Leaping Greenly Spirits is Moving!

Blogger has been the host of Leaping Greenly Spirits for many years.  I can't even remember when I started this blog - at some point I lost early posts due to some technological glitch I don't remotely understand.  But all the cool kids have moved over to Substack, and now I am too.  This blog will remain, but new content will be available on my Substack page:  Leaping Greenly.  Please join me there, and if you want my posts to appear in your inbox, please subscribe. 

I have written here very infrequently in recent times, but I am recommitting to posting in the new spot - starting out monthly and hopefully moving to weekly.  We'll see.  There will also be a section there called Unexpected Mama that will include my reflections about becoming a mother by adoption in midlife.

Thank you for reading.  I look forward to your participation in the new community forming on Substack.  -Lauren

Interrupted - Remembering Elizabeth Fellicetti

I attempted to walk the labyrinth at Eastern State Hospital yesterday in honor and memory of my colleague, friend, and writing buddy, Elizabeth Marshall Felicetti. Elizabeth loved labyrinths, and so do I. We walked the one pictured with our other colleague and friend, Samantha Vincent-Alexander, at a writing conference we attended together in Raleigh in 2018. It's part of my practice to walk the labyrinth when people I know and love have died. Yesterday, on a glorious, unexpectedly cool August day of low humidity, I went to the labyrinth and began my walk.

Elizabeth and I didn't spend that much time together in person. We exchanged occasional texts, did a few writing retreats together, and saw each other at various clergy events. We encouraged each other in our writing. We were not best friends, but we shared our stories. Elizabeth's voice has been a close and constant companion since we met in 2008. She knew she wanted to write, and she did it, earning her MFA, creating a daily writing practice (at 5am!), and working her fingers off to get her work out there, all while being the rector of a church and later dealing with severe health issues. Her social media posts, Substack newsletter, book reviews, articles, essays, and two published books - the most recent, "Irreverent Prayers," co-written beautifully with Samantha, have detailed her journey through the challenges of life and ministry, her assessment of the myriad books she read, and her reflections on everything from her beloved dog Pepper, to the annoyances and joys of being a priest, to her passion for bird watching, to her thoughts on faith, religion, and JBap. Her last Facebook post was on August 11. Though her voice will go on through her writing, we will not hear new words from Elizabeth. There is silence in my head since I heard the news. Silence where her voice used to be.

I attempted to walk the labyrinth yesterday.  For Elizabeth.  As I walked the familiar path, the crape myrtles and magnolias and huge sycamore tree reminded me of those for whom I've walked it before.  A yellow butterfly appeared from nowhere and fluttered so close I thought it might land on my shoulder.  As I walked through the first turns of the curving path, I remembered how Elizabeth came to my 40th birthday party with her redhead, Gary when I was so newly returned to VA that I had very few friends to celebrate with me.  I remembered the tiny plant that she brought to me when I hosted a writing day for we three clergy writing friends at my house and how it thrived later on the windowsill in my church office.  I  remembered the walks and talks and drafts and laughs we shared.  I remembered our writing retreat at the little guest house at Grace Church in Yorktown, eating salads of arugula and dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds, ordering pizza with "light cheese" for Samantha, walking across the battlefields and down by the river, and writing.  

Lost in my memories, I was startled when I was interrupted by a security officer from Eastern State who walked over and asked me if I had a pass.  I wasn't even a quarter of the way to the center.  He wasn't unkind, but he was determined to do his job, and if I didn't have a pass then I was trespassing.  Trespassing on the grounds of a state hospital by walking a labyrinth built by the community for the community and the patients as a healing labyrinth, a labyrinth that even the patients of the hospital are no longer allowed to walk.  I explained who I was and where I work and that we work with ESH patients and that we have an agreement that allows me to walk there, though hospital leadership has changed so frequently that our agreement had expired unbeknownst to me.  As the guard told me he needed to contact his chief, I told him that I would have someone call and explain but that I was walking for my friend who had died, and could I please just finish my walk.  

And then the tears came.  This is not the first time ESH security has told me I was trespassing.  I used to walk the labyrinth 4-5 times a week and waved at the security officers driving by who waved back, but sometime during Covid they changed the rules.  It doesn't seem fair that those who find meaning in this special place cannot walk there, even though NO ONE is using it.  It is not fair that Elizabeth had breast cancer followed by lung cancer followed by relapse and a lung removed and so much difficulty breathing and so much sickness from the treatment.  It is not fair that her voice was silenced.  It is not fair that she is gone.  And I sat down in the middle of the path and sobbed.

