color can use on another. For certain, I'll leave paying even more attention to my own speech, and the power I have to affirm or undermine other people's experience of wholeness and inclusion simply by the words I allow out of my mouth.
And, when I perceive such sleights, it becomes another opportunity to practice forgiveness and cultivate my sense of humor. Every situation, as far as I can tell, holds the possibility of being workable and/or transformative.
Saturday, I went for a walk in the garden, where a good amount of the produce that ends up on our plates here is grown. It seems to be guarded by a few very vigilant and aggressive flies and bees, so it's a little bit like going through a gauntlet to get there. It is lovely, however -- quite varied with both flowers and food-bearing plants, and laid out in a labyrinthine way that includes some of the meadow's original growth. And there, at different points throughout, were wooden placards with handwritten quotes on them. The first one I saw and drew me in enough that I went back to write it down was this one from Goethe: "What is the hardest thing of all? What seems the easiest to you: to use your eyes to see what lies in front of them."
Both Saturday and early Monday, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for my eyes, my lifelong friends, so often taken for granted, and even abused through overuse or strain. And yet they have always been there, making the life I know and love possible. I can see ... I can see. Every morning I open my eyes, and the miracle begins again, whether acknowledged for what it is or not. Glory -- glory in the highest.
By yesterday morning, most of the men from the previous week's programs were gone, and the young adults for Queer Spirit Camp had begun to arrive. And I started to pack for my move from my room (with private bath) in the guest house, to one of the woodland cabins -- which is pretty close to Thoreau's abode on Walden Pond, including not having electricity.
* a pseudonym
Monday, July 14, 2008
Week 22 of 26: (Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and) New York States of Mind
Stayed with my old friend Bertram* in Baltimore for two nights, and at last, sat down to work on the wedding I will officiate the second weekend in August.
I got up early Wednesday morning and drove up to Philly, to meet with Kermit*, a brother in the spirit who does sacred healing and ritual work in the west side of town. In fact, he was in the middle of a ritual when I got there, so we didn't actually meet until a bit later. That worked out fine: I was able to hang out in the window-corner at the Green Line Cafe, a very pleasant spot to eat one's pain chocolat and sip on a latte while checking email and journaling. Around mid-afternoon, when he was finally free, I drove him out to Pendle Hill where he sometimes stays while leading workshops. It was good to have the chance to talk with him, and get his take on some of the ideas and questions that have been turning over in my head these past several weeks.
It rained on my way back into West Philly for my evening dinner with the bride and groom. We went to the neighborhood Eritrean restuarant, which I imagine at one point was an Ethiopian restaurant. I'm happy that they like the draft of the wedding. I'll get their adjustments back in the coming days, and we'll soon settle on the final version of their ceremony.
I left around 8:15, which gave me time to get up to River Edge, New Jersey, before it got too late ... I was glad I googled all my directions for the week while I was in Baltimore. I got to the Central Unitarian Church parsonage around 10:30, and my departing colleague Justin Osterman was the perfect host. He walked me through my next home (as of August 11 or so). I liked the space and the improvements he'd made. The guest bed was very comfortable, and I fell into a deep sleep at the end of a full day.
After breakfast, Justin toke me over to the church, where I meet the church administrator, Shailja, for the first time. We'd talked on the phone a few times before, and I can see why Justin enjoyed working with her so much. She's very personable and conscientious of her work ... able to anticipate needs and concerns well in advance. A great skill to have in church life! The two of them helped me lighten my load for the balance of my leave. Where I started out five months ago with a full trunk, full back seat, and full passenger seat, that Thursday I was almost down to just a full trunk. I told Shailja I would be back Friday morning to lighten up more. Later, when I would park my car near my old friend Jaime's* apartment in the South Bronx, I didn't want to even have to think about emptying out the cab so no one would be tempted to break in.
Justin took me on a driving tour of River Edge, Paramus, Oradell, North Hackensack and Ridgewood. We ended up having afternoon coffee at on of the Starbucks at one of the ritzier malls out of the many malls in Paramus, along the very developed commercial strip. I'm glad the church and the parsonage are on streets that are a bit removed from all the six-lane traffic and retail busyness for which the town is known.
