Guatemalan Cave: A poem

Guatemalan Cave

I remember:
The smell of pine and moist earth
rich mud sticking to our shoes
mist and slipperiness
hands held awkwardly during our descent

Holiness
so many candles
the darkness lit in shadows
rocks jutting up
uneven ledges
water dripping down

I remember:
The medicine of mystery
Mayan and Catholic
Christian and Pagan
Memory
Deep magic

Whisperings of angels
Hints of underworld
Fragments of paper
Silent prayers unfurled

Flickering trinkets
Photos weighed down
People’s lost faces
Glowing underground

The scent of oppression
Yet also strength renewed
Sacred power thriving
Ancient, sturdy roots

I remember:

I fell in rapture
I stayed in longing
I went underground


*************************************************************************************

Guatemalan Cave (revisited)

I go there now, by surprise
On my darkest days, in my deepest dreams

Why?
What is it I’m longing to find?

Escape from my suffering, and long-term distractions?
Faith burning bright, amidst all the shadows?
Grief contained, but not buried or chained?
Permission to change, against all expectations?

Perhaps only this:
Remembrance
Mystery
Solidarity

Acceptance of
Awkward hands
Wounded hearts
Water from angels,
Dripping
down
down
down

Reminding me:
Wealth is not the gift it seems
Peace is not a commodity but neither as elusive as the clouds

I don’t know
When or How
I’ll find the things I seek

Maybe never
Maybe never in this waking dream

But I can remember:
A cave where
Holiness dwells
A place to breathe in
deep earth richness
Water that drips,
clear and sweet,
unto my cheeks,
baptizing me
in forgiveness

*************************************************************************************


Guatemalan Cave (remembered)

I was washed free of many false beliefs:
My faith in well-laid plans,
My notions that the world was fair

I became as tangible as flame,
intangible as the spirit that remains

And all truth since has brought me back to paradox:
The dark is safety
Rest is the necessary key to change
Hiddeness can save me

I’m often stripping down and peeling back and
Digging up the past
I do not—when I’m sane--obey convention

*************************************************************************************


Guatemalan Cave (reprise)

The cave is dark
The cave is deep
The cave is safe from politics and false beliefs

Hidden beneath soft grass of green
Pushing up buds in hues of Mayan lovely

To go is dangerous
Almost unbearable in the truth of all that stands as true
in this harsh land where plans aren’t ours and
we must die a thousand blooming times
for roots

Underground the roots give rain
Lines are always flickering
Faith hides in mist and sticks when slopes are slippery
Unspoken prayers are tangible as whispers
Religion blends and faces all are glowing,
Sacred souls of friends oppressed and dead
Yet
Living, thriving news of all we wish for

I remember this:
Astounding evidence

I went and go
to stay and hold

And choose

this underworld

Am I a Christian?

Here I am,a stranger on my own dashboard, posting again after a 19 month sabbatical. I can give you a bunch of excuses why I haven't been blogging, but I will take some brilliant advice I heard last week (from my own mouth no less), and apologize instead of giving excuses. Sorry for taking so long! I know those of you who "follow" me have been waiting and hoping I'd start posting again, and for this I thank you. Partly because of your encouragement I'm back for today at least, and my computer is cooperating....

The topic of the day is courtesy of my (Jason's) cousin Jaime. I want to thank her for her transparency, vulnerability, and bravery in her Aug. 24 post to her blog, The Faith Experiment (http://www.thefaithexperiment.com/). I read it in bed one morning as I was waking up, and it inspired a "writing attack"--an eight page non-stop scribbling in my journal at the dining room table. I was blown away by the strength of my voice in response to the question Jaime had been asked by her readers, which she chose to leave hanging at the end of her blog: "Are you a Christian?". I read my response to Jason over coffee, delighted that I actually had an answer to a question that had made me cringe on far too many awkward occasions. For the first time in many, many, many, seasons, I can stand behind my answer proudly, knowing that it is not something I need to defend, but that it is an expression of my current thoughts on a subject I have wrestled with, and will continue to wrestle in, for as long as I draw breath. My answer then, is not an end (not polished or edited either!), but an ongoing conversation to be had with those stubborn enough (as I am) to insist on a faith and a God that constantly defies (outgrows) our definitions. So without further be-laboring of the fact (since my son Caleb has informed me I am wont to do on all subjects), I give you my answer. It is dedicated to all of you--those who will love it AND those who will hate it. But most especially, this is dedicated to Jaime. I hope this encourages you to keep being real in all the ways you can.