Poor security guard.  He stepped outside the labyrinth and called his chief and came back to tell me that I could finish walking but that I needed a pass if I ever came back.  Then he gave me his condolences and told me he hoped I'd feel better.  He walked a little out of sight, though clearly he was waiting for me to leave.  I didn't finish the walk.  My tears watered the path of the labyrinth as I released a vast wave of grief.  When I was able to stand up, I walked slowly out of the labyrinth and back to my car.

Although I was devastated not to be able to finish my walk for Elizabeth, perhaps it was what needed to happen.  Her life was interrupted.  She didn't get to finish - though she sure did some amazing things in the time she had, shortened though it was.  She is at peace now.  How I would love to hear what she and her beloved JBap are discussing - another one whose life was interrupted much too soon.  

Elizabeth, some day soon, I will walk the labyrinth for you.  But for now, know how grateful I am for your time here on earth.  I will miss your presence, your humor, your passion, your strength, your vulnerability, your stories, your insights, and most especially your voice.  May angels surround you and saints welcome you in peace.  Well done, good and faithful servant.  

Remembering Jim Sell

 

James W.H. Sell was one of the first people to recognize my call to ordained ministry.  He was the rector of Christ & St. Luke's, the church I attended in Norfolk. starting in 1994, a year after moving to Virginia.  At the time I was a "stealth parishioner," slipping in for the 10:15 service and ducking out after Communion to get to my job as a stage manager at Virginia Stage Company.  I participated in some Under the Hill young adult gatherings and a few Christian formation events when I could, but other than that, I didn't have much time for church activities.

I loved going to Christ & St. Lukes - when I discovered it, I fell in love because it looked so much like the chapel at my alma mater, Sewanee.  And the music program!  Architecture and music may not be the best reasons to go to church, but they topped my list.  Once I started attending, I realized the third blessing - the clergy, Jim and Win.  They both gave excellent sermons that spoke to me, and I could feel their warmth and kindness even in my position as stealth parishioner.  At the back door, Jim would greet me with, "How's the play?" and I would tell him that I enjoyed his sermon.  Other than one phone call in which I told him I was too busy to participate in many church activities, we didn't have much one on one interaction.

In the year 2000, I went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land and the Passion Play with my church.  That began my wondering about a possible call to be a priest.  One morning about 7 months after the trip, Jim came up to me as I was walking down the aisle and asked me if I would be part of a "Nudgee" group of women that he was putting together to explore the possibility of seminary.  Speechless that he had read my mind, I simply looked at him.  He told me to call him later that week, and I did.  Thus began my journey to becoming a priest.  It took awhile, and Jim and I got to know each other much better.  He was my priest, not just my mentor.  He was there for me in some really low times.  He read some of my short stories and said I had to get published.  He was always on my side.  He invited me to be part of the pastoral care team, the only thing that happened weekly on Mondays, my day off from the theatre.  I learned so much being part of that team.  

Jim was a presenter at my diaconal ordination.  I hadn't seen him since before Covid, at Bishop Susan's consecration.  We took a selfie that day, and I enjoyed one of his characteristic bear hugs, a chat, and plenty of laughter.  Little did I know that a month later I would get sick with Covid.  I haven't seen Jim since then.   

Yesterday I learned that Jim died in his sleep over night on Friday.  The tears keep welling up in my eyes as I think about all that he meant to me and to all of us who attended CSL during his years as rector there.  I am so grateful I was there then.  I am so grateful for his ministry, his humor and optimism, his big ole heart, his encouragement, and his sermons.  Most of all, I will always be grateful that he saw a call in this shy little theatre person who lurked at the edges of his congregation, and that he invited me to explore that call.  My life has never been the same.  

Rest in peace, Jim.  May your heart and soul now ring out in joy to the One you served so well, the living God, and the God of those who live. You made a difference.  Servant, well done.

Keep Breathing: This is Sacred Space

Three weeks ago, when Jan and I were in Minneapolis for the Addiction and Faith Conference, at the end of a long day of presentations and technology challenges, we took an Uber to the George Floyd Memorial.  I confess that I didn't realize there was a memorial.  I thought we were simply going to see the place where George Floyd was killed.  Since it was after 9 p.m., we asked the person working the hotel desk if it would be safe for us to go after dark, and she said yes, so off we went with our friend, Michelle. 

Our Uber driver dropped us a block away from the intersection, and we slowly walked toward the corner where Cup Foods is located.  When I saw the first sign that said, "Here you enter sacred space," I felt a deep reverence come over me.  For a long time I just walked around the edges slowly, taking everything in.  It seemed disrespectful to talk or to take pictures or even to move inside the barriers protecting the memorial from cars passing by.  I couldn't speak.  