That night, I went to a book reading and discussion at Gay Men's Health Crisis downtown on 24th Street. Jaime invited me. The author, Terrance Dean, is fielding questions about his memoir Hiding in Hip-Hop: On the Down-Low in the Entertainment Industry. I introduced myself to him afterwards and congratulated him, and I told him I was working on a book or two myself. When I told him one of my projects is a memoir, he asked me if I had read Eat Pray Love. I replied yes, and that the first of the books I expect to publish will be based on my own journey over my sabbatical leave (What would be a good working title? Hmm ... maybe The Six-Month Break?). Jaime and I went to dinner with two of his friends and then called it a night. I headed back out to Jersey.
Friday, I said so long to Justin, and dropped more things off at the church. Shailja had already created new letterhead, with me listed as the Interim Minister. Like I said, she's one step ahead. I go down and visit with a friend in East Orange, then end up parking in Harlem. I head downtown, and, after I tend to some outstanding business and Jaime is free, we catch the train back up to my car and drive over to his place. Saturday afternoon, I got a rush ticket to see Passing Strange, the Tony-nominated musical about a young African-American man from San Francisco who goes off to find what is real in life in Amsterdam, and then Berlin. The production was (and is) closing in a few days, so that was the only chance for me to catch this show on Broadway (though Spike Lee is said to be making a film of it). I loved it. It's crazy, kaleidoscopic, funny and a touch manipulative, but in a forgiveable way. I'm very glad a god friend recommended it to me. I had a great theater companion, Karen*, who was behind me in the ticket line. She is also a writer and travel-lover. I hope we are able to stay in touch.
And, five minutes after I stepped out of the Belasco Theatre, who came breezing down 44th Street but Jaime? I was supposed to meet him in Brooklyn at the Audre Lorde Center for a monthly meeting of Adodi, the black gay men's spiritual group he belongs to. Riding out with him was better. The discussion was about black gay men and depression. I had an insight while the conversation was going on -- maybe one of the friends I reached out to while I was in DC wasn't just ignoring me: Maybe he's withdrawn and depressed. Something to follow up on.
We went to a restaurant down the street and around the corner in Ft. Greene, and as it turned out, there was drama about the check at the end of the evening. I hate drama about the check at the end of the evening, which seems to be a given when you have eight or more people on one tab. I was glad I had paid my portion and was standing outside talking on my cell phone when the confusion started. Jaime and I didn't get back to his place until almost 2:00 a.m.
Still, I managed to get myself up and packed, and I drove down to the Fifteenth Street Society of Friends in the East Village for my first Quaker Meeting by 11:00 a.m. I've been thinking a lot about the Quakers lately, especially their encouragement toward simplicity and trust in Spirit to open doors along life's journey. This was absolutely the least ornate worship hall I can remember entering. It was along the lines of the colonial style that has become so familiar to me after six and a half years in New England, but with pews on all four sides facing the center. I did have the experience of anticipation, not knowing from which mouth Spirit might speak ... from the other side of the room? The person behind me? Me myself? ... the possibilities were as numerous as the 70 or so people who drifted in over the hour. I fell into deep silence ... and was half asleep for much of the time. I hope I looked like I was meditating. Four men and one woman spoke, on themes of love, community, reconciliation, contributing to the lives of others
-- and I did leave feeling refreshed and connected. I thought about how different this was from ecstatic dance, the drumming circle, the rock band and the ordained minister-led services I have participated in over the past several months -- none any more or less valuable or valid than the other, and all expressions of communion with That Which Is Beyond Ourselves.
I left the church, and drove up I-87, all the way up to Albany, and out to Easton Mountain, the rustic retreat center that I'll be assisting at over the next two weeks. I found out last night that next week will be third time EM has been host to a camp for queer young adults, ages 18 to 25, from a spectrum of locations, ethnicities and gender identities. I'm glad to know that I am part of the preparations for this week-long event, that will provide a sense of connection and community. I'm contributing to the prevention of depression among queer young adults, and that's something to feel great about, especially having been in their shoes myself 20 to 25 years ago.
