at the bottom of the deep

They're all behind you
They'll never find you
They're on the ocean floor
Your sins are forgotten
They're on the bottom
Of the ocean floor

(Audio Adrenaline, Ocean Floor, 2009)


Into the ocean deep, I toss all of my troubles--those that weigh heavily on my mind and on my heart.


Misunderstandings rising from steaming piles of assumptions, creating a foul stench.

Unsubstantiated claims that could have filled balloons thought to have safely cleared the trees, but instead are found in pieces in someone's yard--colorful bits of stretchy nothingness.

Unasked inquiries decomposing and drawing flies.

An ever-changing, not-ready-for-stage drama becoming the standard by which all is measured--a script carved meticulously in stone before it had been edited for error.

The blurring of what happened with what became the accepted version of what must have happened, seen through the out-of-focus lenses of unreliable witnesses.

Uncertain responses never spoken, causing the mind to travel to a dark place and getting caught in its rip current, relentlessly carried out from the safety of the shore, but not from the steady gaze of the Lifeguard.

Exhaustion setting in. Rescue needed. The weight of this load causing me to go under. 


I make my offering to the sea. It sinks quickly and quietly to the depths which now hold remnants of persistent thoughts along with dashed hopes and unfulfilled longing.

All of this is laid to rest on the bottom of the ocean to drift among the random fisherman's boot, broken glass and rusted metal objects once considered necessary, rendered unidentifiable--almost.

Sunken in sand and seaweed, shells and rocks, what has been given to the deep transforms over time. It surfaces occasionally to be flung rhythmically by the waves into tiny pieces which are then warmed by the sun to become the soft ground on which my barefoot feet will walk.

With lightness of step, I walk on.

held in the light

She sat staring at the lab report, glancing over at me from time to time as she spoke mostly to herself, checking off where my hormonal levels are, based on the supplements I was to take to restore my health. Thyroid levels had improved, but nothing else had. It seemed, in fact, that the progress I was beginning to make, about nine months ago, on the regimen of vitamins and hormones toward greater health and vitality had taken a sharp turn before regressing into a state of fatigue, joint pain, and sleeplessness. A look of worry is not something a patient wants to see on her doctor's face.

Stress was again the culprit for my lack of energy and inability to heal. I had begun this health journey with hope and somewhere along the line had lost it. The lab report blared the truth loudly and clearly. Whether I had wanted to share with my doctor what had been going on in my life or not, one cannot escape provable scientific fact.

As a woman of faith, I pray. And yet, some days the pressures that come from living in this world threaten to overtake me: a work situation gone awry; assumptions made about me, devoid of truth; bills mocking me as I continue to stack them neatly on my desk; the health of my parents; and most recently, my search for a way to contribute to the household income so my teacher-husband will not have to work his second job as frequently as he does. In the midst of all this, good health eluded me.

Leaving her office with new prescriptions, I made my way home from a nearby city through rush-hour traffic, thankful to get into all the correct lanes for exits, as drivers zoomed by. I would spend only a few minutes at home debriefing before heading back out. I was too tired to do another thing, yet too tired not to go to what promised to be a few minutes of peace.

The Taize Community is an ecumenical monastic order in France composed of Catholics and Protestants who promote kindness, simplicity, and reconciliation. At a Society of Friends Meeting, a Taize service with musicians leading the chants, readers sharing Scripture passages, and a 20-minute time of silence, would guide us into a time of peace and rest. I had the requisite cup of strong coffee a couple of hours earlier so that the time of silence would not turn into a time of sleeping.

Sitting in this quiet, comfortable room with those seeking revelation, I noticed how the light from the candles created patterns across the floor, shining off the metal on the backs of some of the chairs. The faces of those sitting closer to the source of light were illuminated more than those of us sitting near the back, in the shadows. The closer we are to the Source of Light, the more we reflect light. Simple scientific fact--like my lab report. For over 20 minutes I had explored the state of the health of my body with my doctor and then in the 20 minutes of silence at the Taize service, I sat in the presence of the great Physician who restores my soul and reignites love in my spirit.

My prescription is to live a life of purpose, holding others in the Light, as the Quaker expression goes, with the hope that I will provide a greater reflection as I draw ever nearer to the Source of Light. May it be so.

race relations

At the end of the summer of 1985, I was the last passenger to board a plane in Denver heading east, dragging my Smith-Corona typewriter, as tears streamed down my face. It was the end of another questionable relationship, this time with a man who always pointed out when someone referred to him as Mexican that his family was not from Mexico; he was of Hispanic descent. He could not take me home to meet his family because I did not share his family's heritage, or at least this is what he told me before I found out about his girlfriend of similar heritage who had recently given birth to his son. He had written a farewell letter to me on the back of one of his pencil drawings he had given me, hoping I would someday read it when I decided to re-frame it or when that frame broke, which it did, along with my heart.

