wakey wakey

This is how my mom would wake my brothers and me when we were little: She’d turn the light on in the hallway, enter the room quietly, place her hand softly on our heads, and whisper, “Wakey wakey.”

This is how my dad would wake us: He’d stand tall in the doorway, flip on the overhead light, and speak in a theater-voice: “Rise and shine, me lucky lads! You’ve never had a better opportunity!” And on some days, the alternate line: “Wake up! Tee-tee! The world’s on fire!”

Waking up is a metaphor for spiritual enlightenment. We’re sleeping, we’re clueless, we’re susceptible to lies, we’d sell our very birthright for a bowl of porridge or crucify the Beloved and not even know we’d done it. And then we awaken, are awakened. Abruptly or gently. To reality, to truth, to ourselves, to God.

The Buddha is said to have responded to a series of “Who are you?” questions – “Are you a god?” “Are you a healer?” “Are you a teacher?” — with the answer: “I am awake.”

And Christians, today, on the first Sunday of Advent, heard Paul saying, “Now is the moment for you to wake from sleep,” and Jesus imploring us to “Stay awake.”

Most of us are ambivalent about being awake. On the one hand, being awake means we experience the height and breadth and depth of Love in all things – all things — and are One with it, which is a-maz-ing. But on the other, being awake means we also experience the suffering of Love, the heartache and bodyache of Love, in all things — people, animals, plants, air, water, soil – and it becomes impossible to ignore, and that – be honest – is kind of a pain.

Being awake is a mixed bag in this way, too: the face we wear for the world becomes unnecessary and un-wearable. This is a liberating and exhilarating experience, for a while, anyway. Until suddenly it’s not, at which point we feel exposed, vulnerable, and ashamed, and want our mask back.

One consequence of this ambivalence is that being awake, like everything else in the spiritual life, is not a permanent condition. We wake, we sleep, we wake again, we sleep again. I’m awake some of the time, I think, at least to a degree, but I’m also facedown and drooling on my desk a lot.

Being awake is a bit more do-able and sustainable in the company of others who are awake. It seems to help to be among people (and other creatures) who are curious, humble, truthful, rooted, reaching (trees are rooted and reaching), grateful, grieving, brave, embodied, mindful, powerful, delighted, amused, clear-eyed, and open-hearted.

And most of us know the things that support and sustain awakeness. Walking in the woods. Reading a sacred text. Throwing a ball back and forth. Offering kindness and hospitality. Experiencing some work or moment of art. Moving intentionally towards brokenness, suffering, and injustice. Eating a meal with someone you love. Making love with someone you love. Traveling someplace you’ve never been. Returning to someplace sacred. Being thankful. Playing with children. Making music, hearing music, dancing, or engaging in some other form of worship. Praying. Meditating. Laughing. Sweating. Making something.

There are times we need a high-alarm wake-up call like my dad would deliver. Opportunity’s knocking! The world’s in trouble! Let’s go!

But a lot of us got one of those on November 8, I think, and for a while we might need a mother to wake us. We need to wake up, for sure, and get up. The world is on fire, and we need people who can work with fire, people whose nervous systems are regulated and voices are smooth and who know how to use themselves as instruments of peace. This is so hard to do, to move toward fire without my own hair catching fire, too. But we need a few less linebackers waiting on the ball to be snapped and a few more singers waiting on the downbeat.

Last night Jeanine and I watched a documentary about the musical Hamilton, which I hear is highly underrated. There’s a moment in the film when Lin-Manuel Miranda says this: “I’m just trying to keep my eyes open and live it as slowly as possible.”

That’s it, isn’t it? Keep awake. And slow down.

Wakey wakey.


thanksgiving at night

Thanksgiving has been a federal holiday in the United States only since 1863, when President Lincoln proclaimed it so. Lincoln’s proclamation happened in the middle of the Civil War, and if he thought giving thanks was a good idea, even then, I suppose it’s a good idea now, too.

(An aside about the Civil War, that I kept trying to delete but could not: T. Geronimo Johnson, in a relevant, provocative, and hilarious novel called Welcome to Braggsville, defines “civil war” as “when people of the same race argue over what to do about people of another race.”)

