Twitching Ears, Chasing Moons and Re-finding Family

I had nothing planned this weekend (so weird) save a desire to watch the Kentucky Derby.  The Derby is a big deal in my family–my maternal grandfather’s side of the family was from Kentucky and my grandpa and his brother were jockeys (yes–there is an advantage to being as small as me!).  So whatever other family traditions that may have gotten thrown out over the course of time, the Derby was not one of them.  I grew up watching this spectacle year after year, gawking at the extravagant hats and always choosing my horse based upon who had the most clever name.  My mother, on the other hand, always paid close attention to the horses’ ears–”are they twitching?”  She would always base her selections, as I do know, on this extraordinarily precise measure: equine ear activity.

Only problem is that the Derby falls year after year immediately after our major annual fundraiser (funny how that works), which means I don’t give it any thought until it’s too late to plan anything.  Thankfully this year my cousin Roo (her name’s really Gina, but I don’t know that I’ve ever really called her that in my nearly 34 years on this earth) and her wife Tasha were available to carry on this important family tradition, and–most importantly–begin to indoctrinate the derby into their 8 year-old son Dimitri. I really don’t know how well that last part went, but it’s a start nonetheless.

The derby is pretty short, all in all, so the several hours leading up to the race and the time afterwards provide ample time for storytelling and catching up while you decide on your horse.  I picked Creative Cause and Hansen today–Hansen really just because he was a beautiful horse, I mean beautiful, but he was awfully escalated.  Creative Cause was also beautiful, but way more laid back–and with a slight twitch to his ears.  He came in 4th, ultimately . . .

As I said, the race being short, this gave Roo and Tasha and I lots of time tell old stories of growing up while Dimitri played with Aiden (who, coincidentally happen to be the same number of years apart as Roo and I).  Tasha conveyed her dismay at her beloved wife’s preference in wall paint (pink?!?!) and Roo told me again how I never sat still as a child, not even to eat.  She shared stories of our Great Gramma Flo and the time we’d spent up on her farm in Washington which I hardly remembered (I do remember, however, Roo throwing goat poop at me up there and being utterly horrified), and how I was the girliest of girls growing up, always wearing dresses and patent leather shoes.  This reminds me that some things definitely *do* change.  I relayed stories to Tasha of how Roo would get lost anywhere we went–didn’t matter how many times we’d been there, Roo would find a way.

Girls (and one crazy dog) on the farm

We went on for several hours and ultimately ended up hopping in the car to drive out to Crown Point to chase the super moon.  What better place to watch a gargantuan moon than rising over the Columbia River Gorge right?  We continued to share stories–though these ones were less about the time we spent together as children and more about the time that passed in the years we were estranged from each other.  Roo told me about the apartment she lived in near Portland Nursery, which I didn’t know about because we weren’t talking at the time, and how she almost moved back to Portland from Hawaii for school when they decided to pursue Motherhood (which again, I didn’t know). I shared that perhaps an hour after we had our first conversation in years (on my birthday in 1997, and where I can still remember saying some of the most horrendous things, and Roo responding with her usual wit and grace), I hung up the phone with her to discover that a dear friend of mine had jumped off the building next door (who, thankfully, survived miraculously with only a couple broken bones)–I will always remember that conversation . . .

You see, Roo was my dearest friend growing up, the closest thing I ever had to a big sister.  We did everything we possibly could together.  I looked up to her more than anyone.  When she got purple things, I wanted purple things.  When she discovered new music, I wanted to love that music.  When Roo joined the Church, I was not far behind.  But when she came out, I jumped ship.  I freaked out.  I didn’t know what to do (as if I had to do anything at all!).  So I avoided it.  Which meant I avoided my dear sister. That lasted more or less 15 years.

I’m not sure what changed.  I remember one day when I was living in Montana, quite a few years after my own thinking around sexuality had already shifted, being suddenly overwhelmed with the recognition of how hurtful my avoidance and inaction must have been, that silence can be more powerful and hurtful than words, and that while my thinking may have changed, I certainly hadn’t done anything about it.  I wept for a long time . . . Roo and I were speaking again at this point (sort of), but my response to her coming out was still this monstrosity of an elephant in the room.  I knew that I had some serious confessing to do.  I wanted Roo to hear from me that I was finally beginning to understand (even if I’d never fully “get it”) how hurtful I’d been, that I could see it now and that my heart grieved it deeply.

