Book Update

I probably have to face the fact that from Advent through Easter, I simply don't have time to write.  Well, books and blog posts, anyway.  I write plenty of sermons, newsletter articles, letters, notes, and other correspondence, but I don't have the extra hours I need to work on more creative writing.  Perhaps if I gave up sleep.  Except I'm very partial to sleep.  I so envy those people who can rise at 4 or 5am to work on their writing or exercise or prayer or whatever wonderful things they do in those hours.  I can't.  I can't do anything before about 7am except sleep.  And yes, I often do have to get up before that for my jobs, but you may notice that I'm not quite all there until later in the morning!

All that being said, I have been working on my labyrinth book and today I completed a rewrite of chapter two.  (Please encourage me with congratulations!)  Last fall I took a class on Creative Nonfiction and Memoir from The Muse in Norfolk, and I received feedback on several chapters of my book.  So much feedback that I've completely started over on the beginning.  The class thought my last chapter might make a better first chapter.  Along with some critique from my trusted readers, I have taken the suggestions and am completely reworking my material.

Little digression here:  I wish I had an orderly writing process.  But I never have.  It may be that when I wrote my very first term paper, I followed a process where I did note cards and then created an outline and then wrote the paper from the outline.  But I think even on that paper I still ended up switching around paragraphs and not writing intros and conclusions until the rest of the paper was done.  (Something that was much more difficult before computers - and yes, I'm that old!)  All through college and seminary, I could never write a paper from an outline.  If I had to turn in an outline, I had to write the paper and then create the outline.  So, although I envy those who can work in a more methodical way, I just can't do it.  It seems that I have to wallow around in chaos for a very long time before the order starts to emerge.

I believe some order is finally emerging, and I'm grateful.  This book, if it ever gets published, will have to wait until another phase of my life, but I'm using it to practice the craft of writing, and I'm hoping more books and shorter projects will come out of it.  I'm excited to be attending a spiritual writing conference next week with two colleagues and Barbara Brown Taylor and Lauren Winner and editors and other cool people and hoping to be inspired to use a little more time to write and a little less time to sleep.

So, dear readers, I hope to be posting more content soon.  Don't give up on me!  In the meantime, enjoy this picture of a recent labyrinth walk.

0 Proof Life

At SpiritWorks we've been working on an initiative to create alcohol-free drinks to be served at events.  We call them SoBar drinks, and we hope one day to open a sober bar/cafe with the same name as well as to host "dry areas" at big events.  SoBar will provide jobs for people in recovery as well as fun, festive, tasty "0 Proof" drinks for events and occasions of all kinds.  The Episcopal Church requires churches to provide "equally attractive non-alcoholic beverages" (EANABs) at events where alcohol is served.  These EANABs usually consist of a couple of pitchers of water and perhaps some tea and/or Country Time lemonade.  Cans or two-liters of soda sometimes appear as well.  We want to provide a more-attractive option, one that might shift alcohol to being the alternative instead of the norm.  We don't understand why people seem to need alcohol in order to have fun.  It's certainly fine for people without substance use disorders to have a beer or a glass of wine, but there seems to be a thought that people won't come or won't have fun if alcohol isn't being served.  Why is that?

During our recent benefit concert, we served our SoBar drinks, and they were a huge hit. Strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry lemonade garnished with fresh fruit, caramel apple cider steaming hot, coffee and tea with flavored syrups, and Italian sodas.  They looked fresh and festive, and they tasted great.  And everyone had a good time.  No one had to worry about being safe driving home.  Everyone remembered the evening's events.

Six years ago I began working at SpiritWorks Foundation:  Center for Recovery of the Soul, a recovery community organization for people healing from the disease of addiction.  In the months leading up to starting, I had a decision to make.  Was I going to stop drinking alcohol?

I didn't drink until I got to college.  The summer after graduating from high school, I dated an alcoholic, and that scared me.  I knew how to have fun without imbibing, and I didn't really like the taste of it anyhow.  But around March of my freshman year, being surrounded by so many people drinking and seeming to have such a good time doing so, I decided I need to learn how to drink.  Ostensibly because I was a theatre major, and I wanted to be able to portray drunk characters realistically.  Though I never learned to like beer, and wine gave me an instant headache, I did like sweet, fruity mixed drinks. Daiquiris, vodka collins, cosmopolitans, grasshoppers, fuzzy navels, and what became my drink of choice - white russians.  I was careful because there is some alcoholism further back in my family, and I was scared of becoming dependent.  But I did binge drink, and I was in a culture of drinking.  I didn't have a car, so I never had to worry about being safe behind the wheel, and I rarely got hungover because I always drank a stadium cup of water and took two Advil before going to bed, but there were certainly times when I drank too much and some things I did while drinking that I'm not proud of.