So here, in no particular order, are a smidgen of the things I’m thankful for.

I’m thankful for my parents, Betty and Mack. They grew up South Carolina poor, children of broken and unstable marriages, but they found each other, found a way, and made a happy, healthy home for my brothers and me to grow up in. They also did work to be proud of, laughed a lot, and taught me to play Rook. Nobody had a better start in the world than I did.

I’m thankful for the woman that married me 30 years ago. I have sung Jeanine’s praises in these pages before (see 30 great things), but today I’ll mention how accepting she’s been with me the past two weeks, when all I’ve been able to do is go to work, come home, cook, eat, clean, and go to sleep. Love is patient and kind, indeed.

I’m thankful for our children and the ways they’re making the world a better place. Peyton is working to increase non-partisan conversation and action on climate change. (Here’s a four-minute video she helped produce this fall.) Walton goes to college and volunteers at Bounty and Soul, a non-profit that provides fresh produce and wellness education for underserved populations here in Buncombe County.Both of them are people I consult with internally – “What would Peyton do? What would Walton do?” — when I’m trying to find my way forward.

I’m thankful for the work I do: talking with people who want their lives to be better, educating a next generation of therapists, and helping lead a professional organization that supports the care of souls. I work hard but am paid, in wages of friendship, love, and nourishment, far more than I earn.

I’m thankful for trees and the chance to live and move among them. Every few weeks I read a new study about how awesome trees are. Being around trees, even just sitting and looking at them, lowers blood pressure, reduces stress chemicals like cortisol and adrenaline, and decreases measures of depression, anxiety, confusion, anger, and fatigue. Trees release chemicals called phytoncides, which, when we breathe them, cause our bodies to produce more of a white blood cell that kills viruses and tumors. Children with ADHD show reduction in symptoms when they spend time around trees, and patients in hospitals recover faster when they have a view of trees out their window. Trees give without asking a lot, they’re made for the long haul, and when it’s their time to go, they lie down and begin nourishing the next generation.

I’m thankful for what I saw in the grocery store last week. A few days prior, I had read a horrible story about an African-American woman here in Asheville, in line at the grocery with her child, being harassed and called “nigger” by two white men behind her. This woman got $40 cash back and left it with the cashier to pay for their beer and potato chips – an act of dignity and strength if ever I heard one – but when she got to her car and was safe, she broke down and wept. Reading that story broke my heart and was part of what put me to bed at 8 o’clock every night for a week. A few days later, I was in line myself at the grocery. In the lane to my right was a white man behind an African-American woman and a child of about 18 months. This man looked much like I imagined the others looked: greasy hair, scraggly beard to his chest, camouflage pants. But he was reaching around his shopping cart, holding hands with the little boy. They were talking to each other and laughing. The mother was also talking to the man and smiling at him, and he was smiling at her. That moment, that man, that child, that woman, are like trees for me, and I’m still breathing them in.

I’m thankful for one of my favorite writers, Brian Doyle. His Mink River is the most beautiful novel I’ve ever read, and I learned this week that, at age 60, he has a quite large brain tumor. His doctors have not been encouraging, and he had surgery yesterday. He gave a few interviews this week, prior to the surgery, and he made several comments that amazed me. Here’s one: in response to the many, many phone calls and emails of support he received the past week (including one from me), more than he could ever return, he offered a public word of thanks. Then he said that what would mean the most to him from people who care about him would be this: to keep laughing and to be tender. “I’ll hear all laughter,” he said. “Be tender to each other. Be more tender than you were yesterday, that’s what I would like. You want to help me? Be tender and laugh.” That’s the real deal, right there. Brian Doyle is a mighty oak.