There has been much confessing since and even more grace and forgiveness.  And it blows me away.  Every time we are together it blows me away.  Still.  Several years later.  I don’t share this to highlight my own change here, but rather to highlight what grace has been extended and how thankful I am for another chance.  Roo didn’t have to give me one.  I didn’t deserve it.  But I am thankful for it.  I am thankful to get to have the opportunity to bear witness to two of the best mamas I know raising a vibrant, witty, and kind young man.  I was blessed to stand beside them as Dimitri was (finally!) legally adopted fully into the family (which is a whole other crazy story, let me tell you) last year.  And I am so looking forward to continuing to heal, learn and know my family.

The moon never did make her appearance over Crown Point, we couldn’t find her through the clouds.  But that’s okay.  We found each other and that’s way better.

I need more trees in my life

I endeavor to begin each day with the reading of a few poems.  On beautiful mornings such as this one where the sun makes her presence known early, where there are no high clouds heralding her coming (and therefore postponing her highly anticipated arrival), and without the looming deadline of getting to work by a particular hour, I like to hole up in my favorite spot in the house with a cup of coffee and whatever book of poetry happens to be on hand for the day.

This spot is affectionately known as the “book nook.”  It is a closed in porch on the second floor of the house, with windows across three of the four walls.  From the floor to the sills of the windows, books are arranged–in shelves, stacks and towers, topped with plants and paintings.  The walls are yellow, but I only mention that because you can’t really see them for all the books.  There are a few guitars arranged amidst the pages as well.   From my perch in the big blue wingback chair I can see the dogwood–my favorite tree at the house–blooming just outside the Northwest window.

This is also our guest room should anyone want to visit.

Lately I have been reading from the the most recent of Mary Oliver’s books:  Swan.  Today I read, “Trees”

Trees

Heaven knows how many

trees I climbed when my body

was still in the climbing way, how

many afternoons, especially

windy ones, I sat

perched on a limb that

rose and fell with every invisible

blow.  Each tree was

a green ship in the wind-waves, every

branch a mast, every leafy height

a happiness that came without

even trying.  I was that alive

and limber.  Now I walk under them–

cool, beloved: the household

of such tall, kind sisters.

I carried this image with me as my dear friend Naomi, her baby girl and I marched into the woods today.  My heart has been heavy these last few days–weary perhaps, trying desperately to care for the hearts of those around me and doing a pretty lousy job at it.  And feeling, though surrounded by amazing folks whom I love, a strange sense of aloneness in the midst of it.  And really, this isn’t so surprising when I consider how ragged I’ve been running and how little I’ve been doing to care for myself in the process.  This weekend has been the first in many months that was not already full of plans and activities before it even began.  This weekend was to be one of rest.

So I walked into the woods of the beautiful Columbia River Gorge with the image of walking into a household of tall, kind sisters, cool and beloved.  It always surprises me how instantly things shift for me out in the woods.  The smell of the wet dirt, the new fiddleheads emerging everywhere, trillium, wild orchids, salmonberry–that beautiful household of kindsisters instantly removes any heaviness from my heart, holding it, carrying it for me for awhile, reminding me of the wider world and my very small, yet important, place in it.  And as we marched up that cliffside in the presence of those old world giants, I was reminded of another of favorite poems–one also about trees, but also about light:

When I Am Among the Trees (Mary Oliver)

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, “stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,

“and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”

Amen, sisters.  It took me more than 30 years to learn that trees in their gentle presence are the antidote to weary hearts, but I’m okay with that.  For now I think I’ll try to figure out how to get more trees in my life.

Scottie

“Humility, then, is being in right relation, friends–connected at the root of who we are–bearers of sacred spirit with and for one another.  All of us have more to learn than to teach about who we are as brothers and sisters, abundant and resplendent and mutually respectful in our differences; earth creatures, with a great deal in common, beginning with our common needs to love and be loved in ways that enable us to grow and learn and thrive.”  –Carter Heyward, Staying Power

 

I was walking home from a meeting at the restaurant around the corner from my house, after a really long and emotionally draining day (one of those days when you acknowledge–or are reminded of–how clueless you are and ask yourself continually, “can I do anything right? Just one thing, please?”), when I spotted him.  My house happens to land on the street running parallel to the Alberta/Killingsworth I-5 freeway exit ramp, and like all freeway exit and on-ramps in Portland, ours is typically “staffed” by an individual looking to earn some dollars from drivers by.  Our local staffer is a rather comedic fellow, selling all sorts of services from joke-telling to the more traditional window-washing (which he still finds somewhat comedic due to his being without half of his right leg and in a wheelchair).  A nice fellow, all around.  Still, my heart was tired and the after the day of work I’d had, the last thing I wanted was more “work” when I was finally (finally!) on my way home.

