PeaceBang

Leaving Home

Cripes, change is hard! That’s my really deep, original thought for the day.

I just feel heartsick today. I’m making progress with my long pre-departure to-do list, and that’s good. But I’m at that point where I can’t yet get excited about my travels and am just dreading leaving the familiar, the comfortable, the support and love of my community of friends and church, and the love of my little furballs. Ermengarde has been all over me today - she knows I’m upset. Max is oblivious, I think, but he and I don’t have so much history and he’s happy wherever he goes (as long as there are fun people, dogs and food). He’s looking at me now with his big brown eyes over his favorite spot on the top of the couch. Mr. Warm Porkchop.

I’ve never been away from my home for longer than four weeks. This is big for me. I think about military men and women being deployed for years at a time, of refugees, of my Jewish ancestors who were old pros at being evicted from wherever they made their homes, of Pa Ingalls who always had that itch to move west in the covered wagon even though Ma wanted to stay put on the homestead. Some people want to be on the move, others have to be. I’m lucky to have this opportunity and I know it. But you can’t lie about inconvenient, inappropriate emotions when you have them.

God knows I’m pretty expert at moving around myself. Since I left home at 18 I’ve lived in the Chicago area (five different apartments); Minneapolis; St. Paul; Rochester, NY; Cambridge and Somerville, MA; Devon, PA; three residences in Howard County, Maryland; and now Norwell, MA. This is my seventh year here — a record for me, and long enough that I feel that this is home. I like that feeling. I get a lot of strength from that feeling.

Foxes have their holes and birds have their nests but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head, said Jesus (or something pretty much like it). I wonder where he thought of as “home?” I wonder if wherever he was felt like home to him, wherever he could heal, cast out demons, preach, and bring the living God to the people. As the old saying says, “Wherever you go, there you are.”
And that’s true. The trouble is, I’d like my home, my community, my friends and my animal companions to be there with me wherever I am. It would be a lot more fun!

So I’m just feeling the heavy hearted thing today. I’m sure it will pass.

Houston, We Have a Layover

This Friday I have an almost-five hour layover at the Houston airport. I’ll be coming in at 1:30 pm and taking off for Amarillo at 6:15.

Lizard Eater and I might be trying to get an airport bloggers date going — anyone else in the area want to contact me about joining us?

Please, save me from the boredom…

Any Ghost Hunters Out There?

What do you know about EVP?

I just found out about it the other day from a friend whose husband is an investigator of the paranormal, specializing in EVPs. He is working on a book and needed some more material for additional chapters, so I invited him to come into our church sanctuary to do some recording.

He recorded about three hours’ worth of material last night and was thrilled to be present for a lot of paranormal activity — some of the most dramatic events also witnessed/experienced by our DRE’s wife who was present for the tapings.

My life has been touched many times by strange encounters of the inexplicable kind, and I’m very comfortable with psychic phenomena because I’m quite psychic myself. One particularly dramatic example: at a church service at a Greek Orthodox church in San Francisco I saw the ghost of a woman sitting very close to a man who was sitting alone. I had never been to the church before and didn’t know the man, but I approached him after the service and told him that I felt I should let him know that a woman his age with shoulder length curly hair in a coat was sitting with him in spirit. He had recently lost his wife, and I had described her exactly. He wept and hugged me and thanked me, and I went my way. It just seemed totally ordinary to me.

At other times I have smelled an illness in an ostensibly healthy person and suggested that they see a doctor. I have correctly diagnosed linflammation of the lung and tumors in the stomach, as well as erosion of the hip and knee. I don’t think this is paranormal, just an episode of extraordinary sensory sensitivity. I’m obviously part dog.

All of this is to say that I have no doubt that humans just don’t know very much yet about how spiritual energy works and manifests itself, and that as Mr. Shakespeare most beautifully wrote, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dream’t of in your philosophy.”

