Stress Tests

I am on my way to my second day of a cardiac stress test my physician requested. Yesterday was the day that the tech injected so e radioactive material into a vein, gave me a tall cup of water to drink and sat me in yet another waiting area, and then strapped me onto a very narrow bed around which a mechanized camera rotated to get good shots of my heart (while I was at rest) from many angles.

Today is the treadmill test. I used to walk a treadmill an hour a night three or four times a week when I lived next to the Boston Sports Club in Copley Square. But that was a long time (and many pounds) ago.

Right now, I just want to eat! I ate sensibly yesterday, and avoided caffeine all day. I developed a bit of a headache as the day went by (could be a virus that's going around, could be caffeine withdrawal) that persists now. I can't eat until after the test, and I've been asked to delay by blood pressure medication until after the test.

Before the test, I have one additional stressor. The Valley School is moving into our classroom wing at UU Flint today and tomorrow, and I am telling the 12-step groups that the room they've been using (and overwhelming) is now going to be an art class and cafeteria from 8 to 5 each weekday. This will mean that our lunchtime AA group and a Tuesday-Friday morning group will need to move to our larger Fellowship Hall for the next six months, and that other groups will need to pack up all their materials after each meeting. (These are not, in my mind, unreasonable requests!) But it does mean change, and people have a hard time with change.

Well, I'm off to the morning AA group, and then to the cardiac center. And then breakfast!

Cold out this morning, and a dark dark. Sunrise will happen at 7:44, says my almanac. I'll miss it today, just as I keep missing that last raking of leaves . . .

Good morning.

Screenplay and Children's Book

There's a screenplay inside of me waiting to get out.

I could say the same about any number of writing projects. The lecture series I'm preparing that I wish could be a book. The play for children that I wrote twenty years ago that my brother Paul and I need to make into a picture book. (Could it be finished for 2012, the centenary of the "Bread and Roses" strike?) The memoirs of living in a bicultural, bilingual couple, and being immersed in a "foreign" family. The performance art piece on breaking up and losing a great mother-in-law.

I love going to the movies, and it was while watching "Dan in Real Life" that I thought about this idea for a screenplay based on my grieving group experience a decade ago. The screenplay, if merely recapitulating that experience, would, I think, be bound by its time, nostalgic, quaint and untrue.

The experience of the grieving group was nothing if not deeply true. All the men in it were men who had lost their partners to AIDS. All had tested negative for HIV. Each, upon entering the group, was a mess. Most, but not all, left healing.

My screenplay would conflate the year of telling my own story--and the story of losing Leonel--again and again with the story of my year of discernment about going to seminary. That year of discernment was one of overcoming my breakup from Dan, that is, Dan completely surprising me by leaving me to pursue, and later marry, Doris. I visited several ministers that I respect and decided that the only way I could discover whether seminary would work for me (or not!) was to step into the water and wade right in. I decided that six weeks was the amount I needed to tolerate to intuit with any degree of certainty whether my fascination with seminary indicated a "Call" from God (or the Universe), or whether it was just some pathology of mine that sought attention.

I have imagined conflating that story of recover and discernment with my year of being in a purposeful group of men. The group was a place to tell my story--our story, Leonel's and mine--over and over until it lost its power to entirely derail me. The group was simple, with just a couple of rules. Every time a new person joined, he told his story. Every time you heard someone's story, you'd tell your story. We expected to be in the group for about a year, being with one another during all the anniversaries (first Christmas alone, your own first birthday since his death, and his birthday without him around, the anniversary of his final decline and death . . .). We'd listen and jostle and challenge and laugh. And we'd give at least two weeks notice before leaving, so we could say "thank you:" to the group, and each other, and then goodbye.

Jane was the facilitator of our group. She was a social worker who didn't know some of the psycho jargon of the seminary ("CPE," for example--Clinical Pastoral Education), but who really knew people. She speculated that she must have been a gay man in a previous life, she was so in sympathy and synch with our group. She seldom spoke, and whenever she did, it was exactly the right thing.