* a pseudonym
I got up early Wednesday morning and drove up to Philly, to meet with Kermit*, a brother in the spirit who does sacred healing and ritual work in the west side of town. In fact, he was in the middle of a ritual when I got there, so we didn't actually meet until a bit later. That worked out fine: I was able to hang out in the window-corner at the Green Line Cafe, a very pleasant spot to eat one's pain chocolat and sip on a latte while checking email and journaling. Around mid-afternoon, when he was finally free, I drove him out to Pendle Hill where he sometimes stays while leading workshops. It was good to have the chance to talk with him, and get his take on some of the ideas and questions that have been turning over in my head these past several weeks.
It rained on my way back into West Philly for my evening dinner with the bride and groom. We went to the neighborhood Eritrean restuarant, which I imagine at one point was an Ethiopian restaurant. I'm happy that they like the draft of the wedding. I'll get their adjustments back in the coming days, and we'll soon settle on the final version of their ceremony.
I left around 8:15, which gave me time to get up to River Edge, New Jersey, before it got too late ... I was glad I googled all my directions for the week while I was in Baltimore. I got to the Central Unitarian Church parsonage around 10:30, and my departing colleague Justin Osterman was the perfect host. He walked me through my next home (as of August 11 or so). I liked the space and the improvements he'd made. The guest bed was very comfortable, and I fell into a deep sleep at the end of a full day.
After breakfast, Justin toke me over to the church, where I meet the church administrator, Shailja, for the first time. We'd talked on the phone a few times before, and I can see why Justin enjoyed working with her so much. She's very personable and conscientious of her work ... able to anticipate needs and concerns well in advance. A great skill to have in church life! The two of them helped me lighten my load for the balance of my leave. Where I started out five months ago with a full trunk, full back seat, and full passenger seat, that Thursday I was almost down to just a full trunk. I told Shailja I would be back Friday morning to lighten up more. Later, when I would park my car near my old friend Jaime's* apartment in the South Bronx, I didn't want to even have to think about emptying out the cab so no one would be tempted to break in.
Justin took me on a driving tour of River Edge, Paramus, Oradell, North Hackensack and Ridgewood. We ended up having afternoon coffee at on of the Starbucks at one of the ritzier malls out of the many malls in Paramus, along the very developed commercial strip. I'm glad the church and the parsonage are on streets that are a bit removed from all the six-lane traffic and retail busyness for which the town is known.
That night, I went to a book reading and discussion at Gay Men's Health Crisis downtown on 24th Street. Jaime invited me. The author, Terrance Dean, is fielding questions about his memoir Hiding in Hip-Hop: On the Down-Low in the Entertainment Industry. I introduced myself to him afterwards and congratulated him, and I told him I was working on a book or two myself. When I told him one of my projects is a memoir, he asked me if I had read Eat Pray Love. I replied yes, and that the first of the books I expect to publish will be based on my own journey over my sabbatical leave (What would be a good working title? Hmm ... maybe The Six-Month Break?). Jaime and I went to dinner with two of his friends and then called it a night. I headed back out to Jersey.
Friday, I said so long to Justin, and dropped more things off at the church. Shailja had already created new letterhead, with me listed as the Interim Minister. Like I said, she's one step ahead. I go down and visit with a friend in East Orange, then end up parking in Harlem. I head downtown, and, after I tend to some outstanding business and Jaime is free, we catch the train back up to my car and drive over to his place. Saturday afternoon, I got a rush ticket to see Passing Strange, the Tony-nominated musical about a young African-American man from San Francisco who goes off to find what is real in life in Amsterdam, and then Berlin. The production was (and is) closing in a few days, so that was the only chance for me to catch this show on Broadway (though Spike Lee is said to be making a film of it). I loved it. It's crazy, kaleidoscopic, funny and a touch manipulative, but in a forgiveable way. I'm very glad a god friend recommended it to me. I had a great theater companion, Karen*, who was behind me in the ticket line. She is also a writer and travel-lover. I hope we are able to stay in touch.And, five minutes after I stepped out of the Belasco Theatre, who came breezing down 44th Street but Jaime? I was supposed to meet him in Brooklyn at the Audre Lorde Center for a monthly meeting of Adodi, the black gay men's spiritual group he belongs to. Riding out with him was better. The discussion was about black gay men and depression. I had an insight while the conversation was going on -- maybe one of the friends I reached out to while I was in DC wasn't just ignoring me: Maybe he's withdrawn and depressed. Something to follow up on.