As for ghosts in our Meetinghouse, it seems to me that churches must be repositories of tremendous spiritual energy. Whether we’re hearing actual disincarnate people living in another dimension is something I choose not to speculate about. As Mr. Emerson said, “We must pick no locks. We must check this low curiosity.” I respect the presence of the spirits — we certainly speak frequently and with great love of our ancestor spirits in our church, sometimes addressing some of them by name — whatever is going on here, I trust that we are all in God’s care and shall attain God’s peace.

As for the investigator’s claim that a voice can be heard saying my name, I don’t think I’ll be “up” for hearing that. I’d like my hair to stay on my head, thank you very much.

Preparing

I’m working through a daunting to-do list before I leave town for seven weeks, the longest I’ve ever been away from home (wherever home has been at the time).

I have things like “Put gym membership on hold” and “Put mail on hold” and “edit three sermons” and “pick up Rx” and “write stewardship letter” and “pay January taxes” and “design sabbatical blog” on the list. But the most important and difficult thing I’ll do this week is to deliver my sweet four-leggeds to the homes of friends who have graciously and generously and enthusiastically agreed to care for them in my absence.

I’m going to miss them something TERRINABLE. My beauty and my baby.

Happy New Year!

I was all packed up to spend the night with my old pal Melissa and her family in Uxbridge, MA today (Uxbridge’s motto: “Gateway to Mendon!”) but the snow fell too hard and too fast to drive safely, especially with Mr. Smwoft Muzzle buckled in the backseat. Max hates the car (although he loves arriving new places and seeing friends) and was a trembling mess, so we turned around and came home on treacherous roads. We got about 8″ of snow before evening and we’ll drive out tomorrow for our belated feast of polenta-encrusted chicken breasts and fondue with my old bud.

So what did I do tonight? Took a long nap, watched some of “That’s Entertainment,” and scanned tons of old theatre photos and posted them on Facebook, giving me the satisfaction of knowing that these wonderful memories are living in cyberspace and will be stored shortly on a CD-ROM. Just as I was scanning photos from a high school production of “Carnival,” my old friend Cynthia was doing the exact same thing down in Florida, and our postings almost went up simultaneously. My photo was of myself and another friend from the cast backstage, and hers was of us onstage. Coinky-dink!

I’m not making any resolutions this year. Not because I don’t need to, but because I’m constantly making resolutions and there’s no need to add to the pile. How about you?

Push a Few Buttons

I admit that I’m a small electronics fiend now. I used to resist new technologies but once I jumped in with a cell phone in 2001, a digital camera about five years ago, an i-pod in 2006, and buying and replacing various computers over the years, using a digital recorder to record Sunday services so we can podcast sermons… well, I’m still a total klutz with these devices but I love what they do for me and how they connect people.

Since I’ll be traveling so much and to such exciting locations in the near future, I decided to look into upgrading my digital camera. I have a Nikon CoolPix L6 and a few weeks ago I asked all of you for your opinions on better digital cameras. I heeded all your advice and researched every model you suggested, but decided to explore my own camera to see if perhaps it had more features than I was making use of. Wouldn’t I feel stupid if I purchased a new camera only to find that, in fact, my own camera already does much of what I hoped to obtain in a new model?

Well, I’m glad I did. I sat myself down with my camera for a good hour and pressed buttons in sequences I had never tried before, snapped 100 photos (easily deleted) to test various untried features, and learned that I have much more camera in my current model than I knew.

Dummy.

And isn’t there a lesson in that for all of us? Not just the obvious Ignorant Consumeristic American Hankering After New Toys She Really Doesn’t Need lesson, but the other lesson about potential: what happens when you push buttons in creative new sequences? All that testing, focusing and snapping may yield nothing particularly worth saving for posterity, but haven’t you learned so much about your capabilities?

One thing I learned that my camera can do is take black and white and sepia photos. Who knew? You see… you move beyond your comfort zone, push a few scary buttons, and a whole new vision opens up.

She Feels Called To Reconciliation

Cindy wrote in response to my earlier post, “The Whole Rick Warren Thing,”

Lesbian UU here.

And utterly unruffled by the Rick Warren pick. I’m not feeling any consternation. No anger at all.

I feel a growing spark of hope.