Jane was confrontive with me in a very helpful way. She'd hear some comment, usually something self-disparaging, and ask a question about something I had said three weeks earlier that she thought might have some relevance to my own words or mood. And she was always right.

There is a screenplay inside of me, and it wants to be let out. I wonder what it will take for me to get to a place in my ministry where I can sense that doing that writing is, indeed, ministry. That it could be helpful for other people and for me. I wonder what it might look like (feel like, sound like) to set aside serious time to do my writing as I let the church and its people run its own affairs?

I think I've been working under the understanding (misunderstanding?) that this won't happen until I am in a larger church, and I am trying to grow that larger church now. Clearly this morning scribbling feels like part of my process of testing myself about my abilities as a writer and, especially, my ability to set aside time to work on the craft.

Time is rushing by, it seems, both this morning (I need to be on the road in 15 minutes, and I haven't showered!) and in my ministry and life. Could I get that children's book done (and marketed) by 2012? Will my lecture/sermon for Des Moines be as polished as I'd like it to be by W. E. B. DuBois's birthday? Might I get that performance piece finished--and performed by someone else, I think--in even a semi-public reading?

Or should I just go back to school with its structure?

Blue sky this morning, beautiful, clear. Haven't looked at the weather reports. The radio went on (went off?) in the other room and I am ignoring it rather well. The shower calls.

Good morning.

After Thanksgiving and Beowulf

I didn't get home (Rhode Island, that is) for Thanksgiving. On Monday last, I began to come down with a terrific cold, but couldn't pay much attention to it. I pushed through completing tasks and preparing for Tuesday evening's Board meeting at church, and decided not to set out toward New England on Tuesday night (thinking that I'd probably get only as far as London or Hamilton, Ontario that first night), but rather would just sleep in on Wednesday, If I left by noon, I could join the driving masses on the New York State Thruway and Mass Pike on Wednesday and expect to get to my sister Donna's house by midnight (depending especially on the two international border crossings, but also the traffic).

Instead, I woke up on Wednesday to find that I was really quite ill. I prepared to go to the drug store to get some medicine (and again to consider and reject homeopathy), and noticed that again an enormous amount of radiator fluid was on the floor of the car (in front of the driver's seat), and knew that I would not be driving that car 1,300 miles without seeing a mechanic.

So I stayed in bed on Wednesday, and slept in on Thursday until after noon. On my couple of trips to the toilet, I saw the snow falling (masking my unraked leaves!), and turned up the thermostat a couple of degrees. Took my medicine. Drank some fluids. Stayed in bed.

Late Thursday afternoon, I was feeling quite a bit better, and I stopped in on my neighbors Linda and Lucy and their boys. They had guests--Sheila and Jennifer and Linda and Dorothy--and I arrived at the end of Thanksgiving dinner. I ate more than I had hunger for, and enjoyed a couple of glasses of Beaujolais. (Feed cold, starve fever??) Anyway, I lasted far longer than I thought I would, and even enjoyed one of Sheila's famous games.

Even on Friday, I considered setting off for New England--but I gave that up when I realized how tired I was (and how crazy an idea that was!). So I had a good conversation with my mother instead, and told myself I'd call my brothers John and Paul (which I have yet to do).

On Sunday, I went to see the new Beowulf film with Lucy and her older son and his neighbor friend. We went to the 3-D version (I mean, wasn't that the point?) and enjoyed ourselves. The eerie animation melding real faces onto perfected bodies and action sequences ranged from stunning (I loved all the gilt effects around Grendel's mother and her realm) to sickening (the oozing slime off of Grendel's skin) to amusing (all the machinations to hide Beowulf's genitals). Some of the cinematography was confusing (why may Beowulf have quite nice nipples, and Grendel's mother none?), some forced repetitive and distracting effects that were far from thrilling (the swords and severed limbs thrust at the audience); but all in all, it was a satisfying movie that made me want to pull out my Beowulf and read it again.