 

Smile, Lindsay, say “hello” and keep walking . . . don’t avoid or ignore, but don’t engage either . . . you’re tired, you need solo time tonight.  Time to take care of yourself.

 

“So the joke tonight, I promise, is clean enough even for the kiddos.”  And he begins to wheel alongside me as I walk by.

 

Clean enough even for the kiddos, eh?  Well that’s good.

 

“Why, for heaven’s sake, should a blind man not go skydiving?”

 

I stop walking.  ”Why?”

 

“Well because it scares the dog of course!”

 

Clearly.

 

And I realized, having stopped walking, that I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.  ”How you doing today?”

 

“One-legged Scottie” (as he chooses to introduce himself), proceeded to tell me about how “it’d been a day–one of those days, you know?” He’d spent the last night in the psych ward–he’d checked himself in– and now the love of his life was having a mental health episode.  So he was killing extra time, looking for a blanket and some shelter from the rain.  ”You know, if you had a phone, we could call her.”

 

“I’m not making any phone calls tonight, Scottie . . . “

 

We continue to shoot the proverbial shit for a spell, before diving into poetry.  Scottie shares some he’s memorized, with great animation and inflection before moving onto his own parodies of country music.  On that note, I tell Scottie to take good care of himself, but I’ve got to get home, and I would see him again soon.  We start to walk (or wheel, as the case may be) our separate ways when he hollers, “thanks for taking the time to listen to me vent tonight, Lindsay.  I think I just needed to get that out, just needed to talk that day through.”

 

“Anytime, sir.  Anytime.”

 

“No seriously.  I really appreciate it.  Sometimes you just need to talk to someone else to let go of those kinds of days, you know?”

 

“Yeah, Scottie.  I do know, but I don’t always remember.  Thanks for reminding me.”

 

And I walked home, feeling a tad bit lighter.  Not because I felt smug for having done “the right thing” or feeling somehow more fortunate after listening to the details of Scottie’s day as compared to mine, but rather because it felt like a genuine moment of connection with another human being.  The irony of working in social services with people all the time, and particularly on a day like I’d had, is that even though you’re interacting with people all day long, in really intense situations, sometimes those moments of connection are hard to come by.  That is what wears down my heart and soul, not the people themselves, but our disconnection from each other in the midst of those interactions.  The wisdom in Scottie’s final declaration to me reminded me of that–it’s not just about getting stuff off our chest, but rather of being heard, attended to, connected with . . . and, sometimes you just need to talk to someone else to let go of those kinds of days, you know?

International Women’s Day

It’s International Women’s Day and I have a whole lot of thoughts running around this head of mine.

I just read a friend’s blog, a woman pastor (which is necessary to indicate, because if I didn’t include “woman,” we’d still probably assume the person to whom I was referring was male, right?) who’d shared today a powerful conversation with another sister in ministry about the many obstacles and barriers still in place in the church for women.  Tragically, though not too surprisingly, this conversation ended in this sister making a statement as to how she’d still rather work for a male pastor than a female one, because women are this way and think that way–and with my friend’s heavy and saddened heart.

 

This past weekend we both were participants at Convergence–a powerful time of sisterhood and solidarity for women who lead others in the way of Jesus.  At the beginning of the weekend there is always an icebreaker, where we engage in something reminiscent of speed-dating, rotating partners and answering questions about our stories and our leadership.  One such question this weekend was something to the effect of, “what women have inspired you in your leadership?”  My heart began to sink as each and every face who came to mind in terms of influencing my leadership was a male one.  Then I began to panic.  Surely there was some inspirational woman in my life who has encouraged this journey in me???  Quick! Quick! I’ve only got a minute to come up with a woman, just who the hell is she??