Are you Christian?

That, my friend, is a loaded question!

Are you asking if:
I agree with the Crusades, where the blood of "pagans" and "infidels" was taken in rage?
Are you asking if:
I hate, or at least am afraid of Muslims and Buddhists and Jews and Hindus and all the teachings and texts that explain the universe in different ways than the version King James?
Are you asking if:
I hate gays, or at least think that they are deluded in many evil ways, along with women who choose to have sex, unwed, drug lords and pot heads, drunkards and the mentally insane?
Are you asking if:
I think that I am (thankfully) saved from an eternity of damnation, while I carry the burden of worry and conversion for the multitude of confused and belligerent, damned to condemnation?
Are you asking if:
I am, above all things,
Sure of God
Sure of Country
Sure of a Religion that makes lines between
Wrong and Right
Saved and Unsaved
Sure of Wholly justified and unjustified violence
(who kills whom and when is it blessed)
Lines Lines Lines
and Measurements
(that add up sinful actions and weigh this against motions taken to prove repentance)

Are you asking all that when you ask me this:
"Are you Christian?"
Because the answer is easy then, my friend. The answer is, as you might now guess,
God help me, no!
God save us, no!
Or just,
No No No

But am I Christian?

Do I believe that Christ came as a man and yet as divine and explained by his life how beloved I am?

Do I believe that divinity aims to awake daily inside our amazing hearts and brains and inspire us to great heights of creativity, courage and transformation?

Do I believe that a text set down by ancient Jewish men and subject to many manly translations still remains a guide for a contemporary life?
(as with recipes passed down through generations, where ingredients change but with care and time the results are no less nourishing--food full of memory, mystery, miracle sustenance...)

Do I believe in a force of sacred unity that is as close as my next breath?

Do I believe that my earthly form was made in the image of one too fantastical to name with one name or explain with my brain but is:
LOVE,
moving mountains,
bringing rain to dry places,
forgiving murderers and rapists and
all the actions of the criminally insane?

Do I believe that I am one of them--the criminally insane--and that the point is not to be:
All knowing
All powerful
All right
but rather
All grace?

Do I believe that there is an evil more dangerous than the three-second snake that can make my life a living hell--that I could make the mistakes that Hitler did by choosing hate
day after day after day?

Do I believe in freedom that lives behind prison gates?
Do I believe in love that extends enlightenment to all who request, whether Buddhist or Lesbian, Priest or Evangelist, Muslim or Democrat, Guru or Gang Banger?

Do I believe in faith that creates communities where:
the hungry are fed
the lame walk
the lost are found
heaven is no longer a place in the clouds?

Are you asking all that when you ask me this:
"Are you a Christian?"

Then, my friend, the answer is this:

Yes Yes Yes!

Amen!

Comming Full Circle

Another set of rains are coming day after tomorrow. I made some preparations: gathering dry twigs from our yard to start the fires that keep me cozy, pulling the lawn chairs under the eaves, and making the dog a place to sleep inside the covered garage. I am so anxious for the coming rains, because they mark the start of spring here in the canyon. Everything is green now, or buzzing, humming, singing. The Santa Ynez River is flowing strong and fast and deep, and the Bush Poppies and Lupine are already showing their lovely colored faces. To maximize my time between the rains I shove the household chores aside and hike. I stretch my lazy legs out like the finches’ stretch their wings and feel the wind propelling me into all the newness.


The newness is the evidence I see that says the wind is shifting. I hear the whispers in the Sycamore leaves when I sit by the river,saying, “believe, believe,”. I have searched five months to find a job I’d like and nothing yet has surfaced. And yet, there are possibilities this week that peek like naughty children out at me. November pitted me against uneasiness, with threats of changing rental policies. Our housing could be ending in eight weeks. And yet, we have stumbled into the chance to BUY—not rent—since January’s arrival. Though I scarce can hold the hope it takes to see it—I see the insecurity we’re in as a platform fit for launching off into more wondrous freedom.


This second chance to watch the winter storms bring spring into our hearts reminds me I am blessed beyond belief. I know I must move soon--the fates have changed and others hold priority to rent here. To move my life from Paradise is painful; though I do not know the date I’ll leave, I’ve already started grieving. To dream about a future place that I could own is wonderful, but also bittersweet.


A wry smile stretches across my cheeks as I say this—just two short years ago I was chomping at the bit to leave a house behind and spend the summer traveling with tent stakes. I was desperate beyond words for the chance to be untied from the mundane tasks of daily life; I bucked against the thought of “normal” living.