These days, I feel called — very powerfully called — to reach out in reconciliation. This is a time for GLBT folks to really show up in our communities and help the sick, the poor, the elderly and the children. My stripe of marriage has no bearing on my ability to do good works.

I somehow feel that, if I could make good on the goodwill that runneth over from the election, I should do it. If I can be visibly gay, visibly religious and visibly ready to bridge the distance between myself and the conservative end of the religious spectrum, I might be doing a fraction of that thing called “God’s work.”

I’m very moved by Cindy’s words. Not because she’s saying something that I agree with more than I agree with those who are angry and hurt by Obama’s choice of Rick Warren, but because she speaks so unapologetically about her sense of calling.

Unitarian Universalists are very good at sharing opinions — what we think - but if we are to mature as a people and live authentically into our covenantal promise to support one another in the “free and responsible search for truth and meaning,” we will have to become more accustomed to bearing witness to each other’s deep calling.

We have a long history of sharing our convictions through intellectual argument and rational persuasion (that has often been quite irrational, but I digress). I am excited by the possibility of a new era where we may speak of calling, of discernment and of how God may be working through our lives.

As my friend and colleague Adam says, “Rock ON.”

On Public Worship

Boston Unitarian has posted this beautiful piece on public worship, featuring the words of James Freeman Clarke. And commenter David G. Markham has responded with a scathing but honest challenge to our worship leaders to make worship meaningful, relevant and passionate. I hope you will give them both your time and attention.

Eight Random Thoughts on the Eighth Night Of Chanukah

Some thoughts:

1. I think there should be a Chanukah drinking game involving Bernie Madoff where you get to curse his name and then drink. Something reminiscent of the Purim noise-making when Haman’s name is mentioned or fun stuff you get to do when the plagues are enumerated at the Passover seder.

Ach. That shyster should rot in the Hell I don’t believe exists.

2. Someone at church who shares my love of Yiddish called me a “tummler” today. Here, look it up. The world needs more Yiddish. I am taking it as a compliment (especially from him). We had a fun service and I gave a sermon called “Outrageous Stories From Twelve Years in Parish Ministry.” The recording will not be made public, because although I used no names, changed a few pertinent details and was intentionally vague about what happened where, I did tell some true and truly outrageous stories.

3. What is this “restless leg syndrome?” Here’s why I ask: I am a very light sleeper who has a very difficult time getting a good night’s sleep if anyone else is in the bed. This has created some friction in relationships, as in, I refuse to marry anyone who won’t eventually agree to the idea of separate bedrooms. So I’m thinking maybe I can use this syndrome as an excuse. Who wants to spend the rest of their life sleeping next to someone who kicks them all night long? “I do love you, sweetheart. It’s just that I have Restless Leg Syndrome. That’s why I want you to move into the bedroom across the hall. Don’t take it personally. It’s just for sleeping.”

4. Can someone explain to me why my cat and my dog both clamber on top of me in order to smell my breath very carefully whenever I’m sick? They’re like little nurses with really serious boundary issues: I’ll be sound asleep, maybe running a little fever, and I wake up with this enormous pair of worried cat or dog eyes staring at me and a canine or feline snout practically in my mouth as the animal worriedly sniffs for… for what? What are they doing? Do they go out into the hallway afterward and consult?
Did I already write about this? Well, I’m still confused about it, that’s why.
But check this out. I’m not surprised.

5. I’m turning 43 in a few weeks. I can’t muster any interest in this birthday because 43 strikes me as the most boring possible age to be. I’ll be in Texas at the time and I’ll probably even forget about it. I won’t even know when it’s January 14th. Forty-three? That’s so uninteresting I’ll probably just start saying that I’m “Forty-Whatever.” Like I used to be “Thirty-Something,” now I’m “Forty-Whatever.”

6. Guess what? My blood pressure has gone down to totally healthy levels. I think I have a certain beagle and tabby cat to thank for that, so I feel that I can medically prescribe adopting a dog to all of you. I am a big believer that more animals = higher cuteness+hilarity factor+ walks every day = lower blood pressure. See? I’m right!
But did I tell you? After having lost 25 lbs. on Weight Watchers last year, I’m now on the Bread, Cheese, Christmas cookies and Fried Party Food diet. It’s pretty rigorous but not as much as the Pizza, Panera and Salty Snack Foods diet I was following this fall. That really took some discipline. So anyway, if you attend Weight Watchers meetings in Amarillo, Texas, we can go out for (decaf, low-fat milk) coffee afterward.