I’m thankful for a single word in the Hebrew Scripture that’s been helping me this week: tehom. Tehom means “deep.” It’s tehom, the deep, that God hovers over at creation and makes the whole world from, including us (Genesis 1), and tehom remains alive and active and mysterious and longing in everything, ever since. You get the feel for tehom simply by saying it aloud. It’s a radiating, vibrating word – the breathiness of the h, the resonance of the om — and it names the spacious, humming, thrumming substance-that’s-not-a-substance at the deep heart of reality. It’s easiest to notice, I think, in music – listen to Springsteen wail at the end of “Jungleland,” or to the Soweto Gospel Choir sing “O-o-ohhh” at the end of “Biko,” or to anything Leonard Cohen or Mavis Staples ever sang. But we can feel it other places, too, when we go slow and notice from our heart: in our heartbeat, in our breath, in the vibration of blood as it moves in us, in a thought, in a whisper, in laughter, and in the connection between us and another. “Deep calls to deep,” says one of the Psalms — tehom el tehom korei (Psalm 42:8). Deep beckons to deep. Deep horse-whispers to deep. Whatever divides us, and there is much that does – disturbances of the Force and rendings of the Temple curtain that leave us dumbfounded and grieving — there is ever and always this murmuring tehom that connects us and calls us to each other and to God. And this little word, tehom, this giant word that lives within time and beyond time, this word, this week, has comforted me and reminded me what to listen for.

I’m also thankful for you, who’ve read these words, and for whatever ties of love and friendship connect us, including the tehom. I pray that the pause and practice of this day has nourished you as you needed.

Happy Thanksgiving.

morning november 2016

Fear won.

Good people can feel fear and vote from fear. And good people did.

Elections have consequences, and the consequences of this one are absolutely frightening.

So a reminder about fear.

There is only one remedy, and that is Love. “Perfect love casts out fear.” Not brains. Not anger. Only Love.

And here’s what we know about Love: Her hallmark feature is kindness. As in the one word: lovingkindness. She is infinitely patient. There is no hurry. When you are ready for Love, Love is ready for you. She does not discriminate. She can’t. It’s against Her very nature. There’s no us and them in Love. She shines on the just and the unjust.

During the night, a certain kind of campaign ended. This morning, this morning of mourning, a different kind has begun.

Her name is Love. She’s already going door to door. Take whatever time you need, but She’s ready when you are.

I’m with Her.

night november 2016

The switch is broken, so I unscrew the bulb, and the warmth afterglows in my fingers. I cover myself with a sheet, tuck a pillow beneath my neck and cheek, and close my eyes. There’s an image from the novel I was reading: the man in Magritte’s painting, looking in a mirror and seeing only the back of his head, again and again. Then an image from the dream that awakened me an hour ago: two wolf pups trotting across a yard, me standing in the street, then the mother wolf, then the father, who turns on me, innocent bystander or not, wrong place at the wrong time or not, his chest and eyes and teeth leaning towards me. Thoughts appear, slowly, like a river in flatland. “Why did you do it?” The color red. “I was dead, and I said. I was dead, and I said.” The color indigo. Little girl Hillary running from bullies, seeking the shelter of her mom, her mom turning her away, leaving her to face them alone. Big girl Hillary hearing chanting: “Lock her up!” Trump saying, “China,” Trump saying, “Something’s going on.” Locked out. Locked up. Look up. Look out. Look beyond. And beyond, outside this room where I am floating in a river, beneath a sheet, beneath a shroud, beyond, the most powerful country on earth lies in the dark, with death and guilt and unprotected kids and wolves in the street in the mirror in our heads. And soon will rise with the future of children in our preyed-upon, played-upon, dumbed-down, black-and-white-and-red-and-blue hands. And wonder is there still some warmth and power in those hands, and perhaps there’s no simple switch anymore for turning things on and off, but is there something yet we can do to unscrew ourselves, and is there a word to be spoken on the other side of death. I was dead, and I said. I was dead. And I said?

30 great things . . .