It was a warm night with a light breeze.  The area was well lit with a succession of vehicles passing through the intersection.  Cars aren't permitted to stop there but have to go around the piece of the memorial that now fills the center of the intersection.  There were SO MANY PLANTS and FLOWERS.  Some were artificial, but many were live and others had once been living.  A green house sits to the side of the main part of the memorial.  In an ever widening sprawl sat plants in pots, bottles, and planters.  A garden of offerings:  flowers, candles, stuffed animals, lanterns, signs, photos, coins, graffiti, chalk drawings, paper cranes,  bottles, shells, pieces of wood, rocks, toys, letters, and more.  It was hard to know where to look. Messages of anger, despair, hope.  Quotes from famous people, names of others who died without justice.  

It was both peaceful like a cemetery and overwhelming with stimulus.  I was not afraid, but I didn't know what to think or feel.  I could not process what I was seeing, and so I simply gazed around me. At one point, as I stood on the sidewalk behind the memorial and close to the entrance of Cup Foods, a door in the wall opened, and a woman came out, scowling. I wondered if we were trespassing and if she was coming out to tell us to move along.  She didn't speak for about five minutes, at which point she shouted down the street to a man who eventually strolled up and went inside with her.  Jan told us to stay close, and we made sure to keep an eye on one another.  Later she told me that had been a drug deal.  I can be very naïve.  

Writer that I aspire to be, I have not had words to describe this event.  Jan asked me the next day why I hadn't posted my photos, pictures that I had finally started taking in order to remember what I had seen.  I didn't want to trivialize the experience.  I didn't want to read potentially negative comments or arguments.  It was a sacred space, and I've been afraid to disturb it.  Here are some photos.  I will let them speak for themselves.

I haven't known what to say, and so I haven't said anything. 

Lately I have been reading about trauma.  I highly recommend My Grandmother's Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies, by Resmaa Menakem, for anyone who wants to start the process of healing from ancient radicalized trauma.  "We cannot think our way out of racism."  We all have to learn how to settle our own bodies so our lizard brains don't overcome us, leading us to fight, flight, freeze, or annihilate.  We have to learn to breathe and settle our own bodies so that we can be our best selves, even in the midst of conflict.

I've also just finished reading What Happened to You: Conversations on Trauma, Resilience, and Healing, by Oprah Winfrey and Dr. Bruce Perry.  It is an exceedingly helpful book that details the neuroscience of trauma and explains what happens to the brain and how we can work toward healing.  I learned from this book that one of my usual methods of handling trauma is dissociation.  I suspect that's what happened the night we visited George Floyd's memorial.  When there's too much to take in, I dissociate.  I cannot tolerate the pain, anger, despair, hurt, grief, and so I go away somewhere.  It's not intentional; it's simply what happens.  It's taken me this long to find any words to share.

Renakem says we need to metabolize our trauma so that we don't blow it through other people.  We have to learn to stay present in our bodies.  Perry and Winfrey say we need to ask "What happened to you?" rather than "What's wrong with you?"
 

My thoughts on all of this are still incomplete.  I don't have a lot of wisdom to share, just impressions of what I saw and felt.  A memorial to the pain and death of people of color who have died unjustly and too soon.  A memorial to the ways in which breath has been taken from fellow human beings.  A memorial created both to remember and to inspire.

Keep breathing everyone.  This is sacred space.  

 

15+ Months - Final Covid Update?

At the beginning of May, I began taking a new supplement.  In my online Long Covid support group people have been posting what has helped them.  Many have found that histamines make their symptoms flare up, and so they are on an anti-histamine diet.  As far as I can tell it means you can eat nothing.  Okay, I exaggerate, but of the food that I eat, very little is included in that diet - if that's what I need to get better, I'm doomed.  Other people have posted all the supplements they're taking.  Two emerged as helping many people - CoQ10 and magnesium. For years, Jan and I have ordered supplements from an online company because their multivitamin comes in liquid form, and we find absorbing liquids much easier than gigantic vitamin pills.  I remembered that some years ago our supplement company started offering CoQ10 as one of those things you "should" take to help with healthy aging.  I just thought they wanted more of our money and ignored it.  When I went to the site to look it up, I found they no longer offered it but that they had a new version, one that includes CoQ10, magnesium, zinc, iron, and more.*  It's supposed to support the creation and health of mitochondria.

