Marooned: ‘when the gusts came around to blow me down I held on as tightly as you held onto me’ – cin.orchestra

I cannot see you
‘cross the sound,
save the glimpses where
I’m good at dreaming things
like you,
there on the sand bar,
and you’re standing
with eyes squinted,
your hand a brim
to block the sun as you
search, too, for me.

You cannot see me
through the morning fog,
her low-hanging cloud that
may or may not be
all your very own,
but that doesn’t stop you,
from wading through it
as if to swim,
trusting there’s land
where you last saw him.

we see you each
here at play and laughing
‘neath the pear tree
by the crimson Ferry House
as if nothing else ever was
but right now,
a home from home for some,
as if the ship that wrecked
that brought you here
was the best thing
that ever could’ve happened

or, it seems,
we’ve come to learn
to be marooned alone
isn’t so bad
if you know who you are.

What it Means to Know a Place, or Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

For the past month, when I’ve been driving around, I’ve had the radio on “scan” just trying my hardest to get a feel for what Long Island and Connecticut (since we pick up some of those stations) have to offer. I’m fairly certain at this point that there’s some kind of unstated rule where every station has a Billy Joel quota to meet. But aside from that, Long Island radio is what I imagine would happen if a few of Nashville and Memphis’s best radio stations got together and said, “Let’s make it impossible to find awful music in this area.” I mean, I have to say, I have not been disappointed. Even the public radio station out of Southampton – WPPB – has to be one of the most impressive radio stations I’ve ever heard.

BikeySo, earlier today, I folded up my bike (cause it does that), hopped into a friend’s Honda Fit, threw on a pair of silly sunglasses, and took the ferry to Greenport. Sidenote: There’s this magic thing that happens the very moment you cross the ferry where a huge sense of relief comes over you, and you realize that you’ve been “water-locked” for the past however long it’s been since you left the island, and now that you’ve escaped, the possibilities feel endless. Maybe it’s some kind of cabin fever, since an island is basically just a big anchored boat. I haven’t figured out what it is about the ferries or the island that make it feel like this exactly. Although, yesterday, I overheard a conversation that went something like, “Oh yeah, I was biking down Nordstrand Avenue, and it just ends. I didn’t realize it would just end like that,” and then someone else interjected, “I mean, it’s an island; pretty much all roads on this rock are going to do that.” Fair point. It reminds me a little of the weeks on end in Morocco where I hadn’t left my village for a long time, and then the moment you got into a taxi to head to the capital or anywhere really, this excitement inevitably came over you.

So, I’m cruising off the ferry, listening to Long Island Public Radio, and this George Harrison song I’d somehow never heard comes on, and all I could think was that you never really know a place until you have come to know its radio stations. And I started to think about how quickly Long Island has become my home. In just a short two months, I’ve driven through the City and back more times than I care to count, learned the names of all the places out here that end in “-ogue” (though I’m still not sure how to pronounce them all, and it even seems they don’t all have the same pronunciation). And I’ve finally reached that point where I’m not using my GPS anymore to get to the places I need to go – both on and off the island.

All that is to say, there’s an ownership in knowledge. A friend made fun of me on Facebook for referring to Shelter Island as “my island,” but the more I’ve come to know the place, the more that’s exactly what it is. There were times in Morocco where I distinctly remember thinking, “This is Morocco, and don’t you forget it. Don’t you let this place ever lose its newness. Don’t let the desert become your normal. Don’t get bored of looking at camels. Don’t take it for granted,” but as I came to know it and grew frustrated with sandstorms and the struggle of Arabic and the slowness of time, and as that all became my work and my life, it was only when someone new showed up that I was reminded to see it as new again, through fresh eyes. In a manner of speaking, the same is slowly happening with Shelter Island. As I come to know the place, the love of it grows and fades together. To learn about the islands history with slavery, to see it as a cushion of continued white wealth, to hear some residents use “summer” as a verb, I’m made painfully aware of what lies beneath the pristine little pearl of the Peconic. And yet, for the frustrations that pop up the more I learn about the place, I find that I love it anyway. I love it in spite of the things I don’t like. I love it, in some ways, SHAbecause of the things I don’t like, and there’s a part of me that feels like that’s an important way to love. We’re a society that wants so badly to toss away, to ignore, to forget all the ugliness of our history, of ourselves, whether that’s over a flag or statues or celebrating that “love wins” eager to move beyond the ways in which love is very much still losing in some places. It would serve us well to love more “complexly.” It would do us good to acknowledge that the “better angels of our nature” don’t render the rest of our nature devils. Or when the devil within is what we choose to see, that we would see it more fully, that we would see the whole self and not merely the part we love or the part we hate. That task is not easy. Most of us, often myself included, would rather just flip on the radio and get lost in the music.