. . . about Jeanine, on the 30th anniversary of our marriage:

  1. She can dance.
  2. She never met a glass of wine she didn’t like.
  3. When we first met, shortly after she returned from two years in Japan, she taught me some basic Japanese phrases, the first being “Jeanine is very beautiful, isn’t she?”
  4. She’s good with money: not too loose, not too tight.
  5. The way her breath smells. No kidding. There’s this wonderful smell her breath gets sometimes. There’s no rhyme or reason about when or why it happens, but it’s awesome.
  6. She’s trustworthy in every way.
  7. She trusts me. I have lots of friends, many of them women, and she is supportive of that.
  8. The first time I farted around her, she laughed.
  9. She respects that, once in a while, a husband might need to leave the table, pick up his phone, and check the A’s score.
  10. I can talk with her about my work, and she understands.
  11. I can not talk with about my work, and she understands.
  12. Peyton.
  13. Walton.
  14. Most mornings she makes the bed. Unfortunately for her, I’m a bit like Erma Bombeck – who said “Noone ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed” – but Jeanine accepts this about me.
  15. She loves my parents.
  16. She laughs a lot when she’s around my brothers.As do I.
  17. She exercises, meditates, hangs out with friends, gets acupuncture, eats right, and does other things to take care of herself.
  18. She responds to a variety of names: Jeanine, Geneva, Jeaniqua, Jeanita, Nita, Juanita, Jeanine Silver Jones, and more.
  19. Sometimes she gets grits eyes. I don’t know what that means either.
  20. She’s on a spiritual journey and has introduced me to people, experiences, and ideas that I would not have known without her.
  21. She didn’t divorce me after our first fight, which began when I criticized the way she was washing the car.
  22. Her eyes.
  23. Her family.
  24. Special Mommy-Daddy time.
  25. She tolerates me being out of the house for long hours on the weekends, running with friends. Maybe she likes it?
  26. When I’m lying in on my left side, meaning my good ear is buried in a pillow and my almost deaf right ear has to do all the listening, she never mumbles just to tease me. She’s not tired of kale yet.
  27. When she had the magnets surgically implanted in her feet and my hands, so that I would rub her feet whenever she puts her feet in my lap, it was a painless procedure.
  28. When we fold sheets together she doesn’t complain that it takes me twice as long to get the corners lined up.
  29. At lunch, if I catch her with her office door open, she will share the chocolate she keeps in the drawer of her desk.
  30. She makes coconut cake for my birthday. Which is in 6 days. Hint hint.



things on a dresser

1 rubber band.

1 tube of Burt’s Bees chapstick.

1 package of ear plugs, containing 10 orange ear plugs. The package says they are “ideal for: sleeping, landscaping, home improvement, shooting sports, and travel.” Which means they’re useful for being asleep, being awake, being at home, being away from home, and shooting things. This is an impressive range of uses.

1 empty jelly glass, sitting on a postcard used as a coaster. The postcard is from a local running store, promoting a series of trail runs.

2 small bumper stickers, also promoting trail runs.

3 pairs of Jeanine’s socks.

8 unmatched socks.

1 pair of khaki shorts, which used to be long pants. I cut them off when the bottom hem got overly frayed, and my mother hemmed them for me as a birthday present.My mom once made clothes for my brothers and me out of curtains that were left behind by the previous owners of a house we bought.

1 blue pullover sports shirt, a present from Jeanine at my last birthday.

4 pens.

1 bottle of not very effective melatonin.

1 bottle of generic Benadryl, more effective as a sleep aid than melatonin, but with questionable side effects.

3 issues of New Yorker magazine, partially read. Even insomniacs can’t finish reading an entire New Yorker.

5 books: The Bible (the Oxford Annotated edition of the Revised Standard Version); Nan Merrill’s Psalms for Praying (paraphrases of all 150 Psalms, highly recommended); A Shimmer of Something, a book of poetry by Brian Doyle; Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird,  a book about writing (don’t blame her for this list; it’s not one of her suggestions); Chi Running, by Ashevilleians Danny and Katherine Dreyer (I trained for a marathon with Danny in 2013).

1 pair of scissors.

1 silver cup, called, I think, a Jefferson Cup, with an engraved “J,” a gift from my chorus teacher, Mrs. Buckner (Dorothy Mae to her friends and, behind her back, to her students), on the occasion of my high school graduation, filled now with coins, 2 paper clips, and a single AA battery.

8 business cards, in a stack.

2 sample packs of Blue Lizard Australian Sunscreen, from last year’s skin screening with my dermatologist. I’m sure she would prefer it be on my neck rather than on my dresser.