 

Alright, so clearly I do not operate well under this kind of pressure.  But the reality is that this was distressing to me on a variety of levels.  Everyone that came to mind were men.  Now, each and every one of these men are amazing men, who played really critical roles in my life–particularly in terms of encouraging me to pursue ministry.  What was distressing was not that I kept thinking of men, but rather that I couldn’t think of one woman.  This is garbage.  There are plenty of amazing women who have impacted and inspired my ministry over the years.  But the reality is that many of these amazing women did not occupy traditional roles of leadership, and what this exercise–in it’s “quick, hurry up, what’s the first thing you think of?” operation–demonstrated to me was that my default understanding was still that of traditional, official, hierarchical leadership.  Male leadership.  And this devastated me.  After how many years of working through my own internalized sexism and trying to relearn how to value the special, unique skills and qualities women bring to the table–and that we bring to the table by being distinctly women, not women who act like men . . . after how many years of working this through to still be at a place where my default thinking is masculine.  Pretty disheartening to say the least.

 

So, when I hear about my friend’s conversation today, my heart grows heavy with hers.   Not just because this strong woman with whom she was speaking summed up their exchange with a dismissive comment about not desiring to serve under another female leader, revealing her own deep internalized sexism, but also because in some ways it reflects my own.  My own story has involved a whole lot of devaluing and dismissing that which is considered feminine or pertaining to women in order to make it amongst men and gain their approval (because, for some reason, I thought that was important).  It has also in more recent years involved a whole lot of self examination and reflection, and intentional reframing and revaluing of the world of women.   And what I have realized this International Women’s Day, is that I still have a long way to go . . . and in all likelihood will continue to wrestle with this for a good many more years to come.

 

Though, in the midst of this somewhat disheartening realization, I am also thankful.  I am thankful that I don’t have to wrestle with it on my own, that there are a myriad of amazing sisters to walk with me through it and that this is not a struggle unique to me.  And this solidarity, this camaraderie, this Sisterhood is what gives me hope . . .

Paralysis. Or, “Oh my God, did you really just say what I think you just said?!”

I wrote this last week after overhearing a most disturbing conversation at my local neighborhood pub.  I debated whether or not to post it, but ultimately decided to do it.  Who knows?  I may decide to take it down again tomorrow . . .

Okay, so tonight I head over to the local pub around the corner to work on my words to share for World AIDS Day tomorrow morning. It’s one of my most productive places to get work done–just enough background noise that it’s not distracting and while everyone is friendly no one talks to me for very long. The servers know me and usually will even run interference if necessary.

And then there was tonight. I sit down at the edge of the bar, leave a seat between me and the closest person–a curious looking fellow and his buddy–and start writing.

Now those who know me, know that while I am more than comfortable talking with old men at bars (even if creepy), I tend to avoid anyone near my age like the plague. And while I’m sure part of that has to do with my inability to be attracted to available men, I’m convinced that mostly it has to do with the fact that most individuals I meet near my age at establishments such as these are creeps.

Creeps, I tell you.

So, tonight I’m writing away and this guy next to me starts to hit on me–somewhat subtly at first, then more aggressively (when I don’t really respond or give him much to go on). If there was any doubt that he was hitting on me, that was dissolved when he yelled (and I mean yelled) at his friend for interrupting his grand plan for talking to the girl next to him (“man, I was just noticing her hotness [insert comment: Damn, you really are drunk, aren't you?] and trying to start a conversation” [insert comment: which I was clearly trying to avoid].) His friend then starts to talk about this man’s kids. And his wife. If I was grossed out before, I surely am now.

The two compatriots then proceed to exchange more gender-based insults and comments in one sitting than I have heard in a long time (douche-bag is my personal favorite. Sir, I [don't] hate to inform you that you are not going to be successful tonight).

Okay, so this is not entirely unusual (if still not agreeable–or acceptable–) conversation that I will do my best to avoid. But then they step it up a notch. Dude buys some beverage to take home and dude’s friend’s comment is “someone’s getting lucky tonight!”

Lindsay’s ears perk up: “seriously?!”

Dude then proceeds to share how he tried that with his wife last night–he “loaded her up” with red wine, Ambien, and marijuana and still “no luck.”

Lindsay’s outraged internal dialogue: “seriously? Am I really hearing this? You’re talking about how you tried to rape your wife last night?!?! And you’re upset it didn’t work?!”

Oh my god, get me out of here.

I look around frantically for another place to sit–all the tables are full.

