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This Op-Ed was published in the Union Leader, June 23, 2023.

“You were wild once here. Don’t let them tame you.” Isadora Duncan (1877 – 1927)

ISADORA DUNCAN used her bare feet to pioneer a new dance form — modern dance — paving the way for the likes of Martha Graham. Girls and women today, particularly those associated with the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) and distraught over recent changes in church policy, might well benefit from contemplating such a spirit; one courageous enough to defy the conventional norms of her day to make her mark.

And courage it will take as the SBC — the world’s largest Baptist organization representing roughly 47,000 churches — has just moved to ban all churches with female pastors, making them, in my view, one of the most dangerous environments for our children, especially girls but also for women of all ages.

Citing biblical “authority,” the ramifications of this decision essentially mean that the male leaders have now taken it upon themselves to speak for God in all matters of church leadership. Females who may have heard the call to lead or may hear it in the future are warned not to trust such a heretical message. Instead, they should trust them, now representing the true “messengers” of the SBC as it is they alone who can discern the right path.

How tidy . . . and exploitative, enslaving, and purely misogynistic.  The decision is aimed at keeping women locked into social roles strictly defined by their patriarchy.

And it’s already having a profoundly damaging effect on our teen girls of faith. Consider the June 15th CNN story, “Southern Baptist Convention Votes to Uphold Removal of Saddleback Church Over Women Pastors after Appeal by Rick Warren.” Linda Barnes Popham, pastor for 30 years and ousted at Fern Creek Baptist in Louisville, Kentucky, recalls how a 14-year-old girl sought her out in the crowd and just “wept and wept” in her arms, telling her, “I’m 14 years old, and when I was 11, God called me to be a minister. And now I can’t do that in the family that I love.”

Spiritually banished from her calling, what does such a girl do or feel when she sees a boy her age called to ministry being lifted up and celebrated? What questions might ooze from this festering? “Why am I not enough?” And perhaps most heartbreaking, “Can I really trust the voice of God in my life?”

I have some personal authority to speak to this issue. I’ve been a minister since being ordained in 2005 and founded a church in 2011 — not just any church but one representing a new paradigm in ministry, an interfaith church. I’ve often said, “I’m so glad I’m not in charge of my life as I could’ve never seen it evolving in this way.” Yet, every time I paused or questioned, I learned to trust the voice of God and followed one step at a time. Nothing would have been possible without that voice leading the way.

Graciously, I’ve been blessed to have the full support of my husband of 40 years. This is why I stand shoulder to shoulder, resolute, proud, tall and true, with all young girls and women called to church leadership and with all the men in their lives who rise up to support them.

As I think of the SBC leadership, I fear for the future. How long might it be before it’s decided that just as women should not lead men in the church, they rightly shouldn’t lead men in any context?

Contemplating this trajectory, I can only surmise how truly frightened such men must be — terrified in fact — to contemplate being around strong, faith-filled women. Why else go to such means to silence and control them? This ironically speaks to just how powerful they know the women in their lives are or could be given the chance.  And they are right about that. We are powerful.

I say to all girls or women in the SBC who feel called to church leadership, follow in the spirit of an Isadora Duncan, or another woman who inspires you. Hold close and treasure the scriptures that have long whispered to your aching heart. Throw off your shoes, take to the path God has set before you and let your feet tell the story! Shout out your soul’s joy, free on the wind, far and wide!

Dance! Oh, lover of God! Shake off the judgements and decrees placed upon you. Dance long until you feel your untamed spirit return again — that Spirit made in the image of the Creator. Dance barefoot until you are again wild and free.

Published in the Concord Monitor, New Hampshire’s State capital newspaper, June 13, 2023.

Few topics stir emotions like gay pride. And many stem from religious roots. Protestant Christians, in particular, are deeply divided. While some churches welcome LGBTQ+ members and clergy, many more fundamental denominations strictly denounce lifestyles outside the bounds of traditional gender identification, rolls and practices.

Yet, all claim to believe in Jesus and the Bible. Nonreligious Americans also fall across a wide range on the opinion spectrum. There seems no bridge wide enough to carry us all.

