What is the question?

What is the question?


Waddling in to this new year (hey, I had pasta for dinner), it is time for a new approach to this resolution business. No resolutions, questions instead.

A pundent on television last week suggested that we find those things we are drawn to, perhaps know we should do, want to do, hope to do and find questions to ask ourselves about them.

So, What do you want in your life this year? What might you do to bring it closer?

Rather than resolve to lose weight, I am asking myself what steps I can take to be healthy?

My greatest hope for this new year is to continue to be covered with grace and to extend grace to others so they feel covered by it, too. What shall I do tomorrow to put myself in the pathway where grace might find me? What can I do to share the grace of unconditional acceptance and forgiving energy with others?

So, as you approach this new year -- waddling, running, skipping, sleeping or otherwise -- what are your questions of yourself?

Milestone marks momentum

I forgot to notice the anniversary of the the Declaration of War in Poland.

On Sunday, December 13, 1980 -- thirty years ago -- Poland declared war on itself. We called it Martial Law. They called it war.

I woke to the news and was traumatized like everyone else in and in love with Poland. Tanks on the streets, three-man patrols marching in lock-step on the sidewalks. It was the start of a terrible last chapter of Moscow-heavy, thug-driven rule in Poland.

Most significantly, it shut down Solidarity, the rogue labor and social movement that had been growing through the past months. It was viewed as a serious threat to Communist rule. Hundreds were sent to prisons and draconian regulations were imposed on society. Months later, my good friend told me, "I don't think at all."

Those are the words of a man suffering from a traumatic distorder. I recognize those words, and know them all too well.

This year is the 30th Anniversary of Martial Law, or Poland's war on itself.

And I was so busy celebrating Sancta Lucia on that same time, I forgot!

I count this a victory. In an odd way, it feels like I'm moving on. It takes away nothing, none of my empathy for Poles. But it is a positive sign of looking forward, looking and diving deeply into life, rather than looking back and focusing on trauma and sadness.

For the first time in 30 years I didn't feel it in my bones, in my senses, my body. I was too busy living. I hope that we never forget the sacrifices others make but I hope the Polish people can get to where I am, so deeply in love with living that death doesn't hold as much power as it did.

The light returns!

Belated, and sincere, Happy Lucia! Happy Light!

In honor of Kaia's birthday, call your Congressman

Kaia is lucky: Keith Ellison is her congressional representative.

He will vote on behalf of the 160 million who will be devastated by the failure of Congress to act on the payroll tax, and for the 6 million who are about to lose their unemployment benefits.

Kaia came to this world 24 years ago already an activist. She was here at her time, on her own terms and she has made an impact wherever she's been. An impact for kindness, justice, equality, education, and goodness. We saw it in her as a young child. We saw it grow and become more sophisticated, nuanced, developed, confirmed. She always looked for the "least of these" and always sought their best interests. She gave herself, her time, her sacrifices to love and care for sweet children in Estonia, young girls in South Africa, and immigrant kids in Denver.

Now she is committing herself to a lifetime of medical service among the poor and underserved.


Let me be blunt, if you care of such matters, as I do, "what would Jesus do?" Jesus would not be acting as we're seeing the GOP act right now. It is partisan because they have made it so. Anything to make Obama fail. Jesus would not be about that. He would be with the poor. He would be forceful in his payroll tax fight.

I'm sure Kaia will love to receive your greetings. But I'll bet she would rather we all do right, make those calls, and pray for a compassionate Christmas for God's people. Compassion has a clarity of focus that takes the form of legislation, tax cuts, benefits. Compassion is Christmas.

And Kaia loves LOVES Christmas!

Kaia, Happy birthday, wonderful woman! I'm so glad you're here. Thanks for all you've taught and challenged me to do. Love you lots!

Ralph Waldo Gingrich, no, Perry, no, Palin, no Romney

My poor head has been banging against this piece of paper all week.

It's an article from last Sunday's New York Times Magazine by Benjamin Anastas. If I weren't so damn determined to be self-reliant and refuse to ask for help, I could find how to post the link. But look it up on Google, how's that. Great article: "The Foul Reign of 'Self-Reliance'."

Ralph Waldo Emerson is the ultimate non-conformist, "Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind." The movement with which he was associated is known as Transcendentalism and is generally viewed with grave suspicion by those who might be known as the Religious Right for its emphasis on the primacy of the individual's conscious and desires, even happiness, at the cost of following the tenets of their claim of the Bible's supreme truth.

Now the irony. The behavior and ideological orientation of the GOP and the Right looks an awful lot like "foul self-reliance" and individualism. Emerson wasn't big on responsibility to the community, or to one's neighbor, for that matter. Take care of yourself. Love yourself above all others. NIMBY.

The issue raises its pesky head especially as we grapple with "the issue of our time" (Pres. Obama), that of the inequality of wealth in this country (to say nothing of the rest of the world). The traditional transcendentalists, those Harvard liberals, would be expected to say, "Who cares?" about the poor. Or, in other words, "Let them eat cake." Some say that.

But what is surprising? The Bible Belt says "Let them eat cake." And, "who cares?" Newt Gingrich this week sounded just like old Ralph Waldo himself as he proposed having poor children go to work. And he appeals most to religious (Christian) voters.

Go figure.

What makes your head spin?

I like grown-ups (Alec Baldwin listen up)

I am in favor of grown-ups.
I am in favor of grown-ups behaving like grown-ups.

Alec Baldwin comes to mind.

I confess, I found his rants funny; snarky humor is right up my line. And so I covered my mouth and quietly laughed while those around me were appalled by his irreverent raving.

But, I believe we call this "indoor speech," that is private, rather than public. And I believe a bit of anger management is called for.

There are other grown-up behaviors that I've noticed lately, as in noticed them lacking.

Like owning up for one's behavior. Honesty. Kindness. Courtesy.

The non-grown-up behaviors pop up in the most peculiar places. Even in familiar places (I'm not referring to any family, just in case you're wondering).

Yeah, grown-ups. I like when they act as if they have figured out what that means. And do the hard work, or not always so hard work to be responsible, kind, honest.

Meanwhile, I'm enjoying deleting annoying spam. And I'm waiting.

What bugs you?

How far is it?

The part that gets me every time I think of it is the three-month-old baby.

My grandmother was three years old when her family sailed to Amerika from Sweden in 1886. They spent at least two weeks in steerage, with just a few meters each for themselves and their stuff. Hannah, my grandmother, was three and she had four older brothers all under eleven. I suspect they were not content to stay quietly and still within their few meters. My poor great-grandmother, can you imagine? Riding herd on five restless children in quarters that, let's just say, were less favorable than flying coach.

But the part of the story that gets to me every time I think of it is that Hannah's mother had a three-month-old baby along too. Nursing. Was there milk enough? How did she manage to keep track of the boys, and little Hannah, and nurse a baby all at the same time? Holy mothers.

Of course, she had a husband to help and I'm sure he did. But mothers feel it, that lock on the heart, that stretching out of shape, that radar that makes them crazy.

All that and now, here we are. I fly to Sweden in a few hours. I drink Starbucks enroute. I am in a reasonable chair, even in coach. I get a warm washcloth as we approach Stockholm to soothe my brow. And we eat pretty well.

How far is it, from Sweden to Amerika? From America to Sweden?

Starting over over and over again

It is almost time to start over, over again.

Or, as the great philosopher says, "It's deja vu all over again."

We are waking to darkness. We walk home in darkness. The sun is a stranger. Night is long. Twilight is about as good as it gets.

Not here, of course. On behalf of the Colorado Tourism Bureau or Department or Agency, I must remind you that our days, short though they be, are spectacular with sun so bright one can drive a convertible with the top down through a foot of newly fallen snow.

But, apart from that, it is the season that is the reason someone invented Prozac. Light is missing.

Now there is a truth for the ages. Light is missing.

We wait for the light and while waiting we create diversions to remind us that reality is not always real, not always the same, that things cycle and change and light returns.

So we Swedes celebrate Lucia. Our family started the Lucia season yesterday with cousins here laughing and telling stories and maybe even making up stories of ancient lore that bind us together and point us to something coming, to a future of light -- even if it is a past with its darkness that connects us most primally. Dreams that set families out on boats across wide oceans to settle in barren valleys and find life harder than they bargained for.

We are heirs of these immigrants who walked in darkness and waited for the light. We begin the cycle over, and over again, again, now in these days of waiting for the nadir of the year and the slowly arising gift of new light.

I am a sucker for new beginnings. I celebrate them all. Chinese New Year. Rosh Hoshanah, Opening Day, Easter. But most of all, this solstice and its reality of darkness, dim twilight, a descent into a depressing (for me) place of gloom, this is the real beginning of a new time.

I know I know, it is not here yet. We have a ways yet to descend. Even here in Chamber of Commerce perfection Colorado, I will go kicking and screaming. (Not literally; there is Prozac for that.) But I will be waiting. And in these days of increasing darkness, of short days, twilight, I will plan and dream and think of the promise that is as sure as the rotation of the planet.

Light will come. And boy, howdy, do we need it.

I do, at least.

The best thing I ever did

The best thing I ever did as a pastor was to kick a guy out of the church. Pastors are generally in the business of bringing in the sheep. It's what we do.

Bring 'em in and care for the flock.

So I did.

And, ironically, in this one case, caring for the people of God meant asking a young adult man to leave.

"Bud," (not his real name) I said, "you gotta go. Our church is not safe with you in it."

This is the thing. I watched him spending too much time with a couple of young boys, barely adolescent, from single-family households, vulnerable and isolated in a variety of ways.

I spent ten years working full-time professionally in the sexual abuse field. I knew what it looked like, as many of the experts you've heard this week on TV have testified. There is a pattern. Grooming. Setting up a situation where the person becomes even more isolated and dependent upon the predator. Flattery. Sometimes blackmail. Bud was already at work when I arrived on the scene. A couple of folks mentioned to me that it felt "off" -- the way he interacted with these boys. So I paid careful attention. And agreed.