When I graduated and went into professional theatre, I found drinking mixed drinks expensive, and I always had to be concerned about driving home.  That caused me to drink less often and to have fewer drinks.  I was always a light-weight.  1 or 2 drinks got me nicely buzzed, but I also knew that a little bit went a long way in decreasing my reflexes.  Many nights I sat in the bar after a show, counting hours, hoping that I was waiting long enough to get in my car and go home.

By the time I became a priest, binge drinking was a thing of the past, but I did enjoy an occasional Mike's Hard Lemonade or Woodpecker Hard Cider.  Alcohol wasn't a problem for me, but I was wary of it.  I enjoyed it, but I found fewer times and places that I wanted to drink.  As an ordained person, drunkenness seemed inappropriate, and I didn't want to drink on the job.  On the job is most of the time now.

Alcohol wasn't a problem for me, but codependence was, and as I started attending support groups for my people-pleasing, controlling, compliant behaviors, I began spending more time with people in recovery of all kinds.  The destructive power of alcohol became clear to me.  So I needed to decide whether I could work for a recovery organization and continue drinking myself, even if it was only occasionally.  Plenty of people do.  Nothing wrong with having a glass of wine at home after a long day.  Except that the people you're trying to help quit can't do that.

I decided that I couldn't work at SpiritWorks and continue to drink.  So I quit.  Almost seven years ago.  I don't miss it at all.  I never have to worry whether it's been long enough since I took my last drink to get behind the wheel.  I never have to consider whether drinking alcohol is appropriate to a given situation.  And I don't have to worry about the hypocrisy of asking another person to give up doing something that I'm not willing to give up.  I'm not noble, and what I've done isn't special - clearly I wasn't addicted to alcohol, as I've never felt a compulsion to drink.  There is relief and freedom, though, in not ever having to think about it.  And gratitude - I don't need alcohol to have fun.  Once upon a time I was so shy that I needed a couple of drinks in order to dance.  At our benefit I was able to be the "Dancing Priest" during the BROADway Babes rendition of "Dancing Queen," and it was SO MUCH FUN!

I'm still in recovery from codependence, and probably always will be - I do have a compulsive need to people please.   But I'm grateful for the steps I've taken, and I believe that giving up alcohol has helped.  It's not something everyone needs to do, but it was what I needed to do in order to have integrity.  It surprises me how often people want me to drink and press me to have a drink, but even that is starting to diminish.  How grateful I am for my 0 Proof Life and for all that it has allowed me to do!

Old Gold Star and New Ladybug

On the day I went to buy my car, a friend texted me and asked, "What is the name of your new car?"  My brow furrowed and I thought, I haven't even bought it yet, how could it have a name?  As I considered her question, I realized that I had never named the car I've been driving for the past 13 years.  Every once in a while I thought about it, but I never came up with anything.  My first little grey Toyota Corolla SR5 with its pop-up head lights was Mouse.  The next car, a white Saturn stick shift that I couldn't even drive when I bought it was White Lightening.  I never really used the name, but that was what I called her in my head when I called her anything at all.  

As I rode to the car dealership and pondered my friend's question, what popped in my head for my new car was Ladybug.  At first I rejected it.  Ladybugs are brighter red than my new car, and they're really tiny.  My car is compact but not tiny.  Ladybug would fit better for a Smart Car.  So I started trying to come up with other names, but each time I thought about it, Ladybug was what came.  Ladybugs are lucky, and I feel lucky to find this car.  Ladybugs can fly, and though I'm not much of a racer, there's something that feels a bit like flying when I drive it.  During my week at the Hoffman process after my middler year of seminary, I received a ladybug stuffed animal that has been meaningful to me.  So, Ladybug it is. World, meet Ladybug, my new car.