I was restless and unsettled in myself; lost in all my longing. Now I’m half-found out. All the time spent watching finches fly and oak trees soak in morning light has led me to the garden of my soul, and I can’t wait to see what will be blooming there this spring if I keep listening.


I plan to keep on listening. This is my primary dream right now: to do the “boring” work of letting wind and sun and longtime friendships move me into trust so God can heal me from the things that made me lost in want and longing. I am so full of compost heaps and seeds; so ripe for blooming.

The river that was dry is swirling fast and deep and lovely. From the yard I’ve claimed as mine for almost 16 months, I hear its rushing sound of life. I feel it moving me just like a winter tree that bobs and shifts with each new surge of rain. Its waiting for the threat of new uprooting. In the waiting it is praying toward the possibility that it could land on richer soil... just around the bend where deeper pools stay moist through summer drought and giant oaks make gorgeous shade to shelter in. Perhaps what seems like tragedy is really serendipitous—it pushes us to change a circumstance that cannot give us all the soil we need to stabilize our bigger dreams and taller hopes.

I am a little tree with big intentions. I will let myself be moved in this momentum. I will not resist the chance to be uprooted by the one who sends the rains. My hope will hold me steady now, with ears awake to hear the Sycamore trees. "Believe," they say, "believe!"


I end with this prediction: my time spent living just off Paradise is ending. Yet I write with confidence of this: my relationship with Paradise is just beginning.

Believing in the Spirit of Christmas

The rains came, long and heavy, to the Santa Barbara backcountry, so the Santa Ynez River is running again. In the last two weeks before school vacation, the roof of our rental was frosted white about half of the time I walked my kids to the bus stop in the morning. Our large German Shepherd-Lab has taken to laying next to the wood burning stove at all hours of the day and night, stretched out like an Egyptian Cat, groaning at me when I suggest “a little fresh air and exercise”. It’s that time of the year when I swear I will keep gifts simple, spend only a few dollars per niece or nephew, and focus on the “true meaning of the season”. The only difference this year for me in regards to my inability to keep my money in my wallet is that I started planning “for Christmas” weeks earlier, and therefore am being complemented by friends and family alike for “being so on top of it” as I hand out photo cards or announce that all my packages are pretty much in the mail. Sigh. Sigh again. The truth is, I’m not feeling confident or peaceful or ready in the least for what tomorrow will bring, let alone the rest of this season. Last night after a dinner of good conversation and laughter, I found myself rushing about and lecturing my kids about all their lack of respect and the household messiness. So quick to anger I am; so critical of the ways that my family comes to me in not-so-perfect packages. Even after some mint tea and a stroll in the woods naming constellations with my husband, I lay awake in my bed until 1 a.m., restless, confused and angry about stupid little ways my life is not “on track”. No amount of shopping success is going to cure my longing for security... and no amount of measurable security (safety, shelter, work, food) is going to fill the hunger I have for a life marked by abundant love and grace. So rather than writing about my unsuccessful attempts to make money in shaky economic times, or my crappy rental agreement that leaves my family with new month to month housing insecurity, I am writing to listen to what my heart is trying to tell me through my emotions that refuse to be trussed up or tucked under the fir tree. I am writing to remember the invitation extended to all of us to be part of an event that started out with precarious risk, unpredictable outcomes, and much rejoicing.


PRECARIOUS RISK
My son recently returned from a solo, three-day fast in the wilderness. I see him as the same boy who left at age 12: affectionate, intelligent, slow-paced, generous. Yet I also see a young man marked by maturity beyond his thirteen years: patient and forgiving, compassionate and dedicated to giving and receiving in the context of community. I can learn so many things from him right now, if I can stop picking up the role I laid down when he left me on my doorstep smiling proud—the role of constantly mothering him. I can choose to claim the truth that my job of raising Caleb through childhood was a “job well done”, and that though there is much parenting left to do in the next five years or so, my role in reference to him has shifted. I am more of a mentor or guide to him now; less of a nanny or body guard.

Caleb’s three-day “Vision Quest” experience was part choreographed by his father and I, part initiated by him, and part arranged by the loving force of the universe which we call God, the Holy Spirit, and Jesus. It is impossible for me to summarize or categorize or explain how the plan to “initiate” Caleb into the next stage of his life formed and became a reality that blew all of us away in its loveliness, so I will not attempt to do that. Instead I will refer to ways Caleb’s Vision informs mine now, and let you taste the sweetness of shared insight.