"Bud," I told him, "you gotta go. And if I could, I'd call the police now." But there were no actionable crimes I could report. He told me he was moving to another state. A few weeks later I got a letter requesting his transfer of membership. I didn't sign it. But I wrote a letter. "Watch. Like a hawk."

Keep your eyes open. Watch. And, as they say, when you see something, say something. Ask a friend to watch with you. Don't prejudge but be wise. Be careful. You can save a child. You can save a child.

You are part of the team that our kids count on. You. Don't let them down.

Inspiration Point

I remember that his car was light blue, a Volkswagon bug. It was 1968. A big election year.


My picture was in the paper. A very big deal. My dark page boy behaved for once, the weird wave hair-sprayed into compliance. For once I wasn't wearing tennis whites but a respectable outfit and my impossibly long legs and big feet were nowhere in few. The only humiliation was my geeky glasses. They even airbrushed my acne. Copies of the photo and the article were collected and sent to far-away relatives and I was proud that for once I seemed to have done something to please my parents. And most certainly, Aunt Elsie was over the moon.

Time to get down to work. The adult sponsor of TARS, an up and coming attorney in town whose name wasn't Ron but we'll call him that for now, invited me for an afternoon of orientation and milkshakes. He drove up to the top of Inspiration Point, quiet on a late summer afternoon. He parked and began to tell me about my new responsibilities. Running meetings: piece of cake. Working on agendas and deciding on the issues we would take on: I got that.

And then he explained the realities of the upcoming State Convention. I had to go. I was the Chairman. It was my job to see that the issues our chapter wanted to be included in the State Platform would be affirmed. Okay.

Well, he said, there is always some horse-trading, if you know what I mean. I didn't. Bargaining. I'll give you this and you give me that. Oh, I said, I'll support your issue if you'll support mine. Hmmmm, possible.

Well, he said again, no. That's not exactly how this works. You see, sex is the currency of choice. You sleep with Brad (not his real name) and he will support you.

My milkshake slowly melted and my hands trembled.

He put his hand on my bare knee. My thigh. And offered to help me "prepare" for the convention. He could condition me, give me lessons. In other words, we could have sex. Me and Ron. Not right then and there but he would work it out. That week. He touched my page boy. He looked beyond my geeky glasses into my dark brown eyes. I was supposed to be moved.

I felt sick.

I told him I had to get home. The light blue VW bug slowly wound its way down Inspiration Point. He dropped me off and winked, I'll see you tonight. We can make some plans for the convention, if you know what I mean.

What happened next was what often happens when a child --- I was very much a child, however old I was --- is sexually propositioned by an adult. I went inside and played perfect to my parents who were so proud. I told them I had a fine time and commenced the process of denial. Second-guessing myself. How dare I presuppose he had stooped so low. Surely it didn't happen.

I got ready for the evening's meeting, the first over which I was to preside. I had printed agendas, nametags, folders for all the returning members and information sheets for prospects. I was ready!

I got to the meeting, my mom dropped me off. I felt an out-of-body sort of experience as the other kids arrived. I play-acted my role, pretending an enthusiasm I didn't feel. I faked it well.

Then "Ron," the sponsor arrived, he of the light blue VW bug and the offer of sex lessons.

Without even thinking, I ran into the bathroom and vomited. And vomited some more. And more. "I'm sick," I told a friend. I asked her to call my mom to come pick me up. I made sure the materials and the responsibility got handed off to the duly elected Vice Chairman and, as I was being formally installed I answered "no" instead of "yes." And quit the whole operation on the spot.

My mother came and got me. I told her nothing. I was too humiliated. And distraught.

And that was the end of my career as a Teen-Age Republican.

I don't even remember how I explained it to Aunt Elsie but you can bet real money that I went no where near the truth. Are you kidding? My word against his? Not even close, not a chance.


I wonder these days how many stories like this one are re-surfacing for people, who were once young people and sexually harassed and abused by adults they trusted and admired. It all comes back.

To you who remember, peace be with you. Real peace, healing, comfort. It comes. It does. In time.

Meanwhile, it doesn't hurt to vomit again if you need to.

What then shall I buy?

Nothing to buy?


That's what I heard the other day from a woman who was feeling sorry for the top 1% because they have nothing to buy anymore.

Hello?

I am billions away from that demographic but even I have a long list of things to buy. Shampoo. Scallops. More books (well, duh). Oh, and the mortgage.

I have thoughtful, kind and generous friends who live in or close to that top 1% of Americans. This is not about knocking them. This is for the lady who felt so sorry for her peers. Buy turkeys for the Rescue Mission. Buy clothes for the women trying to get back into the job market and need more than sweatsuits to wear to interviews. Buy books for urban libraries. Buy dog food for the animal shelter.

"We have nothing to buy."

I don't quite get how that is an argument against raising her taxes. But it is. Maybe she's worried about the rest of us choosing to use her money to buy turkeys for the Rescue Mission.

In the likely event she gets to keep all her money, there was a yacht for sale in the Nantucket Harbor with her name on it.

KAIA ACCEPTED TO MEDICAL SCHOOL

That's it, all the news that matters. Kaia is accepted, ACCEPTED, to the medical school of the University of Minnesota. First choice, first try, first go 'round.

She SO deserves this!!!!!!! What a wonderful day!

Mom is thinking back to the pre-schooler with her toy stethoscope around her neck, doing exams on Betty and Betsy. And to the stellar science and math student in PIP in grade school. And winning the science fair award with Jenna two years in a row. I'm thinking of how happy her grammar school teachers will be. And how thankful I am to them for teaching my child well.

Kaia has been accepted into med school.

If this is over-the-top, pardon me. But reaching a long time goal is well worth yipping and yowing about!!!

Let the parties begin!

Leaping Greenly Spirits of Trees

i thank thee god for most this amazing day
for everything...


Rosh Hashanah has come to us once more, the day of beginnings, summing up and bringing together our reflections for living more graciously, more freely, more deeply in the new year.

Happy New Year!

What are your new year resolutions? What do you want to do to live more fully?

I always wondered, not being a Jew, why Yom Kippur followed Rosh Hashanah when it seems more logical the two would be reversed. We would confess and then make our new plans. But now I see how it is and I love it.

Today is the day to begin to articulate our goals for the coming year, to walk more, to be kinder, to share more of what I have with others, to not use the "F" word so much, etc. And we are reminded of the freedom to walk into this new future. It is possible.

Then, on Yom Kippur, we gather up our contrition, we confess aloud all we have not done, all we have done that is harmful to others, to the planet, to our culture and the world, and to ourselves. Sounds like a pretty long day for me.

But in this intervening period of about a week, we are also reflecting about the tension between who we are and who we will be. And finding real strategies, articulating measurable, visible ways to bring into life that which we intend. Intentions aren't enough. Action plans are where it's at.

And as a part of the Yom Kippur reflection, we commit ourselves to these new solemn intentions. We will do them. And, frankly, not doing them will bring us back here next year and be a basis for what we must confess, our failings to be what we promised ourselves and the world and the Spirit that is "I AM" we would do and be.

I wish you a meaningful day of reflection, of looking forward, not back. A day and a week of making plans and finding strategies to enact them.

I'm starting with a promise I made earlier. In a few minutes I shall enter the doors of the Art Institute of Chicago, making my way between the majestic lions and up the stairs, and I shall revel in the genius of the painters I most love. The Chagall Windows are back up and have been restored - a fitting image for today - so that's where I'll start. And, likely, be back to complete the day.

Peace be with you in this New Year! Happy Roshanah and may you find joy in the leaping greenly spirits of the trees as they give up that color and become gloriously red and gold. It is the way of nature. It is the way of the world! Be glorious! Show your color!

"Moments of rest, glimpses of laughter are treasured"

Moments of rest, glimpses of laughter are treasured along the road.


"Cursing the quest, courting disaster, measureless nights forbode."


In Dan Fogelberg's song those two lines are reversed. But I am so taken by the gifts of laughter and rest, I have to use that as the title for this post.

I take risks. I drive through blizzards. I get up when I should stay down. I persevere when I should get the hell out of Dodge. So it may not surprise you that I left on this long trip without all of the necessary funds in place. The proverbial check was in the mail. It really was.

But it wasn't. And it isn't. That was not the motivation for staying with people. The people, these very ones, were the motivation for staying with these people, to learn from them more about the gifts of grace and graciousness. These wonderfully gracious hosts and friends were the point and the impetus for the trip.

I did not, however, have arrangements for every night. I wanted it that way. Indecision is the key to flexibility. A lack of planning creates open space.

Flexibility, I've got it! Open space, open indeed.

This is a good thing and a bad thing. I couldn't live with it all the time. But I'm living with it some of the time and it is reminding me of the power of synchronicity -- of recognizing the magical mystical quality in an unexpected moment, a new friendship, chaos. The power of putting two unpredicted people or qualities or moments together and seeing something totally new, absolutely brand new! come to life and grow.

My life has been changed irrevocably already in these two and a half weeks. And not in the ways I might have anticipated. I have cursed the quest: the empty wallet, the skipped meal, spending the night in a Service Plaza/truck stop and my car. And I have courted disaster: driving in Boston! taking all the roads not taken, normally.

What have I learned? It's more fun if you have the money to play mini-golf, or watch the whales, or sleep in a bed (or sofa) every night. But I've also learned that it is survivable to just sit on the bench and watch the golf, to anticipate whale-watching on the next trip, and to become one with my car.

And most important, I've learned that people are kind. Generous. A guy just gave me three quarters yesterday to park in Harvard Square instead of trading me for my times. I left Nantucket with one mongo cinnamon roll to last for days. Friends missed work, drove across town, complicated their own lives in order to enrich mine.

After experiencing great evil, this is no small thing: to learn that people are kind, more than kind, generous. That people will go far out of their way for you. That even though you learned to not be trusting, there are more trustworthy people in the world that you ever dreamed.
When one encounters great mercy, gutsy generosity, and pure grace, one relaxes, leans into life in a more trusting way, gives away more because more is coming in. And then, it is simply inspiring.