St. Joseph’s: ‘we cried over where we would wed; if it’s this place or any other, it’s not where I am – it’s who I’m with’ -avett

and the seed of the cottonwood fell like snow
the day you were married by the Lake,
as a young sparrow perched on the white gate
tilting his head at the reading of your vows
to hear and know what love is before flitting away
at the caw and cry of the eager mourning dove –
this reminder of a promise made from beginning
to whatever the end may bring:

and I trusted what I witnessed in the crisp evening air,
wondering if anyone else noticed the empty white chairs
vacated for the curiosity of what came next
while I stored my excitement for the sapling there to grow.

From Point A to Point B, or Learning to Navigate the Sea of Change

One of the first times I got on a plane, I remember being mesmerized less by the crazy notion that I was several thousand feet above the earth and more by the notion that in a matter of hours I had gone from point A to point B and found myself plopped into an entirely different culture. A giant flying bus did more than leave the ground; it took me to a whole other way of thinking about and approaching the world. A big air-pressured container was built to take me out of my comfort zone. I’m still blown away by this. There’s this moment when you step out of any given airport and realize that “here” is no longer “there” and “there” isn’t really “here,” and everything immediately after that is all about negotiating those differences in order to navigate whatever comes next. In a manner of speaking, I feel like I could plot the last several years of my life into that metaphor of being dropped into point B and finding myself somewhere new only to begin again the process of collecting myself, surviving, then thriving. That is something I crave and love out of life. But it isn’t an easy way to go about your life, because it demands change and all the struggle that comes with that. It’s as if a caterpillar goes thru the hard process of becoming a butterfly, and you don’t really imagine the butterfly on the other side of the process going, “What do I have to do now to become a bird?” Maybe being a butterfly really is good enough. And I sometimes feel like I went from, “Butterfly was fun. Let’s see what turtle is like now.” The cocooning process is hell. But worth it. Too worth it.

On a similar tangent, I’ve been traveling a lot lately. A few weeks ago, I found myself taking two ferries (the first to Long Island and the second to Connecticut) to head north of Boston for a basic counseling skills workshop for adventure education with a group of social workers and therapists. Maybe it was the nature of how open-minded you might expect those folks to be, but the group cohesion happened almost immediately.  It was as if we were plopped into Point B but all treated it as Point A together. We trusted each other right off the bat, maybe not because we chose to trust strangers but because we trusted ourselves and knew who we were well enough to be able to put ourselves out there with incredible honesty. It was one of the most refreshing experiences I’ve ever had – to be around people as eager as me to get to the heart of matters and skipping all the social pleasantries for something more honest. So ever since the workshop, I’ve been thinking about this process of entering a new community – the struggle of being your full self, the fear of being judged, the excitement of finding new people who mesh so well with you.

In the study of anthropology, there’s a concept known as “liminality” which applies to rituals observed in tribal groups. The technical term, deriving from Latin, refers to a “threshold,” a point at which a tribal ritual has begun but is not yet complete. In that space, in the betwixt and between, something magical happens – relationship. Actually, the technical term they use to describe it is communitas, referring to a shared, common experience which transforms the group into something new and can sometimes relate to the manner in which the group has been driven together by what it lacks and, thereby, what it seeks to attain or achieve together. The concept isn’t so foreign really: it’s the cohesion formed by a military unit of new cadets or pledges in a fraternity undergoing some form of hardship, if not hazing. It’s the awkwardness of twelve year-olds in a church confirmation class as they learn to question what it is they do and don’t believe – together. It’s summer camp and those first few moments when the kids are staring at their lifelong best friend whose name they don’t even know yet. They will be tested by the very normal experience of community and the hardships that come with the unfortunate promise that we will love each other and probably hurt each other, too, to hopefully learn to love each other again. Point A to Point B to Point A to Point B, and again.