Was Caleb in more danger in the woods than he is every day on a highway, in the school yard, in our neighborhood? I do not believe so, though contemporary Western thought might claim so. I believe that Caleb’s intention to place himself empty and listening before God gave him a bravery that sustained him. He was lonely, he felt small and vulnerable and hungry and weak and naked. He questioned whether or not he had it in himself to “make it” through the goals he set for himself. After leaving the men camping nearby (father, grandfathers, uncles, friends), he went through his longest, coldest, hungriest night of his life up to that point. He woke victorious, ready to study his dreams and converse with the unseen but deeply felt presence of his Creator. To believe at that point that he was not alone, and that he would hear and understand messages to apply to his life, was a huge act of faith, hope, and precarious risk-taking. Caleb took that chance, and was rewarded with discernment and wisdom well beyond thirteen-year old development milestones. He is working to apply them now. I want to be a good water-boy, encouraging him up from the sidelines.

“God is at my core… my job is to let him come out of me…” Caleb

Can I believe that--that God is at the core of each of us--, not just my young-adult son, but myself, my neighbor, the person who cuts me off on the freeway?
When I wake to the buzzing alarm, wishing that sleep could be longer, can I stretch my aching back and remember the 5 a.m. mornings I had breathing into the dark, holding up the image of my firstborn alone in forest? I was wide awake then, lighting a candle and praying first by recognizing the sacredness of each and every breath. Life in my chest, life in the chest of the child who was waking up to nature’s sights and sounds of morning. Abundant, simple life. I remembered then that life was no small thing to be grateful for. Life itself is an abundant blessing, even when we complicate it so much that we take basic living for granted. We need to have reason to sit sometimes, just breathing and hoping and praying for life to extend. Precarious risk can scare us shitless, but that is sometimes just what we need to simplify our hopes and dreams, or redefine our regrets.


UNPREDICTABLE OUTCOMES
An outcome I didn’t expect is that adults I don’t even know have been totally inspired by my son’s time in the wilderness. The story is being spread from friend to friend, and acquaintance to acquaintance, and it is having a powerful impact. Good questions are being asked, like: If a teen can go into the wilderness and hear so much purpose for his life, why can’t I do that? Is it true that he initiated instruction for his baptism, and he doesn’t attend church or Sunday school? If those parents can take the risk of letting their son be out there alone, maybe we can too? Is our culture wrong to try and protect young adults from fear, suffering, loneliness, and solitude?


MUCH REJOICING
It is hard to prioritize rejoicing. Mary and Joseph were stuck in a barn when Jesus decided to arrive, and they had to make do with a feeding trough for a cradle. The Shepherds were occupied with sheep, and the foreigners were looking for a king... I wish I could have been a fly on the wall through all of those comings and goings and crazy interactions. I don’t want to argue or analyze theology here, but I have some strong opinions concerning why God chose Mary to deliver his son. She was ready for risk-taking, and adventure. She was capable of hearing (and believing she had heard) God’s voice in her dreams, or in the wind through the trees. She was young after all—possibly 13, 15, 17. I’m guessing that she had not yet started to worry about how to guarantee her security by material things...

I want to be like that again. Like a teen—full of bravado and restlessness not based on regret of the past or worry for the future but based on the current intuitional evidence that life offers more than we hoped or we dreamed when we take the time to listen well and believe. Restlessness based on a belief that we all should be taking precarious risks, trusting not in our own knowledge but in a bigger source of invincibility than calls us to grander schemes. I think about those men "from the East", PHDs in stargazing, who sacrificed a couple years (at least!) of their normal lives to adventure out into the unknown, with the hope and prayer that they would meet a Jewish King. When they found him, there was much rejoicing.

Doesn’t the “nativity scene” make interesting story? Did the Wise Men need to show up to give the whole miracle credibility? Or did God just want the story to be told, over and over again, in many different ways, by friends to friends and acquaintances to acquaintances? Are we remembering to tell our own crazy stories of the adventures we’ve embarked on and the things we believed in those moments that we could achieve?
As I look back and count the days of my unemployment, I see failure. As I look forward and contemplate the idea of moving out six months early, I feel fear. As I stop, and breathe slowly and deeply, I began to see the foolishness that tries to temp me to check that last item off my “to purchase” list, as if that act will make me “ready for Christmas”. As I stop, and breathe slowly and deeply, I start to hear the beating of my own precious life. I start to notice how the oak tree’s limbs are swaying in the wind. The rain came heavy and long out here, and the grass will grow green for a long, long time. I can accept my restlessness, my confusion and my anger in this winter season... I can mix it in with my laughter and my stories of amazement. I am making plans right now to hearken to my memory of Caleb’s face when I get discouraged today—to remember his pride in himself and his gratefulness for his community that was so evident in his expression the moment his father and I pulled him out of the frigid Santa Ynez River where he chose to be baptized. He had completed a “job well done”, and wasn’t afraid to celebrate and claim it. After gasping for breath, he beamed at the small crowd gathered around, and said loudly, “Now-- That will be memorable!”

