It new and old being back on the grounds of First Parish for the rehearsal Friday and the wedding Saturday. Much was familiar, and some things were very new. The Remembrance Corner exists! This is a project that had been underway for years, and had gotten more focused in the months before I left, thanks to some very dedicated church members. It’s quite an addition. The gardens around the church are also looking really good.
I still knew my way around, and I was also aware that I was a visitor. I no longer had keys to the building, the copy room, the office that I once called mine.
The wedding itself was lovely. It was good to see some of the familiar and friendly faces I knew from my years at the church, and to see the bride and groom and their families so happy together. The weather was agreeable, too -- after a deluge Friday evening, Saturday was dry and warm, but not unbearable, as it often is this time of year.
In the evening, I went with a friend to see the one-man show of Stan Strickland, one of Boston’s resident jazz musicians. It’s called “Coming Up for Air”, and through it he tells his life story through music and song. Very engaging to see. It was playing at a new theater in Cambridge on Mass. Ave., but that was the closing night. His next stop will be Edinburgh.
Sunday morning was leisurely. I took my time getting out of bed, and gathered my things to be checked out by noon. There I was, on the fifth floor of the parking garage about to pull out of the hotel, and I noticed just how brilliant the partially cloudy sky was. I took some time to be with it, before getting into the car and driving away. Coming back over to Roslindale, I had to take the long way around, as the (Caribbean Festival?) was happening in Roxbury, and there were many police blockades.
I paid some attention to how I moved around the snarled traffic. I like that, at least where driving is concerned (and I’m not running late), I’m at ease with changes in route or plan. I had to go way around Roxbury – all around Franklin Park, through Dorchester, Mattapan and Hyde Park – to get to Roslindale. But I felt my way, watching the signs, and learning to trust the moments of uncertainty. And I got where I was going just fine.
And now, the break is truly over, exactly six months from my last sermon at First Parish of Arlington. I have a check-up with my doctor of the past seven years tomorrow, and the movers arrive Tuesday afternoon. I will make my way down to New Jersey at that point, too, and I start work Friday, August 15.
Some have asked if I will be blogging after my leave is over. I’m going to take a break from blogging, though I suspect I will resume at some point. For those who have been reading this one and would like to be alerted when a new one starts, please send me an email at smithcarel@aol.com and let me know.
And to those who have read and commented on Six-Month Break, thank you. I’m glad to know that you’ve been interested in the journey enough to follow along. The format really gave me a chance to make a record of my travels and share as the path unfolded.
Many of you know that one of my goals when I set out on the break was to finish the novel that has been in the works for about the past two decades. That didn’t happen. I can see that I didn’t create a context for myself to support that work. What the novel needs is consistency: of my attention, and of location. With the blog and with my morning pages, I’ve established the consistency of a regular writing pattern. In New Jersey, with a place to call home for the next several months, I will have a consistent location. I look forward to seeing what emerges from that.
And, I’m glad for the book that has emerged in raw form – the memoir of these several past months. I remember being frustrated with myself when I was in Provincetown those three weeks late in the winter because the novel wasn’t what was coming out. When I stopped berating myself for not doing what I thought I was going to be doing and just got with the flow of what was happening, I was able to relax into the process and appreciate it for what it was.
Now the whole six months seems like a dream, part of the longer dream of my whole life, where nothing stays for very long. I guess long-term relationships are like that. Where do we return to, in hopes of not being alienated? I have been re-reading Laura Kipnis’s searing polemic Against Love in recent days. Is she ever adept at skewering the sacred cow of romantic love in modern Western culture. However, I think she missed the deeper need that romantic love serves. In a world of changing faces and places, I think such attachments fill the need for constancy, and serve as a kind of a guard against loneliness and isolation.
I asked myself as I drove from Cambridge, and the wedding party that knew me, to my friend's house in Roslindale, "If I were to get in trouble right here – an accident, an aneurism, a blown-out tire – who would know who I am?" There’s a quality of life that seems to be about shuttling from safety zone to safety zone, to hold back the unpleasant and unpredictable aspects of existence. I haven’t had a consistent place to stay over the past several months, but I have had regular pay-checks, and access to health care, and a reliable, paid-for vehicle that I own to drive. Out of that relative stability emerged a six-month adventure now closing as quickly as it began.