1 travel size tube of Crest toothpaste, from the goodie bag the dental hygienist gave me at my last teeth-cleaning.

1 hair trimmer, still in the box.

1 black Under Armour headband, a gift from my father-in-law. I told him I was thinking about getting a brain brace, for my failing memory, similar to a knee brace for a gimpy knee, and he bought me this.

1 clothespin.

1 rock.

0 car keys.




I awake at first light, the world outside a soft gray blue. The window is open, the air is cool. I pull up the blanket. I am lying still, breathing deeply and slowly.

I see car lights coming down the driveway from the house up the hill. This is Mark and Kiran, on their way to Mt. Mitchell to run the Black Mountain Crest Trail. They invited me, but I knew yesterday that what I needed today would not be to push myself across mountains.

I rise slowly and stretch slowly. I do five minutes of yoga, also slowly. I never do yoga, but this morning my body asks for it. Many mornings, most mornings, it is the other way around, me asking my body for things, telling my body to do things. But this morning, I am following, not leading, moving without force.

I remember that it is Fathers Day, and I think of my dad. I see him in my boyhood, on the floor wrestling with my brothers and me, telling us stories from his own boyhood, playing ping-pong, working in the garden. I see him now, talking history and politics, enjoying his grandchildren, showing off tomatoes. He has always been a good man, a dad to be proud of, but in the last year, it feels somehow that he has sweetened. His brother Jack died last March. My dad was with him, and sometimes I wonder if Jack left some sweetness behind that night and my dad absorbed it.

Jeanine was gone when I awoke, and I go downstairs to see her. We share a hug. “Happy Fathers Day.” “Thanks for making me a father.” We talk a few minutes more, and then she leaves for town, to walk with a friend.

I feel a desire to tidy things up. I have been reading a Lydia Davis story, and a sentence from that story and the woman it describes are living in me: “She works steadily, but she does not hurry.” I shelve some books from the nightstand that have finished with me. I pick up clothes from the floor and pens from multiple surfaces across the house. I rinse coffee cups and fold laundry. I work steadily, but I do not hurry.

I am imagining a carpenter’s level in my chest, and I move and breathe in such a way that the bubble stays between the lines.

So many days require efficiency, speed, lists, and will. Or I allow them to. Require attention focused so precisely I do not hear the crows talking, or see the hydrangea quiver when a breeze breathes out, or feel my own chest soften when I breathe out. But today I am moving softly, without will, and noticing.

I eat breakfast – fruit, yogurt, almonds – and read yesterday’s paper, which is about the day before’s news, which is about Donald Trump, which is about the shadow risen from the collective unconscious of all of us.

I pick up my phone to text my cousin and a friend whose father died this year. I tell them I am thinking of them and their dads and that I hope whatever sadness they are feeling today will be held by even more sweetness. I wanted to do this, am glad I did, but just holding that phone in my hand makes my mind quicken, makes my will rise to alert, so I put the phone in a drawer, go to the window, and watch the trees. They are working steadily, but they do not hurry. I do some more tidying.

I am tired (from the week, not the morning), so I go back to bed and sleep for two hours. I dream that I am awake, in this bed, looking at Jeanine in an adjoining room. She is wearing her red batik pullover robe, the one she bought in Bangkok the year before we met. It is threadbare, held together in places by safety pins, but she loves it, and so do I. She walks towards me, only now she is 30 years younger, wearing a pink leotard. But as she does, the Jeanine in the other room is still there, too, wearing the robe. There are two of them, a younger Jeanine in front of me, a now Jeanine in the other room. I look back and forth, feeling disoriented, trying to work it out. I keep expecting one or the other to dissolve, but they both remain. Then young Jeanine turns and walks away, but she is also still there in front of me. Now there are three of them. Jeanine in a red robe, Jeanine in a leotard, and Jeanine walking away. The third Jeanine enters another room. She is once again her current age, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, standing before a table, picking something up, working with it. I am seeing all three, but now I am not fighting to understand it or expecting one of them to go away. I am accepting this world where the one I love is not bound by space or time.

I am awake again.