We went to a restaurant down the street and around the corner in Ft. Greene, and as it turned out, there was drama about the check at the end of the evening. I hate drama about the check at the end of the evening, which seems to be a given when you have eight or more people on one tab. I was glad I had paid my portion and was standing outside talking on my cell phone when the confusion started. Jaime and I didn't get back to his place until almost 2:00 a.m.
Still, I managed to get myself up and packed, and I drove down to the Fifteenth Street Society of Friends in the East Village for my first Quaker Meeting by 11:00 a.m. I've been thinking a lot about the Quakers lately, especially their encouragement toward simplicity and trust in Spirit to open doors along life's journey. This was absolutely the least ornate worship hall I can remember entering. It was along the lines of the colonial style that has become so familiar to me after six and a half years in New England, but with pews on all four sides facing the center. I did have the experience of anticipation, not knowing from which mouth Spirit might speak ... from the other side of the room? The person behind me? Me myself? ... the possibilities were as numerous as the 70 or so people who drifted in over the hour. I fell into deep silence ... and was half asleep for much of the time. I hope I looked like I was meditating. Four men and one woman spoke, on themes of love, community, reconciliation, contributing to the lives of others
-- and I did leave feeling refreshed and connected. I thought about how different this was from ecstatic dance, the drumming circle, the rock band and the ordained minister-led services I have participated in over the past several months -- none any more or less valuable or valid than the other, and all expressions of communion with That Which Is Beyond Ourselves.I left the church, and drove up I-87, all the way up to Albany, and out to Easton Mountain, the rustic retreat center that I'll be assisting at over the next two weeks. I found out last night that next week will be third time EM has been host to a camp for queer young adults, ages 18 to 25, from a spectrum of locations, ethnicities and gender identities. I'm glad to know that I am part of the preparations for this week-long event, that will provide a sense of connection and community. I'm contributing to the prevention of depression among queer young adults, and that's something to feel great about, especially having been in their shoes myself 20 to 25 years ago.
* a pseudonym
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Week 21 of 26: Up from the South
I got to Savannah early in the evening Monday. I hadn't been there in sometime, and forgot how wonderfully mossy the trees were. I stepped out of the car and into the sticky air. I couldn't stop sweating from the heat or itching from the mosquito bites. My host, Lenoir*, greeted me warmly. He was out on the spacious front porch with his partner's son's girlfriend, Lili*, and his partner's son's daughter, Katia*. Lili, I found out later over a dinner of pig feet, big beans and rice, was half-native Hawaiian -- her mother was part of a Hawaiian touring group, and they met in her father's home state of Tennessee, where she was raised. She went back often to Maui, but hadn't been to the Big Island in a while. Jack*, Lenoir's partner, came home late from a drama rehearsal, and we had a chance to talk before he turned in for the night, very tired from a full day.
Late the next morning, after Jack went to work, Lenoir took me over to the beach on Tybee Island, where we went bike-riding. The sun was high and bright, and there was precious little shade, but it was much cooler by the water than it had been in town. I was surprised that the white sand was fine, wet and compact enough to ride on. It was very wide, too, like the beach at Ogunquit when the tide is out. We rode a few miles north, then came back down through the main street. I noticed they had a turtle culture there, too -- specifically green turtles. I was tempted to stop and buy mementos, but then I realized Lenoir had my wallet in his knapsack -- I didn't have any pockets -- and he was too far ahead of me to get his attention before we'd passed all the shops. I treated him to lunch at Huey's, a sweet New Orleans-style restaurant on the Savannah River among the historic buildings. Have I been here before? Not really, but it sure does bring to mind Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Back at the house, I load up the car and begin the drive up to Hickory, North Carolina.