Well, maybe. Recently I saw a scene from the movie “Come Sunday” that caused me to wonder. The movie tells the story of the downfall of evangelical megastar Bishop Carlton Pearson who once was a Republican activist in the Bush Senior White House, a guest on The 700 Club, host of a national TV show, and a jet setter who traveled the world lecturing to fundamentalist gatherings.

His downfall? Not an affair, embezzlement, or corrupt activity. No, his heretical crime was he stopped believing in hell and in God as the inventor of this customized torture chamber into which billions of people would be thrown simply because they’d rejected him, perhaps loved him through a different religion, or hadn’t been saved.

Yes, this was the God whose message he’d long preached but it’d all come undone watching a story on the evening news about the Hutus and Tutsis returning from Rwanda to Uganda. Simply, he couldn’t reconcile the starving mothers and children, with flies in the corners of their eyes and mouths, being sentenced to hell at their deaths—forever. It was a seminal moment and there was no going back.

In a final scene, Pearson comes face to face with a young man who’d long followed him on the well-trodden road to Christian salvation, one who’d struggled, and tried again and again to make himself different so that maybe, just maybe, he could get saved.

Reggie was a gay, Black man, who’d been diagnosed with lymphoma and was dying. He’d bought the warning of the torture chamber and was begging Bishop Pearson to give it one last try, to try and save him. Yet, his impassioned plea was inextricably woven with a clear sense of who he was . . .

“You know, I figured something out, Bishop. You know how you used to tell me, ‘Reggie, just stay strong, that doing gay and being gay is two different things.’ That was bullshit. I’m gay. It ain’t no choice. It just is. It is what I am. It’s who I am. And now God’s going to send me to hell for it . . . God’s gonna punish me for it all. I try so hard to get saved. Different people tried and it just never worked. But you could get me saved, right? I mean if anybody could do it you could do it. Will you do it? Will you? Cause God’s going to send me to hell.”

Bishop Pearson tries to tell Reggie he doesn’t need to get saved, and that, “When the time comes, you’ll be with Him.” But Reggie isn’t convinced.

Then, something happens. Pearson leaves behind explanations and ministerial posturing. It seems, perhaps, in that decisive moment he remembered the new commandment Jesus gave in John 13:34, “Love one another as I have loved you.” So, sitting close, face to face, with Reggie’s voice now cracking, he simply begins to sing softly, “Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong. They are weak but he is strong.”

And then Reggie, choaking back tears, joins in, “Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so . . .” And it felt to me that this pure, unmitigated, expression of love might just be the only thing capable of rescuing Reggie from the fear of hell.

Most of us, whether we consider ourselves religious, spiritual but not religious, or have long left the whole thing behind, have either experienced or witnessed the power of love. Maybe someone saw, affirmed, something beautiful, worthy, in us we couldn’t quite get to ourselves. Maybe there was someone who showed us about the kind of love that could reach beyond those we get, like, agree with, live like or love like. If so, we know we were the lucky ones.

Yes, it’s decidedly more difficult when looking at those we’ve come to believe are so vile or evil they deserve scorn, alienation or even eternity in hell. But it makes me wonder how our national conversation might shift if more of us could start with the basic premise that each of us, regardless of who we are, is worthy of love.

Who knows? Perhaps, together, we could build that bridge after all.

[For the complete story, see the 2005 interview (Transcript 304: Heretics) from This American Life, and Pearson’s book, The Gospel of Inclusion, Reaching Beyond Religious Fundamentalism to the True Love of God and Self.]

Everyone who was anyone already knew that Jack was the Keeper of the Squirrels. But hardly anyone knew he liked to collect acorns for the fireplace mantle at his grandparent’s wilderness camp, 3 Feathers.

And absolutely no one knew of the mysterious visit he received one day from the Spirit of the Acorn. Jack didn’t tell anyone as he thought it was all pretty weird! It happened one day on the dusty, gravel, drive right in front of the old cabin.   

He was out exploring when he heard, “Hey you! Up there! It’s me down here. I’m an acorn and have come to give you a special message. Listen up! I don’t have all day!”

Jack was startled and looked around to see if anyone had heard the talking acorn. But no one was around.

“Quick! We’ve only got a few minutes so pay attention,” said the Spirit of the Acorn.

Jack thought, “Oh boy, this is really looney.” But the Spirit of the Acorn kept talking.