Pretty cool.

This is an advanced degree program, if you want to put it that way.

We have to know these stories

Memory is a fickle partner in the keeping of our life's book.

Certain facts can be observed, verified, written down. What time it was. What was said (and that is not always reliable memory). But history messes with us. And we mess with it.

I spent September 11, 2001 in a room that I remember being dark, with a revolving group of sometimes only three, sometimes a crowd of fifteen, two of whom were, I believe, in official uniforms but maybe they weren't and maybe it was three not two. I remember parts of conversation, whole bits at times, and I remember spending time walking around in a fenced back yard trying to comprehend what was going on.

That is a part of the history I remember. But what is more important is not what I remember -- though it is not unimportant either -- but how this history is connected to larger history, ancient history, future history. And what is that?

Stories. Always we are connected by stories. Stories that remind us and join us to other actions, stories that link our lives to those of women and men who paid a similar price or responded in a likewise courageous manner or assessed reality so quickly and with such devastating precision that they, too, could and did act to change history. Stories that teach, inspire, challenge, light a way.

Matthew, if I were your pastor today as I was ten years ago, I would affirm your quickness to link your father's story to that of other heroes who struggled against evil and, in their own way, won. You knew already on that morning what was at stake in your father's death and in the last moments of his life. You know what he did, what he chose.

His life is linked to that of others who, as the poet said, "choose what is difficult, as if it were easy, that is faith."

To choose what is difficult -- as if it were easy -- that is our common test. And our common task.

But our story is not just our own, or Jason's or Mark Bingham's or the others on Flight 93 whose courage inspires us. Their acts are almost, if not entirely without precedent in this country but they are not unprecedented in human history. In fact, one of the waves that washes over all of us is this call to "incalculable" acts of sacrifice and salvation. We are part of a long story of giving and giving it all, and in so doing, saving. It is a rich and deep part of who we are as humans and who we are always being called to be.

"To choose what is difficult, as if it were easy, that is faith."

And so we live on.


(W.H. Auden's poetry)

The top deck is mine!

It was. Nobody else was on the boat.

A family of German tourists who were cold and stayed inside. A honeymooning couple who had the First Class lounge all to themselves. And me. Out on the top deck.

All the way to Nantucket.

And now that I'm here you will have to pry me off the island with a crowbar.

This is the Nantucket I had always hoped for. Rainy day, hydrangeas struggling to stay in bloom, a room of white, all white. And shingles as far as the eye can see. This is the little village of Nantucket. The nature beyond is beyond believing.

Nantucket. One of those places that has been alive in my imagination since childhood. Along with Nova Scotia and Siberia (go figure), this place has had an almost mystical allure. It's not the celebrity or elite qualities but the beauty and the fierce wildness, its collision with the storms of the sea and survival.

A guest at this bed and breakfast called last week to ask, given the hurricane, will the house will be standing? Will it still be all right to come? Jen, the manager, assured him that this house would be here. "It was built in 1725. It has seen a few storms. I think you don't need to worry."


This goofy computer has not been quite as reliable. It seems unkind to dump two weeks of blogs on you all at once so I'll try to find a way to integrate the catching up with the new news. There has been an awful lot of graciousness along this journey. Extravagant hospitality at almost every turn. And it becomes contagious. Even changing me.

Yesterday. Yesterday morning. Not a good time. A selfish, intransigent, unbending, rigid, mean, Cape Cod hotel owner refused to budge on a very reasonable and, to me, expensive, point of contention. He even acknowledged I was right but said it was "against his policy" to compromise. It was one of those moments, "cursing the quest, courting disaster, measureless [days] forbode." I was furious. And more than a little nervous about the financial consequence.

Eventually, he met me half-way. Still unfair so far as I was concerned but given his incongruous threat to call the police --- to do what? --- I decided to take the money and run.

As I did, I found him sweeping up leaves near my car. I rolled down the window and told him, "You do not deserve fairness. And a day will surely come when you will need to depend upon someone being fair, even kind to you. I could wish you all the bad karma you have coming to you after this morning. But instead, I hope you are surprised by grace. I hope you get what you don't deserve: generous, gracious, better than fair kindness. I hope karma comes at you from the blindside and is good to you. I wish you grace." He smiled and had a tear running down his cheek as I drove away. No kidding.

That is not me. My initial notion was to give him one more piece of my mind.

I offered him a bit of my spirit, more gracious thanks to you all, instead and what a difference it made. For both of us. I was free.

I hope he felt free too.

Light, but not lightly

Kindness, compassion, grace may be offered with a light touch but are never tossed off lightly.
It costs. It always costs to give. Perhaps not too much, but cost it does. The phone call in the middle of the night: time to get over to St. Francis Hospital to deliver a baby. There are guests who show up (with warning)on your anniversary, two days before you're leaving for a seventeen day vacation and you still have to get the boat out of the water and take down the dock.

And the response is to give with a light touch, naturally, easily, graciously.

Grace, that's grace. To be so possessed by it oneself that it is simply what you do, graciously share your gifts, your joy, your wisdom with others.

I am so grateful for everything Kathie and Phil taught me about grace this week. They let me help pull the boat out of the water and onto the trailer, a brave move. They trusted me with Molly the golden retriever and Fluffy the bird.

What does grace look like? Salmon without pepper if it's pepper you don't prefer. Candles on the anniversary table. Long hours at the medical practice followed by long hours on the internet searching for pertinent information. Facilitating a hospice group conversation.

It all sounds sort of ordinary. But it isn't. Not ever. Every act of grace is a choice. Every act of grace has an opposite. Grace is a choice.

With a light touch, lots of laughter, and bowls of blueberries, Kathie and Phil choose grace.

What a gift!

Are you a bird?

“Are you a bird?”

Fluff is still as sharp as ever. Fluff is an African Grey Parrot and I remember the day he came home, to his new home anyway, from quarantine. Fluff is from Zaire/Congo. Phil brought Fluff home thirty-seven years ago. That’s a long time to have a pet. And he’s not even to his typical half-way point yet.

Fluff came to live with Phil, Paul, and my then-boyfriend, now husband, Dave. During their years together the guys taught Fluff a number of clever phrases. They also used Fluff to ‘goose’ each other, if a parrot can be said to do such a thing. “Wake up, Paul” was quickly countered by “F you, Phil.” This became a problem. No parent comes to Chicago to visit and likes to be met by a swearing bird. Fluff eventually lost his irregular vocabulary through lack of reinforcement and use.

So I worried that he had forgotten what I taught him, too. After over 25 years of absence, I was thrilled to encounter Fluff again this week. Don’t tell her this but I’d forgotten all about her until she whistled to get my attention. I like being whistled at. Even if it takes a bird to do it.

“Are you a bird?” Funny thing: I say this all the time, “are you a bird?” It is rarely germane to the conversation at hand but that doesn’t stop me. I say it in Fluff’s voice, “Are you a bird?” So the big test. Would Fluff remember it. Phil said it had been years since they tried it. Fluff has a clear identity of his own; he is excellent at telling us, “I’m a bird,” and he also knows that “birds can’t talk.” He says so.

The moment of truth. The Cheerio box was rattled, the treat in my fingers. “Are you a bird?” I asked Fluff.

“Are you a bird?” he asked me back.

Yes. Of course. “I’m a bird.”

Okay, this is confusing!

You're confused? I lived these vignettes in a different order. Let me explain.


Several posts on one day, August 25 I believe it is, Phil and Kathie's 32nd wedding anniversary, by the way. It was the only time in my life I saw my husband without his beard. Anyway, I digress, already.


The Odyssey.

Roughly 6500 miles it looks to be. Homer couldn't touch that.

An odyssey of, oh, about a month, out visiting friends, family and the folks from whom I am certain I will learn something more about grace. It is time.

The series of posts I put up today start from one about five or six entries back. The last is first. I posted several all at once and the first one of the series (go to Older Entries) is titled, "I'm on the hunt." Wild horses are involved. Did this just make any sense?

Find "I'm on the hunt!" by clicking on Older Posts until you find it. And then read forward in order until you get back here. And we'll all be caught up.

It's all about being gracious. And I look forward to finding out more of what it means, how it looks, what it feels like - to give and receive.

For now I know this, grace is a perfect waffle, an extravagant act of forgiveness, a hug from the server who brought your breakfast, lingonberries, drivers who let other drivers merge, over-tipping for a small meal. I wonder what else is out there?

"Just lovin' on ya, Jan"

The Entrance of the Queen of Sheba was playing as I walked through Betty's daughter-in-law's door. Seriously, you would have thought so.

Have I ever felt so welcome, anywhere? So loved? So appreciated? And for why?

'Cuz I was me.

No reason.

Big reason.

Betty Shadle has a wonderfully loving family that cares for her now that she is in skilled care with Parkinsonian Syndrome. Jack is, well, let's put it this way, "Let me at 'em." He is also very funny, whether droll or hahaha. Jack, Junior, is, well, very smart and strong and yet very tender when it comes to the things that matter in life. If you want an intelligent discussion with someone with whom you are going to disagree, talk to Jack.

And Ann. Ann is God's work, our hands. She not only does it, she embodies it in spirit and action. Talk about faith active in love. And grace. And grace. And more more grace.

Their gracious care for me, on the first leg of this 6,500 mile odyssey, was abundant and free.

In Texas parlance, or Ann's anyway, they just loved on me like I was the queen herself. Better, no stiffness, no protocols, no coy discretion. Just grace. Acceptance. Affirmation. The gifts of kindness and extravagance.

Quite frankly, it was their gracious reception that inspired not just an odyssey but an odyssey of grace. Grace. I had no idea how needy I was for it. Again. And how completely they cared for me.

I decided, hey, if you want to know something, go to the masters.

Hence, this odyssey (Okay, I'm just ripping off Homer but I do love the story, and a poem about it I'll post here soon) to the masters.

Not everyone who is a master of graciousness can be visited by one soul in one Subaru in one month. So if I don't show up, it's not because I don't find you to be a tremendous example of grace. If you read this, odds are, I already do.