Today I will part with my old car, and the name came to me at last - Gold Star.  This is the car that I bought just before I went to seminary with money that my grandmother left me when she died.  This is the car that replaced my White Lightening after someone drove into me on Colley Ave. in Norfolk and totaled the car.  The damage wasn't that severe, but at ten years old, insurance wasn't going to pay to fix it.  I bought my gold star on March 31. I had gone to the Saturn dealer to begin the car shopping process, and they were having a 0% interest deal for March Madness.  As it was the last day of March, it was the last day of the deal.  I bought my car, even though I wasn't really ready. We've been together ever since.

Gold Star has been with me through three Chicago winters and ten Virginia summers.  She has traveled up and down the East Coast.  She has served congregations right along with me and has carried me safely wherever I needed to go.  She has always had a few quirks, the most noticeable being that in recent years when the door is locked and the key is not far away, some kind of error in the security system causes her to start honking as if she is possessed.  A quick touch to the unlock button on the key fob turns it off, but sometimes the event happens at inappropriate times. As happy as I am with my new car, I am sad to say good-bye to this old friend.  But she is going to a new family who needs her, and I trust she will serve them well, too.

I know I'm anthropomorphizing, but I feel a bit disloyal at how quickly I've fallen in love with Ladybug.  Yesterday I cleaned out Gold Star to prepare her for her new owners. Letting go is hard, but it's time for her to move on.  May she be a blessing to those who drive and ride in her.  May they be safe and secure.  May she serve them well.

The old and the new, side by side.  Grateful for them both.

Don't Buy Your Priest a Beer Today

I understand that September 9 is International Buy Your Priest a Beer Day.  I don't know where this pretend holiday came from, but I would like to invite those in the Episcopal Church to stop sharing it, promoting it, and participating in it.  I'm not for prohibition, and I don't think drinking alcohol is a sin.  I do have a sense of humor.  But this is no longer funny.  The Episcopal Church has created a culture of drinking that is contributing to clergy impairment and is harming the body of Christ.  And we need to stop.

General Convention 2015 passed Resolution A159 that deals with the role of the church in the culture of alcohol and other drug abuse.  Part of the resolution states that the church has a "moral and ethical responsibility to:

1. Confront and repent of the Episcopal Church’s complicity in a culture of alcohol, denial, and enabling,
2. Speak to cultural norms that promote addiction,
3. Promote spiritual practices as a means of prevention and healing,
4. Advocate for public funding and health insurance coverage for prevention, intervention, treatment and recovery, and collaborate with qualified community resources offering these services, and to respond with pastoral care and accountability."

The picture posted above is of Tom Palermo's ghost bike, a bicycle memorial to the man killed in 2014 by then Bishop Suffragan of Maryland, Heather Cook, who was drunk and texting. Heather Cook is responsible for her actions, but what if those around her had offered her help instead of a culture where her alcohol use could go unchecked?  Meetings, conferences, and conventions of the Episcopal Church are prime times for misuse of alcohol.  Frequently these are places where impaired behavior is a result of excessive drinking.  Not only do those drinking pose potential harm by getting behind the wheel of a car, but frequently they engage in sexual misconduct and abuse making these meetings and conferences dangerous for others in attendance.

Instead of buying your priest a beer today, ask your priest about his or her self care practices.  Ask yourself why it's desirable to drink with your clergy person.  Ask if the risk of harm is worth it.  You wouldn't want your surgeon or pilot to be drinking on the job. We all need to ask ourselves why alcohol is one of our selling points in the Episcopal Church. Is Jesus not enough?

I went to Sewanee for my undergraduate work, and I learned to drink there.  I was proud of it, and I loved that it was okay to drink in the Episcopal Church.  I repent now of the ways that I was complicit in a culture of alcohol.  I am sorry.  

Six years ago I gave up drinking alcohol.  I had seen too many lives devastated by it.  Today I work at a recovery community organization with people who are healing from the ravages of addiction.  I gave up drinking to stand in solidarity with them.  

Not all of us who drink will become addicted or drink excessively.  Not everyone needs to give up alcohol.  But as a church, as part of the body of Christ, don't we owe it to our sisters and brothers in Christ who are in recovery or are at risk to be a place where we can all be safe?

Buy your priest a root beer or ginger beer.  I'm all in for that.  But please, whatever you do in your personal life, be part of creating a culture of health and wellness for the church. May our focus be not on alcoholic spirits but on the Holy Spirit.

Soul Heaven

I never met Big Jerry.  Until today, I'd never heard of Big Jerry. Today I accidentally attended his "Coming Home Celebration."  To Soul Heaven.