I loved that some moments linger in my memory. Why was the heart of the enormous dragon so small--just the size of the human heart? I thought of my own dragon-ness, the things that set me off and make me a fire breather. The wastelands that I have created in my emotional and relational history. What dragons have I sought to slay, and who has seen me as a dragon needing to be dispatched with?

The fantail of the dragon under water spread into the exact shape of the fantail of the seductive mermaid that distracted one of Beowulf's earlier accomplishments heralded by others but remembered by some as failures. I wonder about my own failures, in history and every day, and about how I so crave flattery, recognition and attention. I hope to place my public and private failures into perspective, and hope, even, to become detached from the high and low emotions that accompany my failures--and my successes.

The glitter of the realm of Grendel's mother still haunts me. How it grew and grew, how gold inhabited one son but not the former, how it all ended in the sea, in the fire, in the earth. I worry, daily, about my own financial status, about bills owed and the long time it is taking to get caught up, about the folly of investment in real estate and my inability to invest my time in finding relationships that will sustain my private side, in Michigan. Recognition and flattery, glitter and facade . . . where does this all lead?

Bright gray sky today. Chill in the air, but the snow is melting (and the leaves are back!)

Good morning!

Qigong and Worry

Sunrise today at 7:22 a.m. Overcast, but a bright, rather than dull, gray. Fresh after a good sleep.

I went to bed last night full of worry. Yesterday my wallet was stolen early in the morning, and I didn't discover it until after church. Last night, as I was calling credit card companies, I learned that gas had been purchased, that a purchase of over $500 was several times denied at Target, that a couple of $100 purchases had been made at Meijer . . . happily I was able to cancel all my cards, although now I need to replace my drivers license, get a new health insurance card, and wait for my new debit card. And get those charges reversed.

And I only had $40 in my wallet.

Rats.

I rose this morning to do twenty minutes of qigong at sunrise, facing east. When I am regular about this practice, which I rarely have been since I moved to Flint, I love the heart balancing poses that conclude the routine. Leaves a smile on my face, and gets me ready to DO things (even the laundry I'm finally going to throw in the washer downstairs).

The past few days have been very productive (that is, energetically focused on producing). Weekends are like that with the public focus on Sunday morning each week, and trainings and actions on Saturdays and Sundays when many people are available for our public work. Add to that a very emotionally draining (and reinvigorating) Memorial Service for Jon Owen last Friday, and an overnight trip to Indianapolis for the Heartland UU District Board of Trustees, I've been very "productive." And pretty satisfied.

The Veterans Day service was quite special. I felt a little more in control of the unity of the service knowing that it would be very diverse due to the number of people speaking. Four veterans spoke during the service, Dr. Van who served in the Army in Korea, Linda Kilbourn who was in the Navy during the Mercury space flights and the early 1960s unrest in the Dominican Republic, Linda Campbell who was in the Navy throughout the 1970s, and Steve Urdy who was an Army paratrooper in Grenada and the first Gulf War.

I had asked that people address why they joined the military, and it was interesting to learn that while one person was fulfilling a family obligation (men in Steve's family had served in the Army since the Spanish-American War), others saw the military as a way out. Linda K got out of Flint and finishing high school; Dr. Van got out of going to jail for drunk driving; Linda C. got out of Oklahoma. All felt that there were positive things they learned in the military, and positive characters that were shaped there, learning leadership and accountability and service. Some said that they had been brainwashed in the process, but never lost their ability to see beyond the rhetoric; and all resisted the conforming culture. "Serving my country" had great meaning, and a copupole of people lamented that today, with the elimination of the draft, we don't make social demands on young people, and we wage war without their being an evident social cost of rationing, for example, or even paying for the wat, which is now entirely being paid for "on credit."

The congregation responded deeply to each testimony and to the service as a whole. In a training on building one to one relationships within our congregation, I asked people to share what was great about the service, and people talked about seeing that issues are not "black and white," that people are multi-dimensional and deeper than we would easily know, and that there is great value in being a community where a diversity of experience is welcome. I was so happy to help us see that our narratives are richer than our issues.