But if I do show up, know this. It is because you are a gracious sign of mercy and kindness and love in this world. And I want to watch, just for a little bit. Just to see you in action. Not toward me, but in everyday life. I want to apprentice myself to you for a day or so and learn.

How to be grace. How to be gracious. Thank you in advance for all I will receive. I hope you get something from me, too. I intend that, pray I deliver.

The memo for moms

The memo for moms. Whatever it says, my mom didn't get it.

Not in time for me.

Sadly, my family home was a nutty mess. You don't need the details. There are enough of them that if you can't picture it from your own, a neighbor or friend's experience, you've seen them on TV.

I got lost in my family's house. Not that it was terribly big but there didn't seem to be a place for me and my parents did not see me. They didn't know me, or want to. My loneliness was of proportions far beyond what we may think young children are capable of. My despair was desperation. Did you know seven, eight, nine year old children contemplate suicide? I did.

Then Betty found me. Somebody found me. A human being, an adult who cared, who SAW me, who listened and laughed and took me seriously. A person to whom I could bring my questions and observations and opinions (lots of those) about life.

To her mind, she simply stood at her door and talked to me for an hour.

To my mind, she saved my life.

When I was ready to give up. She saw me. And cared.

She told me last week that it had "worried me terribly what I did to save your life."

"Worry?" I asked.

"Yes, I worried, after you wrote a few years ago and told me I saved you I wondered and worried what on earth it could have been that you needed saving from, and what was going on. I was terribly worried about you."

Not without reason. Bless her heart, she worried about me. Had anyone ever really said that to me before? Really. Had I ever heard it?

So I told her what I don't need to tell you. And she understood. And she was grateful herself for all the hours --- one a day --- she spent standing in that hot sunny doorway of hers, with the powder blue carpet underfoot, simply listening to me being human. She saw me. And heard me to speech.

She listened, as Lily Tomlin wrote, "with the same intensity most people reserve for speaking."

And so I survived.

Getting going

This started in Texas.

I have been meaning to go and visit Betty Shadle for years. And just now I finally got to it. From Denver to Longview, Texas.

I wasn't sure if I needed, or would need by the time I left to go home, a passport but I brought all the Texas-looking paraphenalia I could muster --- my cowboy boots, jean jackets, stick horse (okay, no stick horse), and I wore my cowboy hat practically to bed the nights I was out on the road traveling.

The New York University and Macalester decals on the back window of the car made me nervous. I didn't want to stick out. So I took my dirty Subaru through a few fields, got some straw sticking out under the doors and hoped for the best.

Well. Was I a goof nut or what. Every person I met looked me square in the eye with a gracious gleam and gave me welcome.

I LOVED Texas. I loved my visit with Betty, I expected that. What I was not expecting was loving Texas, loving Texans. Okay, so there are some places I did not go that might not have been so friendly but driving across practically the entire state, grace. Just grace.

And then, Betty. Betty is a story unto herself. And so is her remarkable, wonderful family.

For here, for now. Let's just saw that if one didn't know the gifts of grace before, one would after.

What they gave me: sheer grace. All of it.

I am on the hunt!

A journey of a single ice-blue Subaru headed out on an odyssey searching for signs of grace begins with --- a detour. Or two, or three. And road work. Lots of road work. And a herd of wild horses.

Now, that is grace! Right there. Right at the start. Stopped for road construction, the wild horses are right out my window. A couple of dozen beautiful horses nipping and sipping from the pond, chewing grass, posing for pictures. A gleaming palomino, the horse of my dreams was alive before my very much alive and watchful eyes. A gift of grace, those horses.

And so the day continued. Little bits of grace, like this one: a "hey, no problem! We're good! Really, it's okay, we're good!" response from the gas station manager when I -- for the first time in my life -- pulled away from the pump with the hose and nozzle still very much attached and in my car. "No biggie. We're good."

I envisioned my odyssey ending right there in tiny town Kansas. But no. Grace.

It is time for grace. It is time for gracious signs that the universe is full of good.

And it is time for me to experience grace, and gracious acts of welcome and kindness, most especially from myself.

I am on an odyssey that currently looks to last through September and take me roughly 6500 miles across the U.S. From Colorado to Connecticut, the coast of Maine, and back. Up and down, over and around. Searching for, finding, being delighted by grace.

In this process of healing and redemption from injury I've pushed and challenged myself. My motto is "The lines are there to be hit," and "Lean forward," all intent on urging me on.

What I realized was missing was grace. Gracious care for myself. The reminder that I am more than I was reduced to. That I am still a part of all I have been, have seen and experienced and loved. That I am still part of what I accomplished. That the strong, worthwhile, and, yes, even gracious person I have been is not gone, just was MIA awhile.

So, the next thirty days or so will be about this odyssey of grace. And I would love it if you would respond by telling us about your experiences of grace and graciousness too!

A herd of wild horses couldn't stop me.

Palm Tree in Poland: An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, and an Irishman...

Palm Tree in Poland: An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, and an Irishman...: "An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Egyptian, a Pakistani, an Irishman and a Syrian walked into a bar ... and it was just another normal..."

An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, and an Irishman walked into bar...

An Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Egyptian, a Pakistani, an Irishman and a Syrian walked into a bar...

and it was just another normal, hilarious night at the bar.

My favorite scenes from Aspen this summer so far (and I'm betting they won't be beat) are the ones described above.

I will never forget. Never. I saw the future. Dare I believe it? I do.

Oh, and American or two. Given everything, we're the toughest ones to add into the mix. Odd, isn't it. Ironic. Given our view of ourselves, and our views of the world.

True confession: I am a bleeding heart liberal, if by that you mean a sentimental idealist who believes all things are possible EVEN given the complexity of human personalities and global politics.

My sentiments have been sorely tested. By all the usual things we could tick off right now. And also, sadly, by friends who give up on friendship or choose not to be bothered by those who are too different than themselves. It's a tough world out there. Wear a helmet.

But. Still in all. I saw it with my own eyes. Now, to be clear, it was only a small group. And an elite one at that. I did not see just any old Israeli, or Iranian, or Afghan, or Irishman, or American walk into a bar, I saw particular ones with a particular slant on things. A slant that says "yes" to being open, who says "yes" to listening, to speaking carefully, to being generous in their assessments and looks with new eyes at the habitation of his or her neighbors. And their needs.

I saw it. And it was the most beautiful sight in the world. The laughter, the silence as everyone thoughtfully considered another's idea, the more laughter, and more laughter. The eyes that looked carefully into another's. The ears that in some cases were rather larger than others but that mattered not at all, only what those ears did was important. And mouths that smiled big and long and crazily and lovingly, or kindly.
It was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen. After that I decided I'd skip my usual trek up to the Maroon Bells and then to Ashcroft. I'd seen it all.

Last night I saw and heard and felt the opposite. At my favorite bookstore. Pro-Israeli Jews insisting "there are no good Arabs," "there is no such thing as a moderate Muslim." When asked about Arabs in general, the speaker could only make reference to terrorism, nothing else. When asked if a positive Arab character could appear in one of the author's books, as a collaborator on a project with his clearly Israeli protagonist, he laughed at me. "No!" When asked if he could write a scene in which Arabs and Jews were depicted in one of their many cooperative, peace-making ventures he laughed again. I thought I might need a body guard. Daggers. The rest of the audience shot daggers with their eyes. Not quite the picture I was going for. Or expected, frankly, in this relatively well-educated community. Who knew.

As I reported in my last blog post, I walked out of my local indie book store and blah blah blah... whatever it was.

Last night I walked out of my local indie book store. Period.

I'm not sure when I'll go back.

I would much rather gather up an Israeli, an Iranian, an Afghan, an Irishman, an Egyptian, a Syrian and an American and walk into a bar.
There would be sisterhood and brotherhood and a lot of laughter.

Of course, we could meet up at the Tattered Cover. I just hope Gabriel Allon won't be around.

Salaam. Shalom. Paz. Peace.

On the Borders

Now what?

Amazon.

I walked out of my local indie bookstore tonight, The Tattered Cover, after learning that a book a wanted was long out of print, and thought, I'll check Amazon.

Amazon. It is a great resource for occasions like mine. And, I confess, I'll order a bucket of used books from time to time when I simply cannot afford the list price, or, more likely, when the books I want are indeed old and out of print. And of course, it is convenient. It's a great place for folks who live nowhere near a bookstore.

And it sure beats the heck out of counting on Costco to tell us what is worth reading.

But that's the point, the problem, as stores with actual books with actual covers and jackets and pages with words close. One doomsayer claimed today, "The bricks and mortar bookstore is dead."

Over my tattered body.

This is what I can do at The Tattered Cover -- our Indie bookstore -- that I cannot do at Amazon.

1. Chat with the friendly staff about everything from books to sunsets.

2. Ask for advice about which translation of Chekhov is most authentic.

3. Watch little kids play with pop-up books and make their own choices.

4. Drink cappuccino.

5. Sit in an overstuffed chair and read from seven different books that I'm considering purchasing. There are no missing pages, and holding the book in my hand makes me feel connected in an odd way to the author.

6.My daughter and I browsed together for a bit and picked up books that intrigued us and discussed recommendations we'd heard. We would not be browsing on Amazon together.

7. I discovered a used copy of one of my favorites for $3 and no shipping fee.

8. I picked up and considered books I'd never heard of and would not likely be directed toward even though I have an extensive Amazon "like this" list. I bought one. The store itself is educational -- pointing out ideas via book titles and the books themselves.

9. I ran into a friend.

10. We walked out to another spectacular view of the mountains and a gorgeous sunset.


When I order a book they don't have in stock, it arrives within a few days, often the next day, and I don't pay a cent for shipping.

When I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for, I wander around actual floors filled with shelves holding actual books and I pick them up and read the jacket covers or the backs, and I have an entire array of books in front of me to consider.

The store does the work for me when I am in a fog.

It sells used books for practically nothing.