Again, I arrived late in the afternoon. My hosts, Paul* and Silas*, lived in a very large and beautifully restored home. Wednesday morning, Paul and I had coffee (Silas is at work), and Paul made several suggestions of things to do in the area. I made the 35-minute trip to the town of Blowing Rock, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road twisted and turned as the elevation increased, and it was cooler up there than it was down in Hickory. It's another resort town, with with lots of quaint shops, beautiful scenery and people out on a sunny day. On the way in, I sampled salted fried peanuts ... who knew that they wouldn't be greasy, and you could eat the shells? I had a late lunch of cajun-spiced trout at the Speckled Trout Cafe'. Walking back down the street, I was really struck with the beauty of the Presbyterian Church. I picked up some sweets from Kilwin's (including dark chocolate-covered rice crispy treats -- *yum*) to take back to Paul and Silas. I also visited the Blowing Rock itself, which has an "Indian legend" attached to it, of a brave who falls (or jumps?) off a cliff, but because of his woman's love, the wind blows him back safely into her arms. When I get back to Hickory, I go dining with my hosts at the Tap Room downtown. The next morning, I pack up, say goodbye to Paul (Silas is already at work) and head over to the Hickory Furniture Mart. For furniture shopping, I've never seen anything like it. Dozens of quality furniture sellers with acres and acres of floor space in one very large complex. One could spend days there -- not unlike trying to see everything there is to see in the Louvre or the Smithsonian. Shortly after I began looking around, I realized that I didn't have the dimensions or colors or even a sense of the parsonage for Central Unitarian Church, so I couldn't even begin to browse with any seriousness. I window shopped for about an hour, then hit the road heading up to Lynchburg to connect with David and Katy.
I arrived a little after six in the evening. It was great catching up with David and Katy, who were already married when we were the US contingent at the World Council of Churches Ecumenical Institute outside Geneva, Switzerland in the fall of 1992. We were 48 students from 33 countries around the globe, some of whom have recently begun to reconnect on Facebook. David now is the pastor of a church in Lynchburg, and Katy works for a nonprofit there. They have a highly creative and gifted 10-year-old son, who I met for the first time on this trip. We dined at WaterStone, a new pizza restaurant down on the James River. They took me on an night tour of the town. It's very picturesque, and from some vantage points of the hills sloping down to the valley, I began to think of it as a miniature San Francisco, but with a jet d'eau in the river similar to the one in Lake Geneva. The Unitarian Church is also on an incline, with a beautifully incorporated addition behind it.
Friday morning, David made excellent omlettes, as we listened to the voices of NPR's on-air personalities and reporters read the whole Declaration of Independence, which is one of their rituals on the Fourth of July. We went by the gift shop of the point of honor, and David graciously showed me the cemetery and other places of interest before I got on the highway to Washington. It rained a good stretch of the way. I arrived in DC a couple of hours before dark, and have been with family friends since. I marvel at how my nieces and nephew in my extended family have grown since I saw them the last time I was in town, back in March. Today I went with a dear old friend, her son and a playmate of his, to see the movie Wall-E, a family film that worked well on a number of levels. Before the film, that same friend and I went to All Souls Church in Washington, where I know just about all the ministers there from other periods in my life. I'm thinking more and more about taking up the work of ministry myself again in about 35 days.
Tomorrow I leave for Baltimore, then on up to Philly and New Jersey, before a couple of weeks in upstate New York.