I would begin a new chapter of my life at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia, where I would learn more about race relations and poverty than I would learn about journalism. It was a place I chose to get a Master's degree after combing through one of those big books that contained information about colleges and universities. When I came across my Graduate Record Exam (GRE) scores in recent years, I had forgotten all of the places I had them sent: three small schools in Illinois, Arkansas State, Louisiana State at Baton Rouge, along with Marshall. I had never been to any of these schools. All I needed was a school to give me a graduate assistantship so tuition would be paid for, and Marshall was the one that met that requirement.

I wasn't even sure I should have been studying journalism since I had already received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Michigan State University and any journalism position I could get would not require a higher degree unless I wanted to go all the way to earning a PhD so I could teach at a college level. I had looked into studying Urban Development for reasons I cannot even remember. After abandoning my home state immediately after graduating from college the first time for Colorado, living on my friend's couch and touring with her band, eventually getting my own apartment and becoming a secretary and then a waitress at The Brown Palace Hotel, I needed to do something to get back on track. I think the real reason I went to graduate school is the academic world had always treated me better than the "real" world and I wanted to get back to a place where I could succeed.

Moving back into a dorm after years in my own apartment had its challenges. My roommate's sexual preference didn't bother me nearly as much as the fact that she lied on the application about not smoking. That, and her proclivity for listening to The Pointer Sisters at high volume first thing in the morning after coming in late at night from the biker bar where everyone knew her name. She is the one who insisted that I thought I was better than she was because I was a Christian and to whom I calmly explained that didn't make me better, I just knew where I was going when I died. She said she wanted to go to heaven, too, and would get her act together someday before the end of her life, which, I had mentioned casually, could very likely be that day.

Our biggest conflict, that of my roommate and I, did not revolve around her spiritual beliefs, health practices or even the fact that she was dating girls. The conflict between us had to do with whom I was dating. He was black.

I should have known there was more to the idea of interracial dating, when the guy I had been dating, editor of the university's literary journal who liked to talk about going to the Kentucky Derby with his family, dared me to date this undergraduate journalism student whose ancestors happened to be from Africa, as he laughed, probably drinking his mint julep in anticipation of race day. I didn't find the dare to be humorous or even understand why it was a dare. In any case, I took him up on it and he wasn't laughing then.

This new boyfriend's mother had been an African Methodist Episcopal (AME) minister who had died a few years prior to our meeting, leaving a gaping hole in his life and in the lives of his brother and father, an executive at a chemical company in Ohio. He was a straight-A student who bore a striking resemblance to the actor, Gregory Hines, who had portrayed a dancer, along with Mikhail Baryshnikov, in the movie White Nights that came out in 1985, a year before we met.

As journalism students, we had a lot in common. We even wrote a news story together about interracial dating that did not go over well with our professors when it was published in the university newspaper. I was told by the university photographer with whom I worked in the dark room every afternoon, developing photos to be published in the yearbook, that he had been told he was not allowed to ever publish a photo of an interracial couple. I got the feeling he had tried.

As Christians, our lives were more problematic as churches were segregated. Going to a white church together brought about a forced kindness and general coldness by the members, as he would be the only black man in attendance. The songs, as well as the Scriptures, seemed to be re-translated into a culturally accepted point of view. Walking across the railroad tracks, literally, we found ourselves at a black church with a name almost as long as its services. As college students we could not regularly devote ourselves to five hours of worship, but found the time on Sundays when there were covered dish luncheons. It was the best fried chicken I had ever eaten, and helped to soothe over how being stared at as the only white woman in the church by an entire row of the faithful had made me feel.

The general student population did not seem to care one way or another that we were dating at first. It did confuse them, however, that we were not fitting into the stereotypic black football player having a one-night stand with a white cheerleader story. We were serious students who studied together and went to church. We weren't doing what others thought we were doing and as time went on it somehow seemed to anger them when they realized our relationship was based on a true friendship. We found this out while walking through campus late one evening and having a bottle thrown at our heads, its shattered pieces glistening on the sidewalk the next day.

I would be called "casper" as in the ghost, "white bread" and "cracker" as I would make my way to the library or to class. This was not like the teasing I had endured about my hair color or freckles I had grown accustomed to all my life. These were angry, threatening voices, trying to break me. I continued to follow my conscience by intervening when a black girl was being hazed in my dorm, going to the dorm room of the suspected girl-in-question with my Bible in hand. She said she was a Christian. I wanted her to prove it.

In the end, it was not the color of our skin that ended our relationship, but our age difference and level of experience in dating. I was four years older and had already dated a wide variety of guys over the years. Though I was his first girlfriend, when temptation came knocking on his door one night, he succumbed, giving the title of first to her.

We would remain friends for a few years, meeting briefly in Los Angeles where he had an internship and then in Denver where I had returned, noticing that in neither place did anyone even raise an eyebrow as we walked together, two people of different racial backgrounds, talking and laughing about books and movies, and making observations about life the way writers do.