It gives me a wonderful place to sit and write with friends. And to talk with other writers about our work. And to sit in comfy overstuffed chairs and peruse magazines, books, and eat scones.


There are lots of good features about online bookselling. It is here to stay. And there are lots of good features about e-books. They're not going away either -- not until the next generation replaces them.

But,like movie theatres when VCR's and DVD's came out and we all shouted doom to the places with popcorn and Twizzlers and JuJuBee's, life wil change. Our options will increase. And, I bet you a pile of books, of whichever variety you wish, 'real' bookstores will not go away for good.

Amazon has not ever, not once, given me a comfy chair in which to sit and drink a cappuccino and chat with Christie.

And heaven forfend the day that the only books we have to buy are those Walmart has decided we'd like to read. Can you even imagine?

Storming the Bastille

da da da dum dum dum dum dah de dum ta dum dum do dum dee dee dum


Oh to be young and whimsical again. Why have we stopped doing this? Dang.

Bastille Day. Precisely at six o'clock a.m. our radio would wake us -- loudly -- to La Marseillaise. Talk about a wake up call!

We'd sit right up, and salute, right there in bed.


"Allons enfants de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrive!

Come! Our day of glory has arrived!"


Those days of glory are always also days of blood.
Of death.
Risk.
Sacrifice.

One need only remember Les Miserables to be clear on this.

There are no days of glory without days of sacrifice and risk.

Lest these pages seem morose and bleak,let's remember the essential:

There are days of glory that follow those days of sacrifice, risk, and even blood.

* * *

Fourteen years ago today, July 14, 1997, was a Sunday. I have no memory of what we Erickson-Pearson's were doing, oblivious.

My brother Jim, fifteen miles away, was almost beaten to death with a brick. He escaped and ran down the street out of his house to summon help. The stains of dark red blood on his white shirt and shorts haunt my memory to this day.

The next several weeks were frightening for all of us, as his assailant threatened to finish the job and even harm others most precious to him.

I confess, I feared for my brother's life constantly. And for my children. Constant vigilance. It was exhausting. And excruciating. It continued to be a threat for several months. Tragically, the man who attempted to kill my brother succeeded at killing himself on Thanksgiving.


"Out of the rot and the ruin come the rumors of resurrection,"
and not only rumors.

Jim is more alive and more healthy today that he was for many years even before the attack. He is claiming the gifts of life every day.

Of course, it doesn't come quickly. There is no Oprah magic to this healing process. We want it to come on our terms. Quickly. And those around us want us to heal up fast. Move on.

It does not work that way. We each have our own narrative. And our own histories that factor into our new experiences. You can imagine that my trauma was made even worse after having gone through this experience alongside my brother. Trauma piled on top of another. And likewise mine triggered his "stuff," a few years later.

Jim can celebrate his recovery, ever vigilant, and today is a very significant day for us, one we remember with somber sadness and with deep gratitude for the gift of Jim's life, flowing freely and lively along with us, as he says, in the flow of the circles of life. It is a beautiful thing to behold! Life!


Storming the Bastille involves going up against abuse and structural violence. It feels like glory for about half an hour before dawn. Then it gets ugly. But eventually, France was free, and so are we.

I got new ears!

My ears are new.

Who knew?

My ears are hearing differently.

Very simple: last night when Jay Leno was making fun of Iran and then said, given the lack of laughter in response to the joke, "I guess there are a lot of Iranians here tonight," I heard something I hadn't noticed before.

His words hit me as all wrong. Offensive. Making fun of my friends.

My Iranian friends. And, while I'm at it, I hear Iran differently now too. The name. I notice when it is mispronounced, I -ran.

I'd like to respect my friends and say it right, Ir-ron. That's not so hard.

Lots of words on this blog lately about speaking out. Betty Ford, spunky ladies, brave courageous women and men speaking the truth. Words. Using one's voice. Speaking for others.

But listening ranks right up there. Higher, maybe. I want to use my ears too. To hear truth, to hear the stories of those we ignore. And to hear with ears that are sympathetic to the concerns, hopes, and ideas of others, especially, for example, Iranians. My ears pick up the static now. And the put-downs.

To be honest, it would be good, to my mind, if lots of people got new ears. I think they're available. For free.


And, as a tribute to the spectacular friendship I experienced today, from someone who had no need to care about me, but did, I offer these wise words of Emily Dickinson,

"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain: If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain."-Emily Dickinson

Given in a card by the Betty Ford family to all those who made the pilgrimage to pay our respects to the church where she was in repose. (shared from my brother, Jim)


I am one cool robin back in the safety of the nest again.

Pass it on.

"Hello, My name is Betty and I'm an alcoholic"

"Hello, my name is Betty and I'm an alcoholic."


Courage. Honesty. Kindness. Spunk. Determination. Speech.

Betty Ford made it okay to talk about the untalkable. To speak about the unmentionable.

First, it was breast cancer. Women in my mother's generation felt shame at a cancer diagnosis. It was whispered but not spoken aloud. Not only breast cancer but any cancer, the name that shall not be spoken.

No more. No more. No more.

Betty spoke and all of us began to. Be honest. Speak out.


Addiction. An abyss from which there was almost no relief, no cure, no recovery.

We joke about celebrities checking into the Betty Ford Center. It is no joke. I know people whose lives were literally saved at the Betty Ford Center. Scared, broken, lonely.

Renewal, recovery, the rooms, meetings, group, healing, confidence, new life.

Can you even imagine a nation without the influence of these institutions, these words, these inspirations?

People ask me why I blather here about my injury, my experience. Why I write about the abuse of power, about the scourge of clergy sexual abuse.

I take power and confidence and inspiration from Betty, from women like Betty who dare to speak truth, the unmentionable, the damnable.

She changed the world. She changed the world. She changed the world.

This is not to idolize a woman, but to pay respect and to be clear that some of us spunky, uppity, courageous women are not going to stop speaking the truth. However inconvenient. It's gonna keep coming.

About all manner of important, unmentionable but essential issues.

Bless you, Betty. And thank you. For everything.

Memories, dreams, reflections: "Don't challenge the USA on July 10"

Memories, dreams, and reflections

Our hearts were so full, our minds on fire.

Kaia was the world's number one US Women's World Cup Soccer Fan. She knew all the players' statistics, their backgrounds, their strong points. She was one of the thousands of little girls who looked up to these young women and counted the hours until her own next soccer practice and the next televised game. She was good. Had a strong leg, a mean mid-field boot. She could score from there, and was a master at corner kicks.

Kaia and Annika both wore their autographed World Cup tee-shirts. They'd met Mia Hamm and Kristine Lilley and I forget who all else.The girls had watched the US Team practice at a field close to our house, fell in love with the whole phenomenon.

We'd gone to the teams' hotel, also nearby, collected more autographs, met Swedish and Brazilian players as they headed out to the bus; Annika -- at age 6 -- was interviewed on Brazilian TV. Marta impressed us then.

Dave and Kaia were at Soldier Field in Chicago when the US played a penultimate game. We scheduled our lives around tournament matches. We did not miss even part of one. There is still a special box of memorabilia -- programs, tickets, autographs, noise-makers, souvenir mini-balls -- in Kaia's closet. Her passion and joy were so infectious it could not help but capture and move us all.


July 10, 1999. The Finals. The Rose Bowl, Pasadena California. 90,000 in the crowd in Pasadena, millions of us completely enthralled at home. Even I remember all the names of all the starting players. We had finger foods to munch on while we watched in the family room but none of us could manage a bite. Too much excitement, tension, uncertainty. Each one of us had our spot. And I don't think we moved so much as a finger. The telephone went unanswered. A thief could have driven off in the car. We were there. In the zone. All in. Just the four of us. No distractions.

The game itself was a thrill, tight, tense. China seemed to have our number. Kaia was curled around a commemorative soccer ball of her own. Annika had her game face on.

Dave and I had our own reason for sweating bullets. We were as eager as anyone to see the US win. And, as parents, we couldn't imagine the heart and soul our daughters were pouring into this and their heartbreak if the US lost.

But we were down to the wire on another front. Today was T-Day. The day we had put off and off. The day we finally had to Tell the girls we were likely moving to Littleton. Kaia with her best friend, Jenna, would be crushed. She had such a wonderful, full life in Naperville. It was wrenching, awful to think of pulling her away from friends, her soccer team, her special school programs, church, piano lessons, oh, STOP! Jan. Really. I can go downhill fast when I think along that line. I felt guilty as all hell.

But moving felt right, overall. Annika seemed more flexible, I wasn't as worried about her transition as I should have been. Annika would be in 2nd grade that fall, Kaia in 6th. Oh, the whole thing felt unreal.

Today, that day, July 10, 1999, however, was the day we HAD to tell them. We were all making a trial, audition trip to Denver in two weeks. They needed time to get their heads around the idea and we had to make specific plans. So Dave and I had an extra reason for hoping and praying the US would win. A loss and bad news, both on the same day would be really bad news. We had our hearts in our throats. Or whatever it is we say about those moments. Sweating bullets seems to cover it.

And the US won. In the most dramatic way possible. The ecstasy. The whooping and hollering we let go on and on and on and on.

Then, later in the day, we told them. They were more sanguine than I expected. We talked about the details.


Today, July 10, 2011. We watched another miracle finish by the US. There is no big news looming. Kaia has graduated from college and is living in a lovely house in Minneapolis. She even had her grandparents over for lunch today. Annika is visiting her and the two girls are doing well. They watched the game together with Grandma and Grandpa and life goes on.

Moving to Littleton was a good thing and a bad thing for them, for us all. It took me a longer time than anyone else to get used to all the change. And then I got whomped. Who ever could have foreseen, or even imagined that? No Hollywood screenwriter would have accepted the script; too over the top.

In truth, it is a painful memory for me. All that followed. Too much pain, too much hate. Too many encounters with evil. As much as we protected the girls, it has had an impact on them both. But they are doing well. And they learned more than we ever bargained.