At this point dude reflects (oh how gracious of him!) that he’d prefer another way anyway–one where she was more involved. At which point he proceeds to engage in a game of verbal charades–he physically acts out how he’d like the sex act to occur while expressing what he’d like to hear as well: “f*** me! f*** me!”

Oh my god. Get me out of here.

So here’s where it gets frustrating (or sad?)–really. A male staff member happens to see something going on (the bartender is female, too, and also avoiding this dude like the plague) and comes over and stands next to me. Apparently, the look on my face is revealing: he asks me if I’m okay? Is there anything he can do? I say, “No, I’m fine.”

I say, “no, I’m fine.”

I am clearly not fine. Why did I say otherwise? Why didn’t I interject into their crazy conversation that I think they are crazy and yucky for glorifying and encouraging rape culture? Why didn’t I tell the staff member when he asked, that I was not okay?

Short answer? I was scared. This conversation hit a little too close to home for me. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I didn’t want to draw attention. I didn’t want to be “overly sensitive.” I didn’t want to be outed. I didn’t want to be the angry feminist.

What?!?

But that’s the reality of it. Even with people standing beside me (bartender and other staff member) I felt powerless. Powerless against these two moronoic, stupid, clearly idiotic and drunk men. As a bright, smart, accomplished, protected woman, I felt powerless–paralyzed even. And that there is the power of gender-based and sexual violence, my friends. It turns the world upside down. Otherwise “strong” women are rendered terrified in the face of moronic men at the local neighborhood hang out spot.

Ultimately they left, but I am left with the reality that I didn’t say a damn thing . Didn’t say one word to those men to let them know that what they said was not just uncouth (as his friend said), but violent. And hurtful.

I know that ulitmatley this responsibility can’t lie with me. That we need allies in this fight–that the relegation of gender-based violence to a “women’s issue” (when perpetrators are overwhelmingly men, and therefore is, in reality, a men’s issue) just further ensures its marginalization. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was scared when I didn’t want to be. That I was so scared, in fact, that I couldn’t even articulate what I needed when asked in that space to feel safe. And I’m not disappointed in myself for that–I’ve come a LONG way, but I am sad that my voice was buried. And the voices of so many women. And that nothing was said to those men. But the unfortunate reality is that I am confident I will encounter many more circumstances such as these, and as such I will have more opportunities to stand up to that articulated violence. And who knows? Maybe next time I’ll find my voice. And watch out when I do.

Some Thanksgiving Poems

A dear friend emailed this morning and asked if I could recommend some good quotes of wisdom to give to her sister for her 30th birthday.  As I do, I immediately turned to Mary Oliver (who’s “When the Roses Speak I Pay Attention” was given to me on my 30th by dear Paula).  In my search for something appropriate I continued to come across poems that felt particularly relevant for this day of Thanksgiving, and I couldn’t help but share.

Enjoy.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones: just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

Into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

Messenger

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird–

      equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in speckled sand.

Are my boots old?  Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half perfect?  let me

     keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

Which is mostly standing still and learning to be

     astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

     and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

     to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

     that we live forever.

Red Bird

Red bird came all winter

firing up the landscape

as nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,

those dun-colored darlings,

so hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds.

I know He has many children,

not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason–

perhaps because the winter is so long

and the sky so black-blue,

or perhaps because the heart narrows

as often as it opens–

I am grateful

that red bird comes all winter

firing up the landscape

as nothing else can do.

Wrestling with Brokenness (and claiming hope) doesn’t mean pretending the brokenness isn’t there . . .

In spite of several glorious moments of beauty throughout the course of the day, I’m feeling heavy with the brokenness of the world tonight.  In addition to walking through some discouragement and sorrow in my own personal life, these past few days at the center have been full of hard stuff–today in particular.  Before we’d been open even an hour we’d received a visit from the fire inspector indicating that we need to install a new oven hood–at a cost of approximately $10k (our program doesn’t have that kind of money)–I’d spent a hefty chunk of time on the phone with Adult Protective Services advocating for a client who had been taken advantage of by another drug-affected client (who had been making so much progress until now!), and a client returned for the first time since we had to call Project Respond in several weeks ago because this client was so lost in their delusions of our being a target for HIV specific terrorism we were concerned they were a danger to themselves or others in the community–and today the sideways delusions continued.  Client after client, it seemed, occupied a state of utter chaos and escalation, so much so that we found ourselves triaging the most severe cases first and hoping the others didn’t further escalate and explode in the meantime.