*a pseudonym
Late the next morning, after Jack went to work, Lenoir took me over to the beach on Tybee Island, where we went bike-riding. The sun was high and bright, and there was precious little shade, but it was much cooler by the water than it had been in town. I was surprised that the white sand was fine, wet and compact enough to ride on. It was very wide, too, like the beach at Ogunquit when the tide is out. We rode a few miles north, then came back down through the main street. I noticed they had a turtle culture there, too -- specifically green turtles. I was tempted to stop and buy mementos, but then I realized Lenoir had my wallet in his knapsack -- I didn't have any pockets -- and he was too far ahead of me to get his attention before we'd passed all the shops. I treated him to lunch at Huey's, a sweet New Orleans-style restaurant on the Savannah River among the historic buildings. Have I been here before? Not really, but it sure does bring to mind Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Back at the house, I load up the car and begin the drive up to Hickory, North Carolina.
Again, I arrived late in the afternoon. My hosts, Paul* and Silas*, lived in a very large and beautifully restored home. Wednesday morning, Paul and I had coffee (Silas is at work), and Paul made several suggestions of things to do in the area. I made the 35-minute trip to the town of Blowing Rock, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road twisted and turned as the elevation increased, and it was cooler up there than it was down in Hickory. It's another resort town, with with lots of quaint shops, beautiful scenery and people out on a sunny day. On the way in, I sampled salted fried peanuts ... who knew that they wouldn't be greasy, and you could eat the shells? I had a late lunch of cajun-spiced trout at the Speckled Trout Cafe'. Walking back down the street, I was really struck with the beauty of the Presbyterian Church. I picked up some sweets from Kilwin's (including dark chocolate-covered rice crispy treats -- *yum*) to take back to Paul and Silas. I also visited the Blowing Rock itself, which has an "Indian legend" attached to it, of a brave who falls (or jumps?) off a cliff, but because of his woman's love, the wind blows him back safely into her arms. When I get back to Hickory, I go dining with my hosts at the Tap Room downtown. The next morning, I pack up, say goodbye to Paul (Silas is already at work) and head over to the Hickory Furniture Mart. For furniture shopping, I've never seen anything like it. Dozens of quality furniture sellers with acres and acres of floor space in one very large complex. One could spend days there -- not unlike trying to see everything there is to see in the Louvre or the Smithsonian. Shortly after I began looking around, I realized that I didn't have the dimensions or colors or even a sense of the parsonage for Central Unitarian Church, so I couldn't even begin to browse with any seriousness. I window shopped for about an hour, then hit the road heading up to Lynchburg to connect with David and Katy.
I arrived a little after six in the evening. It was great catching up with David and Katy, who were already married when we were the US contingent at the World Council of Churches Ecumenical Institute outside Geneva, Switzerland in the fall of 1992. We were 48 students from 33 countries around the globe, some of whom have recently begun to reconnect on Facebook. David now is the pastor of a church in Lynchburg, and Katy works for a nonprofit there. They have a highly creative and gifted 10-year-old son, who I met for the first time on this trip. We dined at WaterStone, a new pizza restaurant down on the James River. They took me on an night tour of the town. It's very picturesque, and from some vantage points of the hills sloping down to the valley, I began to think of it as a miniature San Francisco, but with a jet d'eau in the river similar to the one in Lake Geneva. The Unitarian Church is also on an incline, with a beautifully incorporated addition behind it.
Friday morning, David made excellent omlettes, as we listened to the voices of NPR's on-air personalities and reporters read the whole Declaration of Independence, which is one of their rituals on the Fourth of July. We went by the gift shop of the point of honor, and David graciously showed me the cemetery and other places of interest before I got on the highway to Washington. It rained a good stretch of the way. I arrived in DC a couple of hours before dark, and have been with family friends since. I marvel at how my nieces and nephew in my extended family have grown since I saw them the last time I was in town, back in March. Today I went with a dear old friend, her son and a playmate of his, to see the movie Wall-E, a family film that worked well on a number of levels. Before the film, that same friend and I went to All Souls Church in Washington, where I know just about all the ministers there from other periods in my life. I'm thinking more and more about taking up the work of ministry myself again in about 35 days.
Tomorrow I leave for Baltimore, then on up to Philly and New Jersey, before a couple of weeks in upstate New York.
*a pseudonym
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