Despite Oprah's insistence on "moving on" and catharsis and just getting on with your life, the centuries before her wisdom hit the small screen suggest to us that there is a time for letting go, AND a time for holding. A time to laugh and a time to cry, a time to get over it and a time to linger with the grief long enough to learn its lessons.

My body woke up grieving today before my mind even had a clue what for. It took hours and an explicit reminder before my heart and mind caught up with my emotions and my guts. "Oh, that day." Some bodies have a mind of their own. Mine does. It told me to take time, for the memories, the dreams, and the reflections.

Nothing can excuse hateful, evil actions. It takes time to absorb the blows. But now, here we are. Not immobilized anymore. Not overcome by grief. But mindful, reflective. Sober. And, having counted the cost, all in all, grateful to still be here.

And ready for a nap. I'll go conquer the world tomorrow. You can be on duty today.

Palm Tree in Poland: Land of the Titans

Palm Tree in Poland: Land of the Titans

Land of the Titans

"Lift off


Titan Road begins just three miles from our house. Our neighborhood and the ones surrounding it are filled with engineers and project managers, inventors and technicians who work at Lockheed and, for the past decade or two have been at work to send space shuttles into space, create deep space vehicles (Mars), and prepare the Orion space capsule for eventual use to carry humans into deep space.

There is a bitter sweet feeling all around this morning. Pride in work well done and remarkable accomplishment. Concern for the future of a mission they believe in and, frankly, for their own jobs. Will we see more For Sale signs soon?

Consider me naive. Dumb, head in the ground naive. During the entire period of time that these same Titan missiles were developed and built a few miles away and being prepared to carry unfathomable nuclear destruction across the globe, when another generation was immersed in the Cold War mission of annihilation -- or Mutually Assured Destruction, as the official policy was called, or MAD -- I spent dozens of weekends here in Littleton and had no clue.

In the 1950's, the Martin Company of Baltimore, sent a man I met and really liked, a spunky soul, to find property in these foothills for a plant at which to create the Cold War hardware. Especially the Titan missiles. He nailed it. A perfect site so out of sight, tucked in behind the hogback in a pristine valley, before suburban sprawl encroached, that many of us had no idea it was here. You heard about Rocky Flats and their production of plutonium triggers but not as much about The Martin Company. Then it became Martin Marietta and word spread, and then eventually Lockheed and now we all see its signage as we drive past to favorite hiking spots.

The incongruity of the world. We don't, we can't separate danger zones, dare I say immoral zones from the rest of life. It is all mixed up together.

I had no idea Martin was nearby, no idea that Littleton was the source of the ICBM's I protested long and loud in the late 60's and 70's and 80's. Consider me naive. My cousins lived here. What I knew about Littleton then was Barbie dolls in their spacious basement, a model train set created by my cousin Bert, the Rexall Drug in the shopette on Orchard near University, and racing popsicle sticks down rain swollen gutters in front of my cousins' house.

I had no idea that their neighbors were living in homes built on paychecks that came from destructive creativity. Or that the church I would eventually come back to serve was full of men who made their living planning for the killing of millions on the other side of the world.

My uncle had no such job so I was oblivious to it all. Perhaps my cousins were too. But I've often wondered about what it does, did, to one's soul to spend all of one's creative energy on the minutiae of death. Delivery systems, guidance systems, triggers, all of it perfected in those years of the "hot" Cold War.

The shuttle is the happier outcome of their labors, and the Mars Lander, the Mars Rover, and other reaches into deep space. The generation at work now has had a much more constructive mission. I only imagine they sleep better at night.

Take all the lost home

Take All the Lost Home


One of these days I'll become proficient enough at this techie business to know how to link the song to this post: "Take All the Lost Home by Joe Wise


Why do I do this?

Blog. Write what and as I do?

At the recent Aspen Writers' Conference we talked of the variety of reasons for tweeting, blogging, and using other social media. It was easy for me to articulate my purpose. Let me say it again here.

You. You. You, any, all of you who have become victimized by the abuse of power.

Clergy sexual abuse is the particular area of my expertise. I have not myself experienced it but I speak at the request of, and on behalf of many who have known this shredding of their soul. I encountered those victimized over a period of fifteen years, directly, and realized in the meanwhile that I'd known victims of clergy sexual abuse all my life.

It is hidden. It is misunderstood. In Protestant, or non-Catholic churches, where most of the abuse occurs between a male pastor and an adult female parishioner, it is often 'simply' thought of as an affair. Women are most generally blamed. Pastors are viewed as the victims, seduced by the 'wiles' of manipulative, needy women.

Not true. Not true. Volumes of data, rooms of statistical evidence, acres of women could stand together and bear witness to the truth. They were manipulated. They were used. And then cast off. Blamed. Ignored. Thrown away.

"All the perpetrators ask of us is silence," says Judith Herman in "Trauma and Recovery."

I will not be silent.

These women and men, children and teens rarely get a voice. They get lost from our midst, frankly, by our own decision. We don't want them among us as a reminder of what, at some deep place, we know to be true. Or could be true. And so they are lost. From us. From the church. From their faith. From the joy of life.

My mission is expressed by Joe Wise in his beautiful simple song, "Take All the Lost Home." I won't be able to find all who are lost but I will be here, "a voice of the living God, calling them all to live," and calling the rest of us to repent. To welcome, to love, to care, to embrace.

"Their faces are grey 'til you call."

I speak of my own experiences as a victim of a different kind of abuse of power for one reason: what happened to me occurred to shut me up. It is not my own pain I express most deeply. It is yours, it is theirs. I speak not for myself but because I am called to use what voice I have to tell the truth of abusive power, to be a voice for the silenced, and to do whatever I can to reach out with strength and empowerment to those who are shattered and lost.

More of this to follow in the days following.

Meanwhile, will you be a partner, to take all the lost home?

Chaos, in theory

I don't recommend getting hit in the head but it worked for me.

Seriously. That's how the light got in.

Don't bother looking up Clary, Colorado. I invented it, but not its view: a sweep of Rocky Mountains from Long's Peak to Pikes Peak, a good hundred miles. It's that long view, the big sky, and a hot winter sun that keeps me rooted.

I'm writing about Chaos, in Theory. It is about getting hit in the head and having your perfect offering broken in bits and then, crack, that's how the light gets in. (Thank you Leonard Cohen!)

I hope you find here some crackpot notions that stimulate your own thinking and your gracious, creative response to the world's chaos. Chaos is great, in theory. Living with it, not so much. Let's talk about how to be creative, gracious and constructive humans. Old-timers will see how this blog has morphed. Even as that funky palm tree in Poland still makes me smile, there is more weird and significant stuff to talk about. More places to embrace the chaos and let it teach us. So. Welcome to the even more new and cracked open Palm Tree in Poland.

Butterflies and kittens:Lost in Bubbles

Lost in bubbles.

Don't try this at home. Not unless you happen to have a bath tub that is completely surrounded on three sides up to a height of about six feet.

Pour in a bottle of one of Victoria's Secret bubble bath. The entire bottle. And an ample supply of bath water. It's more fun if you are already in the tub as the cocoon develops. Allow bubbles to billow up as high and as full as possible.

You will become lost in bubbles. And it is pure delight. Lean back on a pillow and soak. And stay.

Lost in bubbles.

Of course, you can get lost in other bubbles.

Less worthy, not the least bit honorable. But even more tempting.

I torture myself periodically by reading the news from my old church. For the longest time they hadn't managed to join the modern era and have an actual web site with actual information on it. But now they do. And oh, my goodness, what a bubble.

I'm telling you, they are pooping butterflies and, like Dairy Queen, they not only blow bubbles, they blow bubbles with kittens inside (I actually find that rather creepy). It is peaches and marmalade. They are burping bunnies and farting feathers. What a place! Everything is wonderful!

Now. It might be viewed as churlish on my part to be disdainful of their delightfulness. It might be viewed as mean and short-sighted of me to not rejoice in their good works. A wet blanket. To be sure, it is wonderful whenever, and for whatever reason, people care for the poor and the refugees and the homeless and the sick and those in prison. It is impressive and blessed work. So of course, it's great to see all of these important ministries.

They write to each other about how wonderful and kind and caring they are, in thank you notes, for example. 'We are amazing, we are remarkable.'

And, one could add, "we are living in a bubble."

Judith Herman, whose book, Trauma and Recovery, is the seminal book about the topic, writes that all perpetrators require of the rest of us is silence. Silence.

As long as there is a tacit or explicit promise to say nothing about abuse and wrong, the bubble is sustained, billows up and grows.

One parish living in a bubble. A minority among them who felt a decade ago that they still depended upon silence, hated and attacked me because I made no such promise. I made no declaration to 'out' their secrets and blab either. But lacking a promise of silence, they put a target on my back. And shot.

Churchhill is famously known for exulting that "there is nothing more exhilarating than being shot at. And missed." (He wasn't the first to say it and I suspect he borrowed it from someone who was not actually shot at, either.) Because it is not exhilarating to be shot at. It is devastating. It is terrible.

It is traumatic. And, as I was reminded again today, again, again: trauma changes your brain.

The same people who are blasting rainbows out their ears today tried to kill me nine years ago. Because they were afraid. Of truth. Of a word. Of the unknown.

Jesus said, "you will know the truth and the truth will make you free."

Agreed. Just watch your back if you're the one called upon to announce it.

"Sail Away, Sail Away, Sail Away"

Sail away, sail away, sail away...


And so ended the memorial service for Ty. I cherished the vision of him sailing on his way to a place free from suffering, wasting away, being drawn away from us on a quiet tide. Sail away, sail away, sail away. I hear it now in my heart and my head and it brings tears, as the song always does.


Thirty years ago this week five men were identified as "patient zero's" -- two of them had already died -- men suffering with a mysterious kind of pneumonia and others with an unusual cancer, origin unknown.

Thirty years. 1981. Young men were dying. Thirty years of grief and loss. I'm not even going to write about numbers of deaths, there are too too many. Young wonderful vital creative and loving men who were dentists and chefs and neuro-scientists and musicians and playwrights and football players and salesmen and physicians and engineers. They were sons and brothers and lovers and fathers and uncles and husbands.