So, this afternoon, when I found myself sitting in a small bedroom of a building built in the late 1880s that overlooks the Peconic Sound, I found myself again in the betwixt and between, among new friends, each and every one of us facing transition with worry and excitement, and I realized that I was where I needed to be, despite some awful allergies. There in the threshold was communitas waiting, and whatever was right ahead would be faced and endured together. The best of it and the worst of it, and what mattered was that we were (and are) “we” and not I. That as lonely as the cocoon can feel, it is a process all caterpillars encounter and endure. And what incredible hope there is in that. Even there in the upstairs of that 130-year old building, I suspect we weren’t the first people to sit there and realize the scary and exciting transitions that lay ahead for us. It had been done before and will be done again. Wherever you are, whatever you’re facing, I hope you can remember this much: there are other caterpillars in the cocoons, other people on the plane or on the bus, other campers in the camp, and we all – if we’ll admit it – know what’s come and what’s coming. And we can and will, if allowed or desired, hold one another in accountable love in that space. So, see you at Point B. …or will it be Point A? Or aren’t they really the same?

On the Road to Racial [and other types of] Reconciliation, or What I Wish the Churches I’d seen in the South Looked More Like

On my ride aboard the Long Island Rail Road returning from a trip to New Jersey this weekend, I thought a lot about a course I took at Vanderbilt Divinity where we were discussing racial reconciliation, and on the table was a really tough question about whether black congregations and white congregations should be worshiping together. That may seem like it deserves an obvious answer in 2015. Of course they should, right? But we arrived at that question by first asking why our churches – unlike our schools, unlike most of society since the 1960s – had remained mostly segregated. Was that evidence of our inherent prejudices? The ones we seem still so stubborn to admit we have? Was it simply the reality that different experiences had created different cultures? One black student remarked that she feared if she were to worship in a white church, her cultural history would be washed away. Would a white church with a white pastor focus as much on the story of the Exodus where Moses leads God’s people out of Egypt like those slaves seeking freedom along the underground railroad? Would that sense of liberation – still so crucial to black churches – be as important to white churches? Moreover, what does it mean for a white church to have been “free” for so many generations that we can no longer conceive of the need for liberation for others? Have we lost the ability to relate? Must we experience oppression to see the need for calling the oppressors into question? If we think we have no need of this, do we lack empathy for those who still very much relate to the need to be liberated? That day in that classroom opened my eyes in a way I don’t think I’ve realized until recent events, really, that whether or not black churches and white churches should worship together is a deeply complicated question with a deeply complicated past, present, and future. What I came to terms with at the time was this: maybe we need to be segregated in our worship, but we still have to find some way to work together for the betterment of everyone. Separate in worship, together in mission could be a solution. But I’m not so sure I’m as satisfied with that answer anymore.

This morning, I attended my first church service north of the Mason-Dixon, and it drew an incredibly incriminating picture on the almost insular way of the church in the South. Sure, up here, the church may be dying in numbers, but what I saw this morning drew a picture of a church that is, in my mind, thriving. On the wooden pews in an ark-shaped sanctuary in Bloomfield, New Jersey, there are members from four continents and twenty countries. Every color. Gay. Straight. Female. Male. Transgender. Hurting. Joyful. Family. The lot of them: family. And you could feel it. Something that was in the air, like a kind of earnestness that the people there wanted to be there. No – that the people there were there because they needed to be. That they were honest about their brokenness and joyful to be made whole together. Outside of camp, I’m not sure I’ve seen so many different people made into one family in a church. And for most of the service, I was just overcome with sadness for my home state, for the South, for the reality not that it’s broken but that it’s so gosh-darn unaware of just how broken and pathetic it is. No, more than that: that down south it’s in-your-face adamant about how it carries the one-and-only capital “T” truth when the church in the South as I experienced was driven too-often instead by staged ostentation and a smug need to grab and maintain control and power in a world where people of privilege fear losing it.