It was.

Lies, Doubts, and Worrying

ON BEING A FIBBER
I am such a liar. I am not even trying to post on my blog every day this month. I have all kinds of reasons and excuses that wonderfully explain why I’ve been unable to meet such a goal: a faulty internet connection one night, surprise company for a few days, the power button I didn’t know about that disabled the soundproof window my internal editor was trapped behind.... I think there is another truth as to why I have already thrown in the dish rag. I think it is important for me to find. I want to understand why it is that writing is my best very friend and very worstest enemy. I’m tired of carrying around a fantasy that one day I’ll awake in a real author chrysalis, and then struggle rather effortlessly out into publishing flight-hood.


ON BEING A PESSIMIST
I am so ungrateful. I’m not even trying to enjoy the view outside my window, which could knock the socks off a centipede. We got loads of rain back here in the canyon, and the San Rafael foothills can be seen through the live oak’s branches, washed clean of all the dust and haze. The birds are going crazy in relief, because it was hotter than Kansas up here for a few weeks preceding the rain. Now the smell of sage and bay and growing things is intoxicating. Also, the tarantulas are coming out to mate again. I’ve already seen three of them this week. I like seeing them, even though they are a little creepy. I also like the family of tiny bats nesting in a corner of our carport overhang, and the adorable squeaking they make when we bother them in the daytime. My oldest niece is twelve now, and has a good command of subtle sarcastic humor. She noticed the bats one day, and the influx of cobwebs (spiders are working overtime to catch the first-rain insect hatches), and she said, “Wow, you guys decorate for Halloween early—nice decorations.”

Why can't I have child eyes like that, and see the wildness around me as decoration and celebration? why is gratefulness so far from me this week? How do I have patience with myself when my gut is rain soaked and fuzzy gray with a tarantula sized anxiety that can’t be walked away from?


ON BEING A WORRY-WART
Some of you will laugh in disbelief when I say this, but Caleb is failing Algebra. If you know my son, and the speed at which his brain stores mathematical information, you will understand my confusion over this situation, and how it adds to my general feeling of disillusionment and irritation. When my son was age 2 ½, he could play quietly for 45 minutes unsupervised, organizing matchbox cars or plastic toys into size, shape, and color categories. He could then spend another 1/2 hour making the categories more complex(i.e. alternating three trucks to every one motorcycle)... you get the picture. In fourth grade, when the kids in his class started leaving their hands in their laps and saying, “Just ask Caleb,” during every math lesson, we convinced his teacher to let him sit at the back of the classroom during math time, reviewing the fifth grade textbook. He aced all chapter tests of both grades that year, and has continued getting a perfect score on the yearly State math assessment since then. However, my son is considerably challenged by quick transitions and detailed organization of daily routines and tasks. Seventh grade has been a never-ending obstacle course for him, and a nail biting routine for Jason and I on the bleachers. It makes me a bit insane to not be able to “fix” the problem of roller coaster grades, and to watch such knowledge count for almost nothing on the educator’s success-o-rama scales. I am alternately inspirational speaker and Law Enforcement; rubbing his shoulders one minute then giving him the "You don’t even want to think about setting that pencil down” glare the next.
Perhaps the hardest part for me is not the Jekyll and Hyde act, but rather being forced to see the ways I too fail at succeeding at the things Caleb is worst at...planning ahead, sticking to the routine when more interesting things manifest themselves, shutting down the side-brain to similes, metaphors, and creative ponderings of the unseen mysteries of the universe when there is tedium to accomplish. I can relate to the rebellion that overtakes him. I wish the two of us could spend a week each month traveling the country and discussing great literature, providing fireside “talks” of poetry, essays, and theatrical reading entertainment, while raking in the dough. I wish I knew how to help myself fit in to this practical and pragmatic Western World we live in, so that I could give my son infallible coping skills. When I alternate between pity and punishment for his choices and behavior, I am not at my best. My best knows that he, (like all of us adults who made it to somewhat functional adulthood despite our teens)will find the clues he needs to adapt, and (hopefully) succeed in Algebra class. But in the meantime I ache for a thing that seems so reasonable yet so currently unachievable for a brilliantly unique kid like Caleb: a way for him to be true to himself, yet sail through the academic part of Seventh Grade.