Let me digress for a moment - I am cheap. I do not like spending money that I don't need to spend.  Although I take vitamins, I have not truly noticed the difference that they make.  When I saw the price tag of this supplement I couldn't imagine forking out that much for a something that probably wouldn't have a noticeable effect.  But in March and April I had come to believe that my Long Covid had turned into chronic fatigue and that I might not get better.  And a friend reminded me that vitamins aren't cheap.  So I decided that I would try it for one month.  

What a difference a month makes!  I noticed positive effects almost immediately.  My energy was better.  I could do more.  I no longer needed to lie down for meetings.  A number of very stressful pastoral situations cropped up, and I was able to handle them.  I didn't feel overwhelmed by everything, and my mood improved.  The string of good days, previously capped at about 3, started growing.  The number of good days outweighed the bad days, and the bad days weren't as bad.  Hope returned as I began feeling better, and my compassion grew for all of those who suffer with forms of chronic fatigue who don't ever feel better.  I ordered another month's worth.  I began taking longer walks, building up to a daily mile.  Last week, Jan and I ventured out of our neighborhood loop and walked about 2.5 miles on one of our walks.  I kept repeating, "Look how far we've gone.  Look at how far we've gone!"    

June 12 marked 15 months since I noticed my first Covid-19 symptoms in March of 2020.  We could not have known then what a long haul it would be.  So many times I've thought and posted that I was getting better, and sometimes I was for awhile, but then the fatigue would come crashing back down, along with a variety of other symptoms.  This time feels different. I'm still a bit cautious with my optimism because of my prior relapses, but I'm hopeful that this will be my last Long Covid update with regards to my personal health.  Many people in my online group are reporting that they're feeling better about 13-15 months out.  

There are all sorts of exciting things about to happen - the opening of a Moo Thru ice cream store, the creation of St. Monica's community, raising the roof on a women's residential recovery-supported house, planning a house blessing once we finally finish unpacking, Camp Spirit Song for children of addiction, Faith and Recovery conference in Minnesota in the fall, and the list goes on.  It looks like I will get to be part of them!  Thanks to everyone for reading about my ongoing journey and for your prayers and support.  I am so very grateful. 

*For those interested in the supplement, it's called Bod-e Ten and can be found here:  https://www.bodepro.com/featured/ten.  

Hope and Healing at SpiritWorks

Thirteen years ago I met Jan Brown when she started attending Hickory Neck Episcopal Church.  I was fresh out of seminary and had just begun my ordained ministry about a month earlier.  No sooner had I learned about her work than I was referring someone to her for services at the recovery community organization that she had started, SpiritWorks Foundation.  Three years later, in 2011, after having partnered with SpiritWorks on a number of projects, I found I was in need of the recovery community myself.  I sought out Jan's advice as I was facing the consequences of a lifetime of co-dependency.  Exhausted, overwhelmed by my need to please every one, be the hero, and save the day, I was running out of energy, health, and hope.  Jan recommended I start attending a 12-step group, and thus began my journey to co-dependent recovery.  

About a year later I began working at SpiritWorks.  Having experienced healing and hope in the recovery community, I wanted to be part of offering that to others.  Since then I have had the great good fortune of participating in the transformation of lives. It is such a huge privilege to walk with people as they make the transition from despair to hope.  The journey from addiction to recovery can be very challenging, and not everyone makes it on this side of the grave.  Some days the work is heartbreaking, and other days are a celebration of milestones achieved.  We offer groups and activities, trainings and education, community and coaching, healing and hope.

The greatest joy of my work has been creating the First Fridays Recovery Eucharist. On the first Friday of each month, our community gathers.  It includes individuals in active addiction and in recovery, parents with addicted children and parents whose children have died as a result of fatal overdoses, friends and family, allies and mentors, members of Bruton Parish and members of other congregations around the area.  Pre-Covid we even had someone who journeyed each month from North Carolina to attend.  We have baptized babies and adults, witnessed marriages and vow renewals, buried those who have died, and had memorial services for those we've lost.  At First Fridays tears are welcome, and we all celebrate joys together.  To me, the First Fridays worshiping community provides a glimpse of what the heavenly banquet will look like. 

SpiritWorks does not charge fees for its recovery support services.  We rely on contracts, grants, faith communities, and donors to keep us funded and running our two recovery centers in Williamsburg and Warrenton.  Each May we participate in a main fundraising effort called Give Local 757.   The past couple of years we've also participated in Give Local Piedmont, the one we were pushing for the Nifty Fifty prize last week. Give Local 757 is tomorrow, May 11, from midnight to midnight.  Our goal for May is $25,000, and we're almost to $5000.  From 5-6pm we will be hosting an outdoor "Happier Hour" at SpiritWorks for people to drop by for some fellowship, snacks, and soft beverages.  Local folks - come see us at 5800 Mooretown Rd. We accept donations of any size, any kind, any time.  But from midnight tonight until midnight tomorrow, we can also receive prizes if you donate HERE.