Eh, I should come down off my high-horse long enough to say that my own disdain for those kinds of churches or even for the South at times isn’t lacking its own arrogance. Nor am I naive enough to imagine that every church up here is like the one I went to today. Or that this particular church isn’t without its own members who are there for the wrong reasons: to gossip and grasp power when and where they can. That’s just all too human to be confined solely to one region of the country. And yet, having seen what church could be is to know what so many congregations are lacking, and frankly, I’d take a small church with a healthy soul over a large soulless church any day. But I can’t seem to shake the question over what’s the difference between here and there, between this church or that one? Maybe it’s tied to the urban nature of a church that’s only a twenty-minute train ride to New York City. More exposure to diversity is bound to breed world-centric behaviors as opposed to the more insular, isolated rural communities of the South. Or maybe it has something to do with southern culture’s tie to social traditions. If you were born into a world where people go to church because “that’s just what you’re supposed to do,” you’re bound to find people who are there to maintain “polite social behaviors,” or niceties rather than to claim with honest self-awareness their own struggles in an effort to find sacred wholeness like that preached about in our holy texts, or y’know, to do church.

Of course, the deeper question underlying much of this is to ask, “What is church?” It’s become trite to say it’s when “two or three are gathered” in God’s name. I’m not sure I really know what that means anymore. Plenty of awful people gather themselves invoking the name of God or Jesus or Allah, after all. But I’d be willing to bet that, even if we remain segregated in the here-and-now, what church – what all of religion – is meant to be is to provide a space where “there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female” (Gal. 3:28), nor gay nor straight nor conservative nor liberal nor rural nor urban. If religion can’t be what breaks down the barriers that are the sources of our strife and violence, what good is it doing us? I, for one, want to seek out and hold up those places where that’s actually happening, where those boundaries fall away, because it is happening. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It may happen in a place where the church is dying, but on this road, we are well on our way to something good, to something better, and we will keep moving forward as best we can.

Peace Corps on Shelter Island?

FerryAt the risk of sounding like I’m boasting, I’ll avoid any overuse of the words “idyllic” or “bucolic” or “precious” to describe the little island I recently moved to on the Eastern end of Long Island. But it’s hard not to have this strange overwhelming sense of awe when I drive around Shelter Island – a land without streetlights, a land without postal service to your home, a land with no speed limits over 35 mph. It’s… a different place.

Between Long Island wine, the Hamptons, or some of the homes on Shelter Island that are on the market for millions of dollars, there was a part of me at first that felt deeply out of place. My last exciting adventure took me to northwestern Africa, and though it’s been a few years since, the images of a developing country are never far from my mind. And they are even more evident in the midst of some of the wealth I encountered moving to the “not-exactly-but-almost” Hamptons. That is not to badmouth people who have come into wealth by any means. It’s just to say that it’s been a somewhat jarring experience to move to such a place from, well, the kind of poverty you might expect to encounter in a Peace Corps country. No surprises there, I guess: going from one extreme to the other is always going to be jarring.

And yet, maybe that’s why this next sentence is going to sound so insanely ridiculous: Shelter Island is more like Peace Corps than just about any other place I could imagine moving to in America. But maybe not how you think.

The first reason why it’s so much like Peace Corps here is transport. Like Morocco where I lived in the Peace Corps, you often find yourself limited to travel by certain hours. Shelter Island has a very reliable ferry system, but the fact that it shuts down between midnight and 5:45am could leave you stranded on the island or on the mainland. When there is no bridge or tunnel, you have to plan everything around the ferries. And in bad weather? You could find yourself stuck on the island for a few days at least. That does two things: it creates a tight-knit community on the island but it can also make you feel isolated at times. I can’t begin to tell you how similar that was to my life in Peace Corps.