At one point a member of the community who lost both his estranged father and brother at this time last year came to me with yet more grief.  A gentle, pensive, trusting fellow who gives of himself to others without hardly a thought for himself, he came into our office to tell me of his broken heart.  He thought he’d finally found a partner, and had invested much time in pursuing this individual and giving of his heart, only to find that this person had other, more strategic (read: financial) intentions.  Not only was he experiencing the broken heartedness of losing this particular individual, he was also grieving what he understands as his perpetual aloneness.  He believes he will always be without a partner to walk through life with and this distresses his heart and mind greatly.  Oddly enough this was quite akin to my own distress through which I was walking–and I found myself thinking that we find solidarity in the most unlikely places  . . . that we all fundamentally desire to love and be loved and our world really just sucks at it.  It is, after all, broken, and in spite of our most ardent attempts at restoration, it continues in brokenness.

So when the day was over all I wanted to do was run around the corner to the local pub, have a beer and decompress.  I took along a book I’ve assigned to one of our interns (but haven’t actually finished reading), and was so touched (grounded, centered, inspired, what have you) by what I read I felt I had to share part of it.  It is a collection of reflections by a priest who used to minister to the folks on Portland’s streets and low-income housing.   It’s a pretty hefty chunk, and I’m probably violating numerous copyright laws, but the story so needs to be shared . . .

From Radical Compassion by Gary Smith (emphasis added is my own):

I had not seen Melinda in a long time, although our friendship reached back over the years, here and in other places.  She showed up at my door one night, cut loose after completeing a six-week drug rehab program.  Again.  She needed a ride to Seattle; could I help her with a ticket?  Yes, I could.

At thirty-two, she was tall and had an extraordinarily beautiful face–an exterior beauty that belied the near total self-disgust that occupied her like an invading army of parasites.  At some point during the painful early years of growing up in bitter poverty and with the racist abuse of the ghetto, she had crossed over into the murky and predatory life of sex for drugs and drugs for sex.  It was madness.  She had a wonderful personal side, one that emerged in her honesty about her confusion and self-hate and in her longing to be happy and healthy.  She had burned most of the bridges to her family and friends.  But she hadn’t burned the one to me.

I love this woman.  True, to love her requires a certain courage and an acceptance of my tendency to make mistakes, to be excessively generous, and to be taken for a fool.  Anyone who has seen addiction in operation knows this.  To love her, though, does not mean I must always be prudent or that I must calculate all the pros and cons.  I think love does not always look for success, nor is it blind to danger.  But it does believe in the intrinsic beauty and possibility of the beloved.  In the end, I believed in that sacred quality of Melinda–the presence of God–that longs for her wholeness, for the unique and living forces of her real self to develop.  

There is in the world of nature constant renewal; as Gerard Manley Hopkins puts it in his poem “God’s Grandeur,” “There lives the dearest freshness deep down things.”  This renewal also takes place in our own hearts.  In this renewal and in her hope for herself, Melinda will realize her own feelings and thoughts, her wishes, interests, resources, and movements of love.  This constant pull toward life is what gives her dignity. I saw this dignity in her, a dignity given to her by her Creator, independent of all the failures and bad decisions and ugly stuff that society frequently holds up as reasons for her condemnation.  If I am called to anything as a priest and as a Christian, I am called to stride into–not run from–the untidiness and fear and brokenness and shame that is around me, that country of humanness in which we all live and share.

We waited briefly in the ticket line of the Greyhound station, that inner city launching pad, where people like Melinda are constantly departing toward sanity and the possibility of a new life, a life where maybe they will be able to be happy, eat with friends, and be with those who love them, a life where they may be able to freely take their children into their arms as they saunter through a city park.

One-way ticket to Seattle purchased, we had coffee and a sandwich and a cigarette together.  We stood there, thinking of other streets in another place; we had been in this moment before.  As her bus number was announced, she reached for me and held me close to her, weeping gently in my arms, whispering that she loved me for never giving up on her.

No, I never have.  Never will.