Company

You will agree that five inches of rain over a couple of days is more than the average camping family can handle. Now imagine being a parent alone with a nursing newborn and three other children…. No wonder I got the privilege of surprise company for three days at my lovely canyon home near Paradise.

Our routine was punctuated by the changes that come naturally when company arrives. We stay up late, play card games, emphasize mealtimes. I could do these things in my daily life, but don’t usually. I find this interesting enough to expect you to bear with me as I speculate...

I am almost always grateful for last-minute invasions of friends and family into my space and schedule. Company at an unexpected time helps me put a new rhythm in my life; redefine what I can accomplish and re-prioritize basic elements of life like good food and conversation. I am reminded that when I think of folks as guests to be received, I don’t mind the extra sacrifice of time to feed them well and catch up on their life. In contrast to this, I sometimes begrudge this same sacrifice when it concerns the people I live with daily.

Why is that? In my current arrangement, Jason and I pitch in together to make most dinners happen, yet they seem like such a chore some nights, rarely a celebration. Conversation becomes a ritualized exchange of information vs. the thing I find when guests arrive: a spacious place to talk about one’s life.

I need to be reminded that the daily tasks of cooking, cleaning, eating can overlap with the talk of hopes and fears, disappointments and dreams. I need to have that extra motivation to pick up all the clutter in the house and make a space for sitting, dancing, reading.

I am reminded of a day five years ago, when my daughter strutted to the kitchen one Saturday morning and announced, “I am the guest today!”

I could avoid the growth to be gained by pondering that statement, and gloat over the good way I treat my family, friends, and neighbors. Or I can use this” teachable memory” to say, “Are my children still wishing they could be the guest who visits me?”

It is a sobering thing to think about. Most days, I think I forget to greet them with all the love I carry for them daily. I want the chores done, and the bills paid. I want gratitude and appreciation. I suppose I want from my husband and kids the very thing that is so hard to extend to them sometimes: the gracious invitation to sit down and relax, and catch up on life. I want to know this: when do I get to be the guest?

I think the answer to my question is startlingly obvious now that I ask it. I get to be the guest when I’m willing. I live in a family of folks who love to play games, go outside, listen to music, or snuggle up in front of the T.V., so the invitation to do those things is offered to me almost daily. The problem is, I’m worried about the household falling apart if I stop managing it. It is as if I think people won’t eat or sleep or pick up their things if I stop arranging it. Not that there isn’t some truth in that statement....

I relax most when I’m alone, and when the house is empty. Then I know no messes can grow unsupervised, or then I know that I’m not getting in anyone’s way. I’m grateful for an empty house today, even though I’m missing my friend and her kids who came to live with us for three days. It's good to value alone time again, and be grateful for it.

Recomending "The Soloist"

I watched “The Soloist” last weekend. It is a brilliant movie about a true story—a true friendship—that dramatically changed the lives of two men. In the beginning, one man is defined by his homeless and mental illness, while the other is defined by his job as a popular newspaper columnist. By the end, both are defined by the friendship they have made and the way it has completely changed large things in both their lives. It is movie that sheds light on a group of people normally in the dark: the homeless. It is a story that resonates with the truth that I’ve been discovering together with a group of friends here in Santa Barbara: friendships built between the “housed” and the “homeless” tend to throw open doors of possibility in the hearts and minds and lives of everyone involved.

That is pretty much all I have to write about today. Take my advice and watch “The Soloist” as soon as you are able. Watch the special features afterward, where you get to see and hear the real people that the actors played, or learn about the way the “extras” were located. Be amazed by the financial component of what it would save our country to end homelessness—how much less money it takes to offer services and support to individuals living in more stabilized situations.


Here are a couple quotes from a book about friendship that has me re-examining a lot of my beliefs and actions lately.

“Being genuinely present to someone also means being willing to be touched by him or her. If I genuinely bring myself to a relationship, I must be prepared to be changed by it.... Professional neutrality seeks to minimize this sort of influence on the one offering care, making all impact unidirectional. “

“Dialogue involves shared inquiry designed to increase the awareness and understanding of all parties.... In this process each participant touches and is touched by others. This result in each person’s being changed.”

from "Sacred Companions", by David G. Benner