I am left with sense of providence. I’m not always reliable to follow my intuition, or to act consistently with what I say are my best intentions. I can’t always rely on people to tell the truth, or to behave in ways that promote honor, integrity, love and peace. But I do find that the universe is providential. The old folks used to say, “The Lord will make a way somehow.” Even older folks said, “The Way doesn’t do anything, but it leaves nothing undone.” What is necessary is somehow always near, always available – What is necessary is often not what I think it is. Oh, for eyes to see, to truly see.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Week 25 of 26: Trespasses, or Back to Boston
I left Easton Mountain shortly after my light breakfast in the Lodge Monday morning (July 28), and after saying goodbye to the staff and fellow volunteers who were close by. It was a clear day, a good day for driving through the gorgeous and extremely green New York countryside. I did have the sense of turning away from the part of my leave that was oriented towards being on-leave. Time to resume the thinking and mind-set of a parish minister again … not that it is ever far from me. As I said to someone recently, that identity is part of my core now, as much as being United Methodist or a native Mississippian. Like the trunk of a tree, there might be lots of other rings that grow around the core, but that core doesn’t change.
“Lead-foot” might be another one of those core identities. Every few years, I get a speeding ticket while I’m just zooming along I-95, or I-40, or in this case, the MassPike. I didn’t even see the state police, or if I did, I was in a state of denial. By the time he pulled me over, he said to me, “Not only did you pass me, but then you get right in front of me, going (insert excessive mph here)!” I couldn’t argue. I was trying to make it on time for an appointment, and stopped paying attention to my surroundings. I didn’t put up a fuss, and he knocked five miles off the violation he clocked me at. Still, a three-digit fine seemed silly to have earned, especially since, even with all that, I still made it to my appointment with time to spare.
Afterwards, I said to myself, No need to delay. Just pay the fine and be done with it as quickly as possible. I couldn’t find my checkbook, so I walked to the nearest post office, got a money order and mailed it right away. Done. Great. I walked back around to my car on a side street off Mass Ave, and there was a ticket under the windshield wiper for my expired inspection sticker. It became invalid at the end of June, while I was still in Florida. I knew that as soon as I crossed over into Massachusetts, it would be in violation, but I thought I wouldn’t get caught the very first time I parked on the street. I was wrong. Forty bucks worth of wrong, to be precise. But I couldn’t get mad. You drive too fast, you get a ticket. You let your sticker expire, you get a ticket. These things are almost natural laws. Still, I was feeling nostalgic for being out in the woods, with no need for locks or state patrol officers or sticker inspectors … can it be that it was all so simple then, just that morning?
I was reentering urban life, and not particularly enjoying it.
Parking on the campus of BU for the Transitional Ministry Training was pretty stressful, too, especially because I forgot to arrange for parking when I registered. I got it worked out Tuesday, but not before missing my lunch and being late for the afternoon session that day.
The training itself was very valuable. About 30 colleagues were there, including Rev. Alma Crawford, who I haven’t seen in years. She was actually my introduction to UUism back in the early 90s in DC, when she was serving a small congregation on Capitol Hill, and we were both seminary students at Howard. In fact, this is the first time we were in a classroom environment together in 16 or 17 years. That seems unreal to me.
What a great context to get focused on the work that lies ahead in the fall, and to revisit some of those ongoing questions about ministry: What are my personal and professional boundaries? What’s appropriate ministerial attire at the church picnic? How do we establish credibility in a new congregation? What does it take to be a career interim minister? How do we guide and support congregations that have been traumatized? An added bonus is that these and other questions gave me lots to think about for future sermons. I looked out the window of the conference room and right onto Commonwealth Ave, to see men moving dresser drawers, young people jugging, people waiting for buses, in the midst of lots of asphalt and concrete. Mountainsides full of trees were not so near and prominent in my field of vision.
By Thursday, I had spend three and a half days straight in seminar mode, which ended up being more draining than I thought. A non-UU colleague put me up overnight in Roxbury, and my housesitting for a friend in Roslindale began Friday afternoon, with a little glitch: I had forgotten the passcode for her alarm system. I thought the clue for how to disarm it was by the control panel, but I couldn’t recognize it as it was disguised among some other numbers. Thirty seconds later, the alarm want crazy. Incredibly loud, long (10 minutes stretching into eternity), painful and violent. A neighbor vouched for me when the police came, and things calmed down.
Still, after that incident, I didn’t step outside the house until Monday afternoon. I needed some down-time, and more than I thought. I did manage to watch the documentary Chisolm '72: Unbought and Unbossed on dvd, about Congresswoman Shirley Chisolm’s presidential bid. It’s amazing to me that so little is said this year in particular about this woman who paved the way for the first black male likely to be elected, as well as the first white female. Chisolm was ahead of her time, and has gone largely under-appreciated for her contribution to this new era of US politics.