Jan and I are in Memphis for the weekend.  She was invited by Grace and St. Luke's Episcopal Church to preach and lead the adult forum for their recovery Sunday tomorrow.  I'm tagging along.  On Monday night we'll be on the Eastern Shore doing a service for the recovery community there.

When we got into town yesterday our first stop (after checking in and seeing the duck march at the Peabody) was the Lorraine Motel, the place where the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated.  The motel has been turned into the National Civil Rights Museum.  It was eerie, standing in front of the motel, looking at the spot where such a great man had been shot.  It's like it has been frozen in time, with a wreath on the balcony rail to commemorate where he was standing, and a marble plaque below that is inscribed, "Behold, here cometh the dreamer...  Let us slay him...  and we shall see what will become of his dreams."  Genesis 37:19-10.  Scripture referring to Joseph, a story that we just heard read in church last Sunday.  Joseph's dreams were fulfilled.  What about MLK?  The day Barack Obama was inaugurated president, some might have said yes.  But on the day of the protests in Charlottesville, it felt like Joseph was back in the pit dug by his jealous brothers.  We stood for awhile paying our respects to the motel, playing the videos at the listening stations on the sidewalk.  They told the story of the sanitation workers' strike and the injustices that they faced.  We were too late to go to the museum, but we walked around the area, visiting the museum gift shop, being approached by a man who said he'd just gotten out of jail and needed a few bucks so they would let him into the shelter, witnessing Jacqueline Smith's protest banners across the street from the museum that claim people should stop worshiping the past and should not support the museum but should be working to stop gentrification, and taking in the sights, sounds, and the smell of barbecue in this little corner of Memphis.

Last night we walked down Beale Street after dinner, where we heard blues or rock blasting from every joint along the road, each with its own neon sign beckoning people in for beer, music, and food.  Many of them had oversize painted guitars out front or signs relating facts about historical figures or musicians who were known in the area.  We saw B.B. King's bench and blues cafe, Coyote Ugly, Bill Withers' museum, a plaque commemorating Ida B. Wells, and the Hard Rock Cafe.  The street is closed to motor traffic, so people stroll (or stumble) down the middle of the road, drink cups in hand, cigarettes wafting smoke to join with the scents of alcohol and roasting meat, watching street gymnasts turning handsprings and flips or stopping by the park to hear live musicians playing the blues.

This morning we returned to Beale Street looking for breakfast after we watched the march of the ducks down to the Peabody Fountain (one of us really likes ducks!) and the scene was much different during the day.  Music still poured out from several of the establishments but more were closed.  We considered eating at Miss Polly's where the sign said, "Love Peace, and Chicken Grease," but we decided to look a bit farther.  A few people walked down the street, but it felt like the street itself was a bit hungover.  As we got to the end of the shops and bars, we saw a hearse coming toward us.  Behind it marched a mixed band of mourners, a few dressed for a funeral, a few dressed in Memphis Blues Club t-shirts, and a few who were dressed in clothes that were well worn.  They were singing "When the saints go marching in," as they walked.  We stopped to show respect, but we couldn't figure out where they were going.  Halfway up Beale Street at the park we had just passed with a few old guys playing some music, the hearse stopped.  The funeral home people and a few of the mourners took a white casket draped in flowers out of the hearse and carried it into the park.

Curious, we walked back up the street to see if we could figure out what was going on.  Jan surmised it was the funeral for a homeless person, but we later learned it was for Big Jerry, a Beale Street musician.  His family had come from out of town, and his Beale Street music community had gathered to celebrate his homecoming.  One man who had been a friend of his for 30 years, sang "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay," and described how Jerry was sitting on a new dock.  "Save me a seat," he said.  One woman covered in tattoos sang with a powerful voice about going to church to pray.  And then musician after musician came up to play guitar or sax or drums, one blues song after another. "From the bums to the aristocrats, everyone respected Big Jerry."



I did not know this man.  But as I stood on the concrete in Handy Park and listened to Memphis musicians sing the blues and pay tribute to Big Jerry, I felt like I got to know him.  It was clear he was part of a strong community that had loved making music with him.  It was clear that he had been someone who had given young musicians a chance and who had loved making music out with the people more than he wanted to play in the clubs.  The history of the man and the place was palpable.  His blood family - his son and sisters, his uncle and nieces and nephews were all there along with his chosen family of Beale Street.  And a couple of out-of-towners from Williamsburg.  They didn't care who was gathered in the park.  They welcomed everyone.  They were honoring their friend the best way they knew how, by making the music they love in a place that they love with the people they love.  Soul heaven.