When I think of Melinda, one movement in me is the raw gut reaction to her oppression.  I hate that women like Melinda are used up sexually by pimps, made into beasts of burden by drug dealers, taunted and raped by indifferent men, beaten up by their poverty.  I have known women, fearful of shelters, who spent their nights standing in storefronts, waiting until dawn, when they were safe to sleep on park benches and at bus stops; I have known women who were deliberately infected with HIV in an act of retaliation; I have known women of the streets who have been shot, stabbed, strangled and murdered.  They didn’t have a chance against the power that was being used against them.  You want to know about indignity inflicted on another human being?  Talk to a woman of the streets.

Another movement in me is a more hushed one.  It has to do with the interior beauty of women, a beauty that enables me to claim my own sensitivity and tenderness.  They have taught me that the function of my chosen celibacy is not to be loveless but to contribute to the great treasure of love and sacrifice needed by humankind.  The women who I call friends–and in their midst stands dear Melinda–have uncovered me as no man could ever do and have led me into the world of loyalty and fruitfulness; they have helped me to love the mystery of myself.   If a man wants to understand the heart of God, he must surely begin by standing next to the heart of a woman.

I don’t have any illusions about Melinda’s chances.  The recidivism rate of addicts is statistically very high, as is the rate of premature deaths of addicts.  So I am not kidding myself.  But stats don’t drive one’s life of service down here. The heart does.  I am not sure how God’s heart connects to ours, but as I walked away from the bus depot, that connection was there, and I felt encircled by peace and joy.

And there you (and I) have it.  Amen and Amen.

A little Mary Oliver prayer to enter the day . . .

Magnolia Rocks, Massachusetts

Prayer

May I never not be frisky,

May I never not be risque.

May my ashes, when you have them, friend,

and give them to the ocean,

leap in the froth of the waves,

still loving movement,

still ready, beyond all else,

to dance for the world.

Day One of the Hunt Family Cruise, in which Lindsay learns some lessons

And so ends Day One of the Hunt family cruise.  And so begins ya’all’s opportunity to read all of my ridiculous ramblings and reflections on the crazy world of cruising.  It’s no secret that I have some serious misgivings about participating in a cruise, but I have decided to make the most of it—and part of that involves including you in processing what I observe.  I hope you don’t mind.

A few snapshots from the day:  a lounge singer with the all-too-stereotypical long, slicked back black hair covering ACDC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” on his acoustic guitar (followed immediately after by Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son”), three crew members and a Lumberjack (who shows up later in our story) performing choreographed dances as we board the ship, this same lumberjack (who is British, incidentally) dancing around the pool, handing out beers to other dancers and identifying to the rest of the ship (yelling into his handheld mic) all of the dancers he perceives to be drunk (it might just be his favorite word), and my cousin competing in a dance-off for a free facial and shave—which he lost, by the way.

If that hasn’t sold you already on the idea of a cruise, I really don’t know what could.  I mean, seriously, can you get more entertaining than that?  The fact that what I find entertaining has nothing to do with any of the actual scheduled entertainment is irrelevant.

I have learned some important things about cruising on my first day.  While there have been a number of lesser lessons, most of them really fall under the same umbrella:  going on a cruise is like going to summer camp.  I mean, where else do staff herd their eager participants in through long check in lines and room assignments with over-the-top enthusiasm, ear to ear grins and dancing?  If you’ve ever worked a summer as a camp counselor, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Even the staff:participant ratio is similar—I swear there must be a crew member for every 4 cruisers.  I’m sure the American Camping Association would approve.  They have song leaders who teach otherwise normal individuals how to perform hand (and hip!) motions to songs immediately regressing them to the days of summer camp lore (and quite possibly sending some secret code to extra terrestrials in the process).  In fact, today there were two song leaders—british lumberjack included—who’s only responsibility was to get people dancing—and they even had several individuals who’s only responsibility was to dance in the crowd!  Summer camp.  I secretly found myself envious of their jobs.  Okay, let’s be honest: it wasn’t so secret at all.  I want their job.  I’m pretty sure it may be my calling.  If only I wasn’t so stinking anxious in front of large groups of strangers.  Hmmm . . .