And nothing they did made them deserve the excruciating deaths. Or their sickness.

Because of where I lived at the time and with whom I hung out, the nature of the church congregation I served, our location in the midst of the epidemic, and our choice to host support groups and information sessions my primary association with AIDS and HIV was with gay men.

Too many hospital visits - but they were better than the home visits only because by the time my friends were at home they were in a basically hospice, palliative mode, near death. It was a terrible death. Terrible.

And they are gone. Gone.

But we remember. We remember. We remember Ty, and Dan, and so many more.

And we remember their loving families. Frank and Elise and Mary and Colleen epitomize the extravagance of love that was given to brothers, uncles, sons as they died. They enacted the story of the woman who lavished her love, her perfume oil on Jesus as she washed his feet. I remember being there as Frank cared for his brother and feeling I was as near to the presence of God as I'd ever been. This was the heart of God.

So, blessedly washed, oiled, and dearly loved, Ty and too many of his peers sailed away from us to a far shore where, one so wants to believe, their bodies are free from sores and scars and lungs filled with fluid and painful, ugly lesions, from disease and hurt and isolating existential loneliness.

May they all be one, gathered together at feasts of abundance (think of the food!) and spectacular music and excellent wine, and at peace.

And may all who live with grief know how much they mattered, how they too are remembered for their lavish gifts of love upon their loved ones.

We live with loss. But we can remember. And be grateful for the time we had. The lives we shared.

What makes it last?

R E S P E C T

Dave and I are celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary and Barack Obama has just completed his first visit to Warsaw.

Tell me, how am I going to weave those two topics together?

Respect. Laughter. Intense interest. Listening. Kindness. Humility.

How do you sustain a relationship for 35 years that begins when two young adults, one of them barely 21 and a day away from her college graduation, take a big gulp and jump half-blind, mostly-blind, into a lifelong commitment?

How do you sustain a geopolitical partnership over long years when two parties, one with presumption and comfort with power and the other with a terminal inferiority complex that is masked by the pride of occasional churlish grandiosity, are thrown together to make common cause of causes that are only vaguely understood and agreed upon?

What in the heck did that mean? United States, still the superpower. Poland, still struggling to find its voice and its place in the modern configuration of power. Polish history has caused Poles to call themselves, without a shred of irony, "the suffering Christ" of Europe, devastated again and again, scapegoated and wiped so far off the map that we forget all about their brave and noble history.

Once more this week a significant step was taken, only coincidental with Obama's visit. Once again, the point was made emphatic: there were no Polish death camps. No Polish Concentration Camps. They were Nazi camps. They were established, controlled and determined by Nazi policies, personnel and ideology. Poles suffered along with Jews in those camps and were killed in almost equal numbers during World War II. Poles carry an inferiority complex from this and other misunderstandings and humiliations over long years of European history.

At the same time, Poles are rightly proud of their early establishment of universities and their wide access to education for all, their Constitution, the first democratic Constitution in Europe, following the U.S. Constitution by only a few years. They are rightly proud of their resilience and cunning and heroics. And, as you've read here before, they are justly proud of their Solidarity Trade Union Movement and their Pope, John Paul II, who together were as responsible for the withering away of communism than any other factor and far more than the last dramatic act that gets all the attention, in Berlin. They brought down the Berlin wall.

Now Obama shows up. And this noxious mix of traits within the Polish personna pops up. For the most part, it wsa productive meeting. Obama had no big toys to drop in their lap. He came to 'make nice,' if you will, to confirm the intentions for future collaboration. He was courting. He was respectful, he was kind: The ingrediants required for any long-term relationship. He made some concrete offers, meaningful offers and promises. But he did not tell the Poles they were the center of the universe. And one often gets the impression that that is exactly where they believe they deserve to be.

How to sustain a long relationship? Respect. Kindness. Humility. Intense interest and earnest listening. On both sides. And laughter.

I'm not sure the Poles could relax quite enough to engage Obama at that level. And, given the history of recent times, I'm sure the President was walking on egg shells. And then, of course, there was the ever churlish and, frankly, tiresome, Lech Walesa. Walesa snubbed Obama. Went to Italy and declined their meeting. The speculation runs that he was angry that it was not to be a private -- messiah to messiah -- meeting but only one that would include other leading Polish anti-communist activists and leaders.

So of course the big world headline, no, there is no big world headline --- you were hard-pressed to even find mention in the Times, the Post, of Obama's visit to Wawsaw --- but such as it was reported, it was reported that the big news was Walesa's churlish (my word) behavior. Too bad.

Because, there was a spirit of respect and kindness, there was as much good feeling as one could hope for between President Obama and the Polish leadership. There is a promise of future collaboration and growing respect. If Obama was there you know there was laughter, and he is a good listener.

Respect. Humility. Kindness. Listening, Intense interest. Laughter.

I am blessed to have enjoyed 35 years of partnership with a man who took me as I was -- talk about your leap of faith! -- a naive, raw twenty-one year old child bride, and has given me the gifts that enabled me to continue to grow, to thrive, to venture and fail and venture and fail better and accomplish, succeed, and keep on going. It is an alchemy of unknown ingrediants, as well as the common ones. We've created something, two wonderful daughters, and a life that just keeps pushing us to be better than we are. And yet with grace enough to accept us as we are.

One can only hope that, in some miraculous way, the geopolitical partnership of Poland and its presumptious partner, the U.S., can find their way to such a productive and fulfilling, and maybe even fun long-term run.

POLAND! A Post About Poland Finally, and Obama

Talk about your boring state visit.

Barack Obama will not be drilling for shale oil on his visit to Poland this weekend. Talk about your bummer of a trip.

Presidents have such boring jobs. Meeting this, meeting that, speaking here, greeting there, policy speeches to joint sessions of Parliament. You can only hope the food and wine are worth the trip. And you be sure that in Warsaw it will be. Exceptional cuisine. Why am I not invited?

The thing is, all Presidents do is meet and talk and meet and talk and figure stuff out. Most of it is figured out already by their aides (or minions as we like to call them). So President Obama will tell the Poles that there are still no missile shields coming their way. But F-16's, perhaps. The news is already in print, the outcomes predetermined.

The Poles desperately want missile shields aimed at Russia. The Russians desperately don't want the Poles to have them. Guess who wins that tussle.

The Poles also want U.S. assistance with extracting oil shale. And the thought was, President Obama could do a bit of the work himself. But no, it's all meetings all the time. Why?

I don't know. If I were the President, I'd want one of those giant sized Tonka trucks with a steam shovel on the front end. And I would like to move some dirt around. Can't we give the guy a break?

Because I don't believe in shale mining, I'd prefer to give the whole group of Central and Eastern European Presidents meeting together with Obama this weekend a shot at a playground I have in mind, a very big one up in the Zoliborz District. They talk enough. I say let's let them do some digging for a change.

"Dream On"

Dream on!

It is so quiet around here. Something is missing. What's gone?

Oh, that would be the 173 family and friends who came to Kaia and Annika's graduation parties a year ago. The watermelon fruit bowl. The five-foot long submarine sandwich. Bowls and bowls of chips. Paper plates and napkins that blew from kingdom come in a record windy afternoon. And confetti that filled the park and lodged in such odd spots that I'm guessing some soccer goalie chasing a ball found some yet this spring.

What a wonderful, noisy and loving celebration! A whole year ago.

And in that year, dreams have come true. Dreams have been deferred. Dreams have been dished, dumped, and alterred.

And some dreams have been dashed. I have nothing at all specific in mind but it is always inevitable. It happens to all of us. We don't see all of our dreams, large or small, exotic or common, profound or banal come true.

While I was whooping it up yesterday, poking back at the nightmares that had kept me up nights as a kid, the Rapture and that not all would be ready, others were feeling the devastating deflation that accompanies a dream that is dashed. Truth be told, a part of me wants to say, duh. Or, what fools you mortals be; presuming to predict a plan that is far beyond our designs.

And a small, compassionate corner of my heart has been claimed by a surprising sense of compassion. What do you do the day after you've been dumped? Defeated? Deflated? After you sold all you had to print pamphlets and put up billboards. There will be recalculations, the math was off, and recriminations -- we liquidated our kids' college funds for what? But somehow for all those whose hopes are turned to ash, life will go on. They will figure out a way. A way to go on. Rationalizations. New passions. Denial and numbness. Nose to grind stone.

We all know something about having our dreams dashed.

And that is yet another reason to be tender of one another, to be kind, gentle, patient, and, still again, hopeful.

What do we do when dreams die? We go on.

The dream has died. Long live the dream.

Carried Away

I have been carried away.

Not to heaven, heavens no. But I've been carried away about this craziness of the Rapture occuring today. A strict scientific study concluded that of all the users of social media, especially facebook, I have made a bigger to-do of this goofiness than anyone else with the possible exception of my friend who-shall-not-be-named Stuart. He posted the "Blondie" video; I passed.

One might wonder, reasonably wonder I would add, why I am so obsessed with this nonsense. I have a clue. Two of them, in fact.

First of all, from as early as I can remember, my mother told me about her love of hellfire and brimstone sermons. Seriously. She ate them up. I think they must have been the 1935 equivalent of Nightmare on Elm Street, The Omen, or Friday the 13th. She lived for that crap. She said she sat in the front row of the balcony at the Evangelical Free Church and was thrilled to her toes at the fright of burning and steaming and pokers with fiery embers.

My primary memory of hearing her tell these stories was thinking, 'what the hell is wrong with my mother?'

2) The Rapture was not a really big topic in my church but it sure was at camp. Before "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" (the song) and its accompanying movie came out in 1972, I saw another movie at a junior high retreat weekend with the same basic theme. Kid is left behind. Alone. Scared the living shit out of me. Didn't scare me straight, just scared me out of the church. I was smart enough to know manipulation when I got mowed down by it. It made me mad.