It is my great pleasure to support SpiritWorks, and Kasee and I hope you will too, if you can.  We're so grateful for so many who are a part of the healing and hope that we offer to people journeying from addiction to recovery.  

Micah, Martha, and Shadow also appreciate your support!!

Grateful for Good Days: Long-Covid Update

Everyone wants me to be better.  I want me to be better.  But I've learned to be grateful for good days. 

A year ago today, after having symptoms for five weeks, I tested positive for Covid 19.  My bishop had instructed me to stop working until I was fully recovered.  We couldn't have known then that "fully recovered" might not happen.  After close to a month off, I returned to work, not really feeling better, but not feeling quite as bad.  Of course, I continue to live in hope (or denial) that I will fully recover at some point, that my energy will return, that I will be able to take long walks again and work full days without having to lie down for meetings or rests, that I will feel like me.  Until that time, I will be grateful for good days.

Folks at church have learned to ask, "Is it a good day?"  Sometimes they know by looking at my face or by how fast I'm moving.  Sometimes I look good even though I feel ready for a nap.  Masks can hide a lot.  Nothing pleases me more than being able to say, "It's a good day."  That means I didn't struggle to shower, dress, and drive in.  That means when I walked up the steps of the pulpit to place my sermon or to light the pulpit candles that I didn't get short of breath.  That means that I might have energy to make lunch when I get home instead of falling over in a heap as soon as I walk in the door.  

Last week I was blessed by a series of good days.  Days when I could take a shower when I got up rather than waiting until later in the day in the hopes that it wouldn't drain all my energy.  Days when I could go to Bruton and then SpiritWorks like I'm supposed to.  Days when I was able to make hospital visits.  I don't get lured anymore into thinking that I'm "cured" or that Long Covid has ended.  So when they ask how I'm doing when I arrive at SpiritWorks, I answer, "I'm grateful for some good days."  

Even though I don't think I'm better, it still surprises me when morning comes like it did on Friday, after a week of good days, including preaching on Sunday, and I can't make myself wake up.  I eventually roused enough to shower and eat some lunch and go in to work, but then I found myself needing to lie back down before I could prepare anything to eat, and I slept for two more hours - 11 1/2 total for the day, and I still had no energy.  We had been invited to a friend's house for dinner, and I didn't know how I would make it.  But I wanted to try.  And I needed to eat.  When we arrived, I was overwhelmed by the sound of friends talking and dogs barking and a warm house.  I seem to have developed an oversensitivity to sound and heat.  I joined Jan outside, and we walked carefully down to the stone terrace overlooking the water - I wasn't sure I would be able to get back up the stairs, but Jan said she'd help me.  The view was worth it.

Sitting there, looking at the water, listening to the gentle breeze rustling the new leaves on the trees, I felt soothed.  That's the word that came to mind.  The view and the air and the new growth of spring were soothing, like a balm for my soul.  One at a time friends came down to talk to me - and I could manage that.  I took a picture so I could remember how it felt to sit there - being restored so that I could enjoy the delicious dinner and good company that would follow.  The rest of the weekend was hard, not bad days, but not good days.  Yesterday I had to attend a meeting lying down with my camera off.  

Today, though.  Today was a good day.  I woke up and showered - always the key, if I can get through that.  Worked from 9-7:30 including four significant meetings and took a walk.  

Today was a good day for a much more important reason than my energy level, though.  Today Derek Chauvin was found guilty on three counts for killing George Floyd by kneeling on his neck.  A white police officer was found guilty for killing a black man.  Accountability.  Police officers risk their lives every day, and I am grateful for their service, but they cannot be above the law, and too many black people have died unjustly.  Today was a good day on the long journey to justice for people of color in this country.  

My experience with Covid-19 is no parallel for the injustice and oppression that people of color endure every day.  But it has helped me understand what it means to be grateful for a good day.  And what it means to know that tomorrow might not be a good day.  Today was a good day for me - but truly I think what boosted my energy was witnessing a tiny step forward in a centuries long struggle - a struggle in which people with one color of skin fight desperately to maintain power over the lives of people with another color of skin, while those people fight to stay alive.  

As I breathe a prayer of thanks, I pray for more good days ahead.  May "justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream."  May we one day know that we are all of one blood, one race, the human race, and may we all treat one another as if each life matters.  Because each one does.  Then, at the end of every day, we can be grateful for a good day.