7. I would have to say that the second best thing to being in a great romance yourself is to watch your friends fall in love with someone new. YAY.

8. After shopping extensively for a tricked-out Verizon-compatible phone that would let me write and retrieve e-mail, web surf, show me how to get where I’m going, and do my nails for me, I took the advice of my dear friend Huntington Lyman III (his real name) and got an iTouch instead. Because I have had an epiphany: I hate the phone. As Hunt said, “I don’t need to be more tethered to the phone.” So now I can leave the phone at home and have music, photos and the internet in my pocket, and if there’s no WiFi around, I can’t even access the internet. Technology is beautiful.

Hurricanes Happen

[I am preparing my sermon for tomorrow morning, “Oh What a Piece of Work: Outrageous Stories From 12 Years In Parish Ministry” — my last service before a 5-month sabbatical. I may or may not tell this story, but I thought you might enjoy it. - PB]

We weren’t a real outdoorsy family. Our idea of sports was backgammon, and “camping” meant no television in the hotel room.

So it was with some trepidation that I agreed to go on the annual camping trip with my new congregation. I was so excited to be with them, you see. My optimism trumped common sense and experience.

The first evening at the campground went very nicely with me faking outdoorsy proficiency and wincing every time my campsite hostess pumped her little Coleman stove. “I’m absolutely sure that won’t blow up!” I told myself, and then, as her efforts grew more vigorous, “We’ll probably still be alive by tomorrow morning!” Rain fell steadily upon our tarp and we ate our meal huddled under waterproof ponchos.

Some will recall that a surprise hurricane passed through western Maryland on Labor Day weekend of 1999, but for most, the heavy winds and torrential downpours were merely an inconvenience. For me, they were a terrifying Bronx cheer from the elements; a kick in the metaphysical pants for trying to pass as a Nature Girl with my new congregation. In the howling dark night, I waited like Elijah in my tent for some kind of god to make itself known to me; some still, small voice to direct me off the ground, to my car and straightaway to the nearest motel.

Peer pressure and the need to for approval are powerful things. The need for approval kept me waiting in that tent for far too long, but by midnight there were several inches of water– and rising– to soak me out of my terrified paralysis. When it finally occurred to me to ditch my sagging tent and run for my car, the whole works came down on my head and I wound up in a flailing death match with a soaking mass of canvass.

Of course it’s funny now. But during the first moments wrestling with my tent, I actually thought I might suffocate or drown, or just die of stupidity and embarrassment. After an attempt to escape through what turned out to be the tent window (who knew tents had windows?) , I found the correct doorway zipper and slithered out onto the muddy ground like some kind of slimy newborn reptile, yelling and yelling for help into the black night. In the midst of this calamity and a tempest that filled my mouth with water every time I hollered, I finally heard a sleepy reply: “Whaaat!?”
Carol, my campsite mate, had slept through it all.
What’s more, her dachshund Hoover was also sound asleep, warm and safe in the tent.

Carol’s equilibrium affected an epiphany for me: no reason to take this storm personally, after all. Hurricanes happens. And what kind of help was I yelling for, exactly? I realized I would likely survive to tell the tale, believing the psalmist’s promise that weeping may endureth for a night, but coffee and dry clothes cometh in the morning. I groped my way to my car, unlocked it and slept in the front seat, awakened in the morning by the alarmed voices of parishioners who found my deflated tent but not their new minister in it.

Every year since then, I reconsider camping, and every year, I say “maybe next year.” And while I listen with an encouraging smile and a believing heart to friends and parishioners’ tales of joy by the campfire, I am content to meet them by daylight and to return home by dark with renewed appreciation for bed and roof. There are some ways we can all be together, and some ways it’s just not smart to try. With every tent that falls on my head at midnight, I am that much the wiser.