(I was reminded of this time in my life recently, in the midst of a nation at war with itself, and in no way am I casting judgment on Huntington, West Virginia or on Marshall University. Though my two years there would be fraught with the challenge of new experiences, it was the 1980's and change takes time. I would like to think that segregated churches are a thing of the past and that those from different cultural and ethnic backgrounds can live peacefully together, but it comes down to individual decisions and intentions--a hand opened to accept the hand of another instead of a hand drawn into a fist. It is easy to fear those with whom we do not break bread and difficult to take the time to consider how different any of us really is from another. We are all human beings bearing the image of our Creator. We, every single one of us, need to be loved. It is by His Spirit, we are able.)

where all the women are strong

I first heard of A Prairie Home Companion from a couple of guys frequently seen wearing camouflage and talking about hunting. They were students at Michigan State University, along with me and the girl who lived next door to me in my dorm, whom one of them dated. These were also the guys who talked that girl and I, along with a couple of others, to join them in "surviving" which meant camping outside near a railroad track on the other side of campus in February without a tent. It was great for the ones who were already dating; rather awkward for those of us who were not, but we had to survive so . . . .

I wouldn't take the time to listen to the News from Lake Wobegone until I was far from the little northern town near where I grew up and was living in the densely populated Capitol Hill neighborhood, within walking distance of downtown Denver, Colorado, a couple of years later. It was in that one-bedroom apartment, once a living room of an old house, that I would turn on my radio one Saturday night. I grew to love the radio show so much that even when I was invited out to do something with friends, I would sometimes turn them down preferring the "friendship" of the people who were in many ways more familiar to me, as their adventures were carefully recounted in hilarious detail by my favorite storyteller, Garrison Keillor.

When I left Colorado to attend graduate school in West Virginia, A Prairie Home Companion accompanied me. I saw a live performance of a similar type of show, Mountain Stage, in Charleston and found it enjoyable, but decided what I really needed to do was to go to Minnesota someday and see my favorite show. The same year I received my Master's degree, the show ended. I was heartbroken but figured I could at least listen to the small collection of cassette tapes I purchased or read a couple of Garrison's books when I felt lonely.

I was pretty sure I had grown up in a church like Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility and knew of the religious skirmishes that happen between churches in small town life. Ralph's Pretty Good Grocery reminded me of how limited our choices were but how we were determined to find contentment anyway. The Sidetrack Tap is the type of establishment that figures prominently in small town life, especially when severe weather precludes one from doing much else. I had eaten the food described that was brought to the socials and marched in the parades for the variety of holidays and festivals. Lake Wobegone was as real to me as any place I had ever been.

The show came back in another form from New York for a few years before returning to its original name and location about the time our first son was born. As a married couple before children, we could arrange our Saturday nights around its broadcast, or at least I could since my husband was working in restaurants at the time and rarely home at night. With children it became more of a challenge. When we moved from Denver to Grand Rapids, Michigan, listening to Garrison's soothing voice was one of the more stable aspects of life. Once we moved to North Carolina, we would sit down together to listen to A Prairie Home Companion and feel like we had plans on a Saturday night, even though we had no money.

With a couple more kids and weekend schedules that included more soccer than anything else, we would miss the Powdermilk Biscuit song and the catchy Bebopareebop Rhubarb Pie jingle. My memories of life on the farm near a small Lake Wobegone-ish town were fading as my life was now being lived in a three-bedroom brick ranch in a small subdivision in the South, just outside the city limits of a town the size of the one my family would travel to for Christmas shopping, an hour and a half away from the farm. Now, one no longer has to drive somewhere to obtain a certain item. Ordering on the internet can send that item to your door from anywhere in the world.

And yet, I still had not experienced a live production of A Prairie Home Companion. I was not sure I ever would.

Garrison Keillor came to do a monologue one time and we found the money to go, but this did not suffice. The movie came out and though I loved it, Meryl Streep being my favorite actor of all time, it would not be until about five years ago that I would sit at a local outdoor amphitheater eagerly awaiting, "Oh, hear that old piano, from down the avenue . . . " and suddenly there he was on stage, this very tall man with the black-framed glasses singing the songs I knew and loved.

At the break when most performers would be sitting down for a few minutes, Garrison walked among the gathered crowd leading us in the songs that used to be taught: patriotic songs, folk songs, and hymns. The crowd was diverse as he somehow figured out a long time ago how to draw in conservatives and liberals, Christians as well as those who would never darken the doorway of a church, old and young, those coming from small towns and those who only read about such things, Northerners and Southerners, people who have a sense of humor and the ability to appreciate a good story well told. A community singing together and for a little while putting aside differences of opinion to focus instead on what it takes to harmonize with one another is exactly what this radio program was created to do. But even if it wasn't and this result was all just an accident, as I read in an article in which Garrison said the whole thing should never have worked, it did and was a grand success whether he knows it or not. It gave us a couple of hours each week to do nothing but listen, laugh, and sing along, always feeling better for having done so.

"Well, that's the news from Lake Wobegone, where all the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and the children are above average."