Soul heaven.  A place where all kinds of people get together to sing blues and praise, honoring the dead and treating old and young alike with respect.  A place where even those who didn't know a man can come together to pay their respects to his memory.  A place where we make music and peace, not war and violence.  May soul heaven be present here as well as when we make our final journey home.

Amen.

Patrick's Rune

Madeleine L'Engle's A Swiftly Tilting Planet has come to mind often in the past few days.  I'm sure I'm not the only one having that experience.  It's been awhile since I've read the Wrinkle in Time books, but I've pulled number three off the shelf because I feel compelled to read it again.  Something about madmen and nuclear weapons.

I'm grateful to Madeleine L'Engle for many things, one of which is introducing me to Patrick's Rune which she puts to such good use in A Swiftly Tilting Planet.  The Rune is from a longer piece, "The Lorica," which is attributed to St. Patrick.  Here it is:

At Tara today in this fateful hour,
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And the fire with all the strength it hath,
And the lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness,
       All these I place,
       By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.

I had forgotten about this rune until today when I saw someone else post it.  In this time of threats of fire and fury, of violent rhetoric, and hair triggers, I am grateful for words of power calling for God's almighty help and grace.  It's so easy to get caught up in the anger and fear, and I can't help worrying when I hear world leaders suggesting the use of nuclear weapons.

I share this rune/prayer in case it is helpful to anyone else.  We all have a part in shifting the energy toward peace, and I have gratitude for anything that helps us do so.

Writing Retreat

I spent the better part of this week at The Porches, a retreat for writers.  It was my birthday present to myself, to escape for a few days to the mountains to work on my book and to rest and to hike.  I did a bit of all three.  One of the other writers staying there came to the shared' kitchen while I was eating breakfast on my last day.  She was amused at the human capacity to forget what we've learned.  She was remembering how it takes some time to settle down to a writing rhythm, how she's learned that before and how she always forgets.  I also forget that.  The first day, I was so exhausted that all I could do was sleep.  And then I was disappointed in myself for not writing much.  The second day I got up early and took a walk and puttered and did some writing, but it was hard to settle in.  By the third day, I got right up and started writing.  When I do these retreats, I need to remember to plan to stay for a whole week if I really want to get something done.  Especially if I also want to hike.

My goal had been to finish the current draft of my book.  I knew I needed to finish some editing on the 2nd section and complete the third section and Epilogue.  At the beginning of the retreat the book was about 112 pages.  Now it is 135.  I did do a bit of polishing of the second section.  Now I'm thinking there may be 4 sections instead of three and the Epilogue turned into part of the 4th section, and I need to add a whole new beginning to the second section, and I wrote a bunch of new material that reads like a diary - first this then this then that happened.  So that will need lots more revision.  It's like a big sticky gooey mess, and I don't know how to clean it up.

Sermons.  They're not easy, but I can hold them in my head.  They are 4-5 pages, space and a half, 14 pt. font.  I haven't forgotten the beginning by the time I get to the end.  I have a scripture passage to work with, and I understand the structure.  Books are long, and I forget what I've already said.  This piece started out as a short essay for a magazine.  But it has grown and grown and grown, and I can't wrap my brain around it.

It reminds me of a time at my parents' house when my mother was trying some kind of hash brown/potato dish in the microwave.  The microwave was new to us at the time.  Now usually we had real potatoes, but I guess she was trying something new.  At any rate, the hash browns never cooked.  They kept growing and growing, and the more she cooked them, the more they expanded like paste.  We laughed so hard.  I think she had to throw the whole thing out.  Hopefully that won't happen with my book!

After writing all morning on the third day, I treated myself to a drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway and a hike to Crabtree Falls.  I wanted to get into my body in a way that only a strenuous hike can do.  The first time I hiked Crabtree Falls was with two guy friends of mine on a cold November day in 2003.  Over the years I've hiked them many more times.  The trail is 1.7 miles straight up with switch backs that carry you close to the falls and then away through the trees and then back to the rushing water once again.  At the top there's a view of the surrounding mountains.  I don't always make it to the top, but this time I did.  Whenever I'm in the area, I can't resist returning to the Falls; they are like a magnet pulling me in and restoring me.

Now it's time to get back to my sticky, expanding book and hope that I can knead it into something readable.