One week left. I’ve got some running around to do, but the date is set for the move with the moving company next Tuesday, and the wedding is on track for this weekend. Now’s the time to reflect on the meaning of all these six-months, and the break itself.
“Lead-foot” might be another one of those core identities. Every few years, I get a speeding ticket while I’m just zooming along I-95, or I-40, or in this case, the MassPike. I didn’t even see the state police, or if I did, I was in a state of denial. By the time he pulled me over, he said to me, “Not only did you pass me, but then you get right in front of me, going (insert excessive mph here)!” I couldn’t argue. I was trying to make it on time for an appointment, and stopped paying attention to my surroundings. I didn’t put up a fuss, and he knocked five miles off the violation he clocked me at. Still, a three-digit fine seemed silly to have earned, especially since, even with all that, I still made it to my appointment with time to spare.
Afterwards, I said to myself, No need to delay. Just pay the fine and be done with it as quickly as possible. I couldn’t find my checkbook, so I walked to the nearest post office, got a money order and mailed it right away. Done. Great. I walked back around to my car on a side street off Mass Ave, and there was a ticket under the windshield wiper for my expired inspection sticker. It became invalid at the end of June, while I was still in Florida. I knew that as soon as I crossed over into Massachusetts, it would be in violation, but I thought I wouldn’t get caught the very first time I parked on the street. I was wrong. Forty bucks worth of wrong, to be precise. But I couldn’t get mad. You drive too fast, you get a ticket. You let your sticker expire, you get a ticket. These things are almost natural laws. Still, I was feeling nostalgic for being out in the woods, with no need for locks or state patrol officers or sticker inspectors … can it be that it was all so simple then, just that morning?
I was reentering urban life, and not particularly enjoying it.
Parking on the campus of BU for the Transitional Ministry Training was pretty stressful, too, especially because I forgot to arrange for parking when I registered. I got it worked out Tuesday, but not before missing my lunch and being late for the afternoon session that day.
The training itself was very valuable. About 30 colleagues were there, including Rev. Alma Crawford, who I haven’t seen in years. She was actually my introduction to UUism back in the early 90s in DC, when she was serving a small congregation on Capitol Hill, and we were both seminary students at Howard. In fact, this is the first time we were in a classroom environment together in 16 or 17 years. That seems unreal to me.
What a great context to get focused on the work that lies ahead in the fall, and to revisit some of those ongoing questions about ministry: What are my personal and professional boundaries? What’s appropriate ministerial attire at the church picnic? How do we establish credibility in a new congregation? What does it take to be a career interim minister? How do we guide and support congregations that have been traumatized? An added bonus is that these and other questions gave me lots to think about for future sermons. I looked out the window of the conference room and right onto Commonwealth Ave, to see men moving dresser drawers, young people jugging, people waiting for buses, in the midst of lots of asphalt and concrete. Mountainsides full of trees were not so near and prominent in my field of vision.
By Thursday, I had spend three and a half days straight in seminar mode, which ended up being more draining than I thought. A non-UU colleague put me up overnight in Roxbury, and my housesitting for a friend in Roslindale began Friday afternoon, with a little glitch: I had forgotten the passcode for her alarm system. I thought the clue for how to disarm it was by the control panel, but I couldn’t recognize it as it was disguised among some other numbers. Thirty seconds later, the alarm want crazy. Incredibly loud, long (10 minutes stretching into eternity), painful and violent. A neighbor vouched for me when the police came, and things calmed down.
Still, after that incident, I didn’t step outside the house until Monday afternoon. I needed some down-time, and more than I thought. I did manage to watch the documentary Chisolm '72: Unbought and Unbossed on dvd, about Congresswoman Shirley Chisolm’s presidential bid. It’s amazing to me that so little is said this year in particular about this woman who paved the way for the first black male likely to be elected, as well as the first white female. Chisolm was ahead of her time, and has gone largely under-appreciated for her contribution to this new era of US politics.
One week left. I’ve got some running around to do, but the date is set for the move with the moving company next Tuesday, and the wedding is on track for this weekend. Now’s the time to reflect on the meaning of all these six-months, and the break itself.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Week 24 of 26 (addendum): Praying for Unitarian Universalists and Their Neighbors and Friends in Knoxville
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.
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.
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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