Another element of Summer Camp-dom emulated by cruise ships: competition.  We all get these little “activity cards” where we get points for participating in competitive events on ship like pub quiz or shuffleboard (yes, that’s right, people do actually play shuffleboard on the deck of the ship).  At the end of the cruise we can qualify for “exciting souvenirs” depending on how many points we’ve accumulated.  Sound like summer camp cabin competitions where cabins compete with each other over the course of the week to earn points from things like cabin clean up?  Yup.  I thought so, too (except I’d really rather win the Golden Dustpan than a pack of Norwegian Cruise Lines playing cards).  One other such competition involved my cousin in a dance-off this afternoon with 3 other men competing for a free facial and shave.  Nick made it to the dance-off finals, the elimination round if you will, and while he didn’t win the facial, the guy who did win bought Nick a beer.

Interruption:  the lounge singer just switched from a Beatles tribute to “What a Wonderful World” and a handful of ladies in the 80s dance party in the next room over just started yelling.  It’s after 10pm.  This is such a strange place.

Another thing like summer camp:  the staff all really seem like they’re having a good time.  Maybe they’re not, but if so, they are damn good actors.  I imagine the staff of our ship like the staff from Dirty Dancing: making the new girl carry watermelons through random dance parties and other such nonsense—just hopefully no Penny-like “incidents.”

The lounge singer has his mandolin out now and is covering Bruce Springsteen.

Seriously though, we got to see an amazing sunset over the San Juan Islands tonight, and while we can’t see the beautiful Sunshine Coast we’re passing now in the night, tomorrow is the Inside Passage.  And for as much as I might find to tease about this surreal cruising subculture, perhaps it is an invitation for me to not take myself so seriously.  To embrace my inner song-leader, as it were.  We shall see.

And because it had to happen (and I will leave you with this): the lounge singer is now singing “If You Like Pina Coladas.”

Sweetgrass and The Solace of Open Spaces

I stink at titles.  Always have.  Blech.

An emotional day.  Intense conversations.  Big life changes.  Hard stuff.

I tried hard to listen to myself and what I needed after taking part in those conversations: I furiously vacuumed and mopped the upstairs of our house, cleaned the bathroom, took a bath, played my guitar, watched the women’s world cup final . . . Late in the afternoon I decided that I wanted to watch a movie–preferably one where I could cry a lot, but possessed a great deal of beauty and hope.  I landed on A River Runs Through It–one of my favorite short stories and movies ever.  Just watching the beauty of the Blackfoot river (which is actually the Madison River, I believe) is enough to bring me back to center.  The added bonus of a beautiful story and ample opportunities for crying is just icing on the cake.  There was only one problem.

I can’t find my copy of the movie.  Anywhere.

I have this lovely habit of loaning out movies and books that are super special to me because I want to share that which is special to me with others.  But I also forget who I loan them to.  And, that I’ve loaned them out in the first place.  Hence my dilemma this evening.

So, instead I decide to watch this PBS documentary I’ve been wanting to see for a while called Sweetgrass.  The description reads,

An unsentimental elegy to the American West, “Sweetgrass” follows the last modern-day cowboys to lead their flocks of sheep up into Montana’s breathtaking and often dangerous Absaroka-Beartooth mountains for summer pasture. This astonishingly beautiful yet unsparing film reveals a world in which nature and culture, animals and humans, vulnerability and violence are all intimately meshed.

So, not exactly “River,” but it will do.  And let me tell you folks, this is one beautiful film.  There’s no dialogue (unless you count sheep) until about 15 minutes in–which is still a guy talking to a sheep.  Set in SW Montana, the movie is more landscape than anything else.  While the story may center around the cowboys, the landscape tells the story, not the people.  And if you’ve ever been to SW Montana, you know what a story that can be . . .

Unfortunately, there were no opportunities for crying per se in Sweetgrass (I’ll have to figure something out for tomorrow), but it was still a welcome opportunity to do some knitting in the presence of some intense beauty.  It also reminded me of one of my favorite books ever: The Solace of Open Spaces.  The back of the book reads:

Writing of hermits, cowboys, changing seasons, and the wind, Ehrlich draws us into her personal relationship with this “planet of Wyoming” she has come to call home. She captures the incredible beauty and the demanding harshness of natural forces in these remote reaches of the West, and the depth, tenderness and humor of the quirky souls who live there.

I first read this book at another time of significant loss in my life, and I was more than pleased to be reminded of it this evening.  It seemed fitting, and perhaps an invitation to return to these stories about Wyoming.  They are, in essence, stories of resurrected hope.   Ehrlich says in her introduction, “The lessons of impermanence taught me this: loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life” 

Amen.