“Now. You may not know it but I’m going to grow to be a mighty oak tree right here in this very yard. I may be little now but, one day, I’m going to stand really tall and strong.”

“Okay,” said Jack not believing he was talking to an acorn, “but what about my little pine tree over there my Uncle Mitch gave me, the one I planted several years ago?”

“Dude! We’re gonna grow up together and be best friends. Cool. Uh?” Jack wasn’t so sure.

“So, why are you talking to me?”

“Because I want you to know that, just like me and your little pine tree over there, you were made in a special way by the Great Spirit who already knows all you can be when you grow up. You may be little right now, but the Great Spirit has given you all you need to grow tall, strong and kind. Who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll visit us and see how tall and cool we are too!”

“Anyway,” the Spirit of the Acorn continued, “work hard and learn all you can but always remember the Great Spirit has made you in that special way. No one can ever be just like you and be who you are. Pretty cool, uh?”

Suddenly, Jack heard voices. “Shhhhhh!” he said as he quickly picked up the acorn and tucked it into his pocket hoping no one had heard them talking.

But later that night he thought, “I’m gonna find a special place to bury this acorn to help it grow big and tall just like me. And maybe one day I’ll come visit and get to see the mighty oak tree and my little pine tree all grown up.” And Jack did think that’d be pretty cool.

And the Spirit of the Acorn smiled.

This Opinion article was published by the Concord Monitor, our NH Capital’s newspaper, on April 30, 2023.

“The bond of our common humanity is stronger than the divisiveness of our fears and prejudices.” Former President Jimmy Carter

In the spirit of full disclosure, expressed in my opinion piece last year, I’m proud to be what some might call “woke.” But, even more importantly, as an Interfaith minister, I’m challenged to try and at least understand views different from my own, especially when I strongly disagree.

So, I make it a practice to regularly check in on a variety of news outlets. And over time, I’ve discovered something I didn’t expect, a common thread: fear, particularly a fear of fascism.

In general, those aligned with the far-right, point to fascism being played out through such means as censoring free speech, misusing the FBI and DOJ against opponents, attacking the Bill of Rights, particularly the Second Amendment, dismantling traditional family values as well as undermining our nation’s founding principles and biblical heritage.

Those aligned with the far-left, point to the escalation of fascism through the rise of Christian nationalism, highlighting the censoring of free speech as well, eliminating reproductive rights, reshaping freedoms and options for women and girls, heralding white supremacy, the patriarchy, and by marginalizing minority populations.

Both sides favor the term fascist to describe the other and, as a result, fear exactly the same thing: being politically controlled, losing the freedom to live as they choose.

Sadly, many on both sides, fueled largely by social media prejudicial name calling, stereotyping and right out bullying, have come to accept, even desire, the possibility of separating from the other to happily cohabitate with those they deem like-minded.

Is it any wonder in this climate we could find Carter’s words to be simply platitudes from a bygone time? Well, maybe not. Because both sides are, in part, influenced by differing religious and spiritual underpinnings, I offer one small snapshot, one brief experience, I shared in my 2018 TEDx talk, that still leaves me with hope. I call it, “The Mormons and Me,” and it happened not that long ago.

One balmy afternoon, I was relaxing in my hammock when I heard voices.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I looked up and saw Mormon missionaries coming onto my patio. Now, normally, I avoid all forms of proselytizing and politely turn visitors away as quickly as possible. But, on this particular day, I was feeling quite spacious and found myself inviting them to sit at my patio table.

As the conversation began, they casually asked what I did. “I’m an Interfaith minister,” I said. “I serve the Tree of Life Interfaith Temple in Amherst.” A silence. And then there was that look we Interfaith ministers often get when announcing our calling.

“I’m not sure what that is,” said one of my visitors. “Are you Christian?”

“I believe in Jesus and in the Bible but I also believe God is expressed through all religions. You see, I’ve spent many years studying the major world religions and experiencing their spiritual practices. Everywhere I’ve landed I’ve found God. So, in the end, I became an Interfaith minister because I couldn’t choose one faith over the others.”

Then, hesitantly, “You believe in Jesus and the Bible but have you been saved?”

“Oh, my God, yes! A million times every day!”

Another pause. I sensed this was not a scenario covered in their missionary training. Then, I decided to use the lull to ask something I’d always wanted to know.

“I can imagine it