The next thing is the wildlife. My first morning waking up in my temporary little cottage in the woods (still with a seaside view), I woke up to deer, turkeys, and chipmunks running around outside. Deer are heavily populated on the island, having swam here across the Peconic. But it was really the turkeys that took me back to Morocco. So much of the experience of Peace Corps made you feel like you were backpacking, always communing with nature in some way or another. That is very evident to my life currently. And there’s plenty other sea life to enjoy: whales and sea lions in the winter, ospreys and seagulls everywhere.

Finally, it wouldn’t have been Peace Corps if it wasn’t meaningful work. I am working on Jennings Point at Quinipet Camp & Retreat Center where we do spiritual and environmental education and run both summer camping programs and retreats for very diverse groups. The work we do impacts people in real, meaningful ways, and that’s something I needed to be doing, something I see myself devoting my life to one way or another.


So, to some Shelter Island residents, it might sound a little crazy to compare the place to a developing country in Africa, but I think it’s worth noting that it’s those very characteristics that drew me to this wonderful island sheltered between the North and South Forks of Long Island. It’s those characteristics that are why I’ll stay.

From the Wisdom of Solomon to Baltimore

There was a risky wager made when Lincoln gave the South a chance to be reconciled to the North without greater punishment than the loss both sides had so deeply suffered already, a wager that hinged on the hope that the “better angels of our nature” would prevail. The understandable hope was that time would heal the country. And, indeed, some scars were healed, while others kept hemorrhaging and yet others scabbed over only to be ripped open again later. A hundred years on, it took a preacher from Atlanta to acknowledge where gangrene had set in, to expose it for it was, only to have us pretend one more time that we were well on our way to healing so that by the time an African American president was elected, some would rush to claim we’d reached the mountaintop. Vanity of vanities! The words of the Teacher are apt for this moment in our history: “Generations come and generations go, but the earth never changes. The sun rises and the sun sets, then hurries around to rise again. The wind blows south, and then turns north. Around and around it goes, blowing in circles” (Ecc. 1:4-6). Do we not yet know this? Have we not learned from words etched into the papyrus by now? As long as we humans grace (and break) this place we call home, as we are prone to do, we will confront the ongoing cyclical brokenness to which we seem bound. Either we confront it head on with painful self-honesty or it finds us, sneaking up to surprise us in our arrogance. So long as there is a powerful, there will be a powerless! And every time, the powerless will rightly challenge those who have hard-fought to maintain the status quo of their privilege. Our hope, of course, is always that the challenge would be peacefully fought and peacefully won, but is it so difficult to understand from the shoes of another why some – perhaps with hopes exhausted or in the attempt to seize hope again – might turn to rage rather than calm capitulation? Wouldn’t you? It’s hard from a state of privilege to conceive of what it would be to experience real, every day, systemic oppression. But if it felt that the forces of society had not merely imprisoned you to the life of poverty but so too actively (whether consciously or not) sought to ensure that the populace from which you were born was a populace battered and beleaguered, violence would be a very likely outcome. To say as much is to understand it and to see it as a response to another violence, one that came before it and was perpetrated by a government where real representation of that populace remains absent. We are a country founded in precisely as much righteous violence. That is not to condone it, past or present, but merely to acknowledge with empathy from whence it came so as to then empower the powerless rather than thwarting their cry with riot shields, pepper spray, or bullets. If you wish to know how this story ends, you merely have to look at our own history; either we change to be a better society, or the violence is likely to continue or grow. It simply is what it is. For at the root of all violence is a disembodied despair, the desperate plea crying out to God or to society or to the universe: to whomever might listen that these unfolding events that have and are transpiring were not the lot in life we human beings were promised by simply being born into this world. And in that violent despair, it suddenly seems that what is inalienable belongs to some and not to all – and that those who have attained it will not merely grasp it for themselves but for their progeny too and to the detriment of those who are not their blood kin. And so you should expect it in the streets of Baltimore or Ferguson or in the crumbling streets of Gaza or Egypt or as quiet whispers across North Korea or as loud marches in Hong Kong or in any nook or cranny of this world where people will clamor for justice and peace. Lincoln’s wager goes on, tested and tried, and hope will surely prevail whether it’s hard-won or not. Times like these, we rightly question whether there is anything new under the sun but hope that the expected cycle will tip again toward justice and remain there as long as it can.