Then I went with friends to see the Late Great Hal Lindsay of the Late Great Planet Earth speak. And a host of other cool surfer dudes who made the Christian Youth group circuit in the 60's and 70's and to use their humor, virility, and implied sexuality to attract/terrify all God's children into the peculiar corral they were tending in the great Kingdom of God. What a pile. We sang some song in Sunday School about "one will be ready and the other left behind," and that always merited a sermonette to go along with it. We made a joke of it and someone always stepped behind the rest and made a sad dog face.

Anyone out there on the same page?

And of course, we sang, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready" a million times around the campfire and watched that movie too. I loved camp because I got to spend my days there cleaning toilets and sweeping out the dining hall; I didn't love camp because of the mush-brained swarmy Jesus theology we heard.

I was SO ready for the reasonable study of theology and philosophy when I finally got to college. No more God the Puerto Rican laundry attendant indiscriminately, capriciously moving us around like toys. But God, a gracious giver of life, of love, of mercy.

No Rapture. No Tribulation. No manipulation. No more scare the shit out of 'em. I'd figured that out already; it was just good to be free from the crazy-making influences that tried to cram that stuff in my head.

So. This mock-the-Rapture obsession of mine. Maybe it's payback. Catharsis. Maybe it feels good to make fun of the devil -- because these scare tactics are devilish. Maybe I have a really warped sense of humor after all these years. Maybe it's yet another form of rebellion against my mother (added to, 1) be happy; and 2) make the most of life.)

At any rate, I apologize to anyone I've offended but I also stand by everything. I won't be played with. I will play with the plotter of the panic theories.

So, in case you notice my empty shoes on your front porch tonight around 6 MDT, dry ice steaming out of them, or a pile of my clothes left behind by the mailbox, I'm not making fun of God. I'm making fun of the mockery of God.

And just in case I am totally wrong about all this, and my mom was right, and Freddy Kruger is actually in charge, I don't know where I stand. If God is gracious, as I expect, then it's not to worry. I'll be hoovered up with the rest of y'all. Pie in the sky for dessert.

If all of the rules in Leviticus really count, God will need only a very small bus. Very small. A micro-mini. Just for Herself.

If I don't make the cut, I get your car. That's you, I mean, you with the sweet gold Jaguar convertible. But I won't take care of your pets. Sorry. Oh, wait, I want a horse.

Meanwhile, depending upon how this goes, I would like to thank all of you for being such great earthmates. It's been fun sharing the planet with (some/most of) you. Thanks so much for all your support and friendship and maybe we'll get assigned to the same dorm or whatever it is up there. At least I hope we can go out (well, not way out) for coffee sometime.

For those of you in earlier time zones, you're in big trouble if you don't save some chocolate mousse for us latecomers.

Dave mowed the lawn so it will look nice left behind for the (pagan) neighbors. And I'm getting highlights so I look good for eternity.

The other good tip I got was to wear loose-fitting clothes. You really don't want your pants to pinch for all eternity.

And Jennifer, just in case, since we'll miss your bridal shower, I got you a

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Stories of the spotted brain

Take my word for it. Getting highlights are easier. Brain spots are more useful but a whole lot harder to come by.

I do not in anyway mean to make light of this process. It is life-giving, probably life-saving, and certainly a change-maker. Brain spotting. (See yesterday's blog.) A treatment for PTSD. Nobody knows quite why it works, or how, but it does. It clears out a safe spot in the brain for when the inevitable traumatic memories return.

I have one simple, disturbing and sad word from my work today.

Some violence is so intractible there is virtually no way to get free from it. I will be honest. It isn't good. Trying to visualize a resolution to a violent encounter I let my mind range over a variety of peaceful responses. Tried to be reasonable. Talk facts. Talk sense. Didn't matter. I visualized being in a blue dress and being told it was red. It was very frustrating. Exactly the situation itself back when it happened.

Finally, my therapist suggested I visualize bringing in a friend to help. That didn't sit well with me at first. I'm supposed to do this on my own, right? Back at the time of the actual events, I was terribly awfully alone. My therapist assured me that's one of the good things about life. We get to ask for help. And we can get help. So I called in a friend. Two of them in fact. Visualized them standing on either side of me.

They didn't waste time being nice. They just hauled off and yelled, swore, let their tempers fly and finally, after that had no impact to stop the violence, one of the guys socked her in the face.

That's terrible. To feel like it had to go that far. Violence. For violence. I don't believe in it.

So I'm going to say this was symbolic. The basic, sad, disturbing fact of the matter is sometimes violence has to be stopped. Just stopped. Stopped cold. No reasoning. No nice rationalizing. No explanations, facts are irrevelent. No trying to make sense. Just stop it. Bam. Bam. Not a punch in the face I hope. But something strong and compelling. And then go.

When I hear about pastors being bullied and mistreated, the only advice I can offer is to get the hell out. There is no point trying anything else. If it goes on and on and a critical mass of folk are involved, and you don't have support from the higher-ups, and you won't because they never have the balls to kick butt and take names, you are toast. Sad to say it. But it is true. Just get out. You won't win.

I don't want you to have to sit in a therapists' office in three years and visualize a woman getting knocked in the face in order to exorcise the demons. Just leave her behind and get out now.

Snow leopard? Dalmatian? Spotted giraffe? Lady bugs? Appaloosa?

What sort of spots should I get for my brain?


The next time you see me I will have a spotted brain!

It is hard, though, to decide what sort of spots to get. There are more spotted animals than you would imagine. Pigs, sheep, frogs, owls, horses, even giraffes. Cats and my new favorite, moiled cows.

I do believe I've written a bit about this before. It involves a wand, remember? Actually, it's just a long pointer and my therapist will not be wearing a pointy hat.

This is an ongoing aspect of my therapy for PTSD, a new means of neutralising the impact of traumatics incidents. I will visualize the event or experience, allow myself to feel its awfulness for a brief moment or two. And then we will look for a spot in my range of vision where the impact of the traumatic event is not so intense.

Like so much of the treatment for PTSD, nobody is exactly certain how, or why, it works but it beats the heck out of walking around the planet in a state of shell shock as the WWI veterans did for decades.

I really hope these new modalities of treatment (see, I can use big words, just not emotionally stand to be near anyone at the time) are helpful not so much for me but especially for all of the Iraqi and Afghani war veterans returning home. And I hope it is helpful for the victims of rape and abuse and other kinds of domestic violence.

We have to take these afflictions more seriously. Mental health issues must come out of the closet and be treated with the same respect we give to diabetes, leukemia, heart attacks. They are just that deadly.

Life is hard. And we make it harder on others when we're just shitty people and treat others like crap. It is normal to respond the way many of us do. The brain is resilient and clever but it wants to work. It doesn't want to be screwed up and blown up and completely mixed up.

I am so grateful for the patience and creativity of medical folks who are trying new means of helping to get our neural pathways moving along their natural courses again. If you know someone who is struggling, don't judge. Encourage. Be kind. Be gracious, generous, compassionate. Not patronizing. But friendly. And try, if you can, to encourage them to find help.

Help helps. It really does.

I'm partial to spotted snow leopards, so that is what I'm going for. But a spotted giraffe? That sounds way cool. I guess we'll find out which it is around this time tomorrow.

Next time I'm asking for some neon.

"To the rescue: Kamchatka!"

"To the rescue, Kamchatka!"

What an amazing world we live in! I love it.

I'm reading Ian Frazier's wonderful "Travels in Siberia," and enjoy his wry humor and his very basic introduction for us to the basic concept of Siberia. Describing the goings on in a Russian grade school, the very back of the room was deemed, "Kamchatka," the back bench where the slowest learners sat.

When all else failed and none of the brighter children in the front of the classroom could come up with the right answer, the teacher would point to the back bench and, vainly, say, "To the rescue, Kamchatka." Even in Siberia, Siberia is Siberia.

To travel through Siberia has always been one of my life's goals. And I'm not giving it up yet. The whole sanitation/hygiene thing worries me -- to say it's not a pretty sight is to fail to even yet begin to describe the, well, disgusting yuck out there. So that will be a challenge. But, Siberia. My whole life, even before I knew about geopolitics, I wanted to travel in Siberia. Maybe it's the effect of growing up out here in the empty plains, steppes, of northern Colorado, no mountains yet, just vast space, like empty pages to be written on. What is out there?

So far I've been as close as a town several kilometers east of Moscow. I've got a ways to go.

This fascination with Siberia and the great unknown, new cultures and different people seems to connect with what I just noticed on my Facebook wall. Several people "like" a link I just posted. And these several people live in Japan, Germany, Finland, Estonia and Madision Wisconsin. And that's only so far. The woman from Japan is Japanese but she grew up in Beirut and studied at Harvard. The friend in Finland is from Rockford, IL but married and living in Finland for over a decade. Bill, in Berlin, is also an American but Heino is really from Estonia, a native Estonian who was pastor in the smallest village in the entire USSR and whose entire population was deported to Siberia during WWII. Heino studied at Princeton. Is this a great world or what?

What a mixed up mass of migrants we all are. Before it's done I expect friends from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, maybe Mexico and Milwaukee to also "Like" my link. A BBC headline tonight reads, "Obama Calls for Migrant Overhaul." I guess that means I'm going to get work done! And you too. Because we're all on the move.

And the link itself is grand news. The Presbyterians have (finally?) joined the ELCA in removing the barrier to gay clergy serving in active ministy. That is gay clergy who are in relationships, not celibate as was required before. So, from the front of the room, Finland, Berlin, Madison, Tokyo, Tartu, the globalized room that doesn't even consider Kamchatka remote anymore, friends are popping up to celebrate together this good news.

What a privilege. To be connected. Even to Siberia. I'll hear from Novosibirsk, I bet. Nobody is beyond the pale anymore. Nobody is in Siberia. Except of course the people actually in Siberia and that's not quite Siberia anymore, not like it used to be.

Amazing.

Who's up for the Trans-Siberian Railway with lots of side trips thrown in? Kamchatka is on the agenda.