I'm optimistic about the possibilities at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Flint and the creation of a local organizing ministry for our neighborhood, our people and our city.

Time to pray, to shower and to do some wash. Good morning.

Tough Few Days . . . Ahead

Up early this morning to check something out in my car. Hope the fix I made is sufficient for a few days.

This afternoon: Jon Owen's memorial service this afternoon. Sad, but many people are ready to share a few thoughts, and we'll have some eclectic music.

Then: drive to Indianapolis for a Heartland District Board of Trustees meeting.

Tomorrow: I'll miss the Michigan UU Social Justice Network Summit, being held at UU Flint.

Then: I'll miss the emma's revolution concert we're co-sponsoring with Woodside Church and Redeemer MCC. But I'll get to drive back from Indianapolis . . .

Sunday: Morning service thanking veterans.

Sunday afternoon: 1:1 training to create a Local Organizing Ministry (go FACT!)

Later: Genesee County PFLAG panel on bullying

Then, on Monday: Membership Committee meeting and then lead a training with the Flint Human Rights Commission on Hate Crimes against LBGT people . . .

Whew. I am so overbooked. There are other important things that are being overlooked.

Blue sky just beginning to appear,

Good morning.

Further Shock

I was sitting in Palm Beach International airport on Tuesday when I received the call from Scott Stensaas, member of UU Flint and former congregational Moderator. Auldin Nelson, long term member and leader and the architect of our 1961 classroom building and 1986 Sanctuary and Bell Tower, had been discovered dead that morning by his sister, who worried that he hadn't called her as he did each morning. Auldin had died of a heart attack the night before. What a shock.

Auldin had not been feeling well for a few days. He felt he had a virus and ought to take it easy, but his sister noticed that he was using his walker to get around Ikea on Saturday--something quite unusual. He didn't go to church on Sunday, wanting to rest up. And on Monday, he said that he was feeling under the weather but was not ready to see a doctor.

In talking with Auldin's wife Jean on Wednesday, I learned that their son is traveling in China with a production that he would have a hard time walking away from. So the family has decided to postpone a Memorial Service until the spring when everyone can be in Flint. In the meanwhile, there will be no viewing on the body or funeral service; friends are asked to make contributions to the Memorial Garden Fund at the church, a project conceived and designed by Auldin, and one very dear to his heart.

I'm thankful that we concluded our church's 75th anniversary year by paying tribute to Auldin on the 45th and 20th anniversaries of the construction of our buildings. In the spring of 2006, we thanked Auldin with a banquet with tributes. I was pleased then to speak with former ministers of UU Flint, to hear their accolades and to deliver them to the body gathered.

Last year, Auldin "retired" as the "supervisor of aesthetics" of our buildings and grounds. He shared with me his thoughts about our narthex; he showed drawings for a new wheechair accessible unisex and family bathroom; he encouraged me to think about how useful a pavilion could be for outdoor activities. He was clearly turning things over, even as he wanted to be kept "in a consultiung role."

Auldin's appearances at our candlestand to share "joys and concerns" was always amusing, always thought provoking, and usually surprising. I loved just stepping back and letting his bright wit speak. The way he spoke illuminated a dozeb other conversations with congregation members.

It is silly to say that I will miss him; it would be foolish not to think that the worlds of the UU church and Flint are changed and that the future includes a great unknown. What a presence! What a loss! What a shock!

With the end of Daylight Saving Time, the sun today will shine 4 hours and 43 minutes before noon, and 5 hours and 19 minutes after. That puts "high noon" at 12:18 or so--almost natural! The sky is gray, the morning chilly. I'm going to do some Qigong before showering . . .

Good morning.

Words for Jon

We set the clocks back this morning, and I was pleased to rise early and take a walk around the Indiantown development where I am staying with Ferry Beacher Ann Nozawa. Walking the circumferential road around the development, listening to neighbors discuss how cold it had become last night (57 degrees Fahrenheit!), feeling the warm sun on my face and enjoying the leisurely pace of bicycles and golf carts, I felt a few words organize themselves in my heart which I typed up to send to June Urdy at UU Church of Flint, who will be serving as Worship Associate this morning while I am away in Florida.

Words for Pastoral Prayer:

Oh Thou, Whom no person at any time hath seen,
And yet Who, through all the ages and places of the human story hath revealed Yourself
in the love of each mother for her babies,
in the growing creativity of each child,
in the communities of affection that be build to accept, nurture and inspire our children;
Be with us now as we share with each other the grief
of the shocking death of Jon Owen,
a member of our church, a leader of our young adults,
a worship leader of our celebrations and our sorrows,
a brother of us all in the human family.
Make us now a community of solace, each for the other,
and all of us for Susan, his mother, and for his grandmother.
Be present to us in our shock and in our grieving,
in our happy remembering, in our recovery,
in our creation of caring community among and within.

Shock

It is hard to face the morning this morning. Yesterday morning brought a tremendous and saddening shock--a young adult member of our church, Jon Owen, had had a heart attack and died. At the home of his mom for a few days, because he was feeling poorly and needed her help, he had had a very difficult night, and in the morning collapsed of a heart attack, and could not be revived.

I met his mother Susan at McLaren Hospital, where Jon's body was lying in the Trauma Room of the Emergency Department. I spent a couple of hours with Jon's step-father Martin, himself a person who has been in the last seven months through the death of his father, then his own hospitalization including a three week coma, and then the death of his mother. Susan went to be with her mom, Jon's grandmother, who had helped raise Jon and with whom Jon had been living, to share her grief and give her some support.

Jon was a member of our Worship Committee, and this past Sunday was my Worship Associate. He also was a member of our Campus/Young Adult Ministry "534uum (5:34 Forum)" and was putting his heart and soul into three performances of the Rocky Horror Picture Show that were being presented in our Fellowship Hall for Hallowe'en. He was a special person, one of the most regular attenders of our church, a person af varied interest and deep commitment.

I am filled with sadness about his death, and deep concern about his family, and shock for our young adults.

The "Rocky Horror" cast chose to do the final perfomance last night, indicating that Jon would certainly affirm "the show must go on." Brent Smalley wrote an introductory piece that dedicated the performance to Jon's memory.

But I didn't hear Brent's words. On the way to the midnight show, I found out that the father of our Worship Committee chairperson Judy Tipton had died a few hours earlier. And so I drove out to Burton to contact that family.

Is this really a time when the veil between worlds is the thinnest? Is this the time when I might be touched by some force or presence that will let me be satisfied with the present, to accept endings and be set free for new things? Is this All Saints/All Souls time really a time for the New Year?

A ministerial colleague cited a passage from Paul Tillich's "The Shaking of the Foundations" which I found healing today. I discovered that I really want to be able to accept the things that are happening and I really want to accept myself, my finitude, the limited scope of my life and the invitation that this life makes to find eternal meanings--even as people are dying now, as I will one day.

Grace strikes us when we are in great pain and restlessness.
It strikes us when we walk through the dark valley of a meaningless and empty life.
It strikes us when we feel that our separation is deeper than usual,
because we have violated another life, a life which we loved,
or from which we are estranged.
It strikes us when our disgust for our own being, our indifference,
our weakness, our hostility, and our lack of direction and composure
have become intolerable to us.
It strikes us when, year after year, the longed for perfection of life does not appear,
when the old compulsions reign within us as they have for decades,
when despair destroys all joy and courage.
Sometimes at that moment a wave of light breaks into our darkness,
and it is as though a voice were saying:
“You, are accepted. You are accepted,
accepted by that which is greater than you,
and the name of which you do not know.
Do not ask for the name now; perhaps you will find it later.
Do not try to do anything now; perhaps later you will do much.
Do not seek for anything; do not perform anything; do not intend anything;
simply accept the fact that you are accepted.”

The morning seemed dark, the sky seems sad. I sit and wonder what is next. And I breathe.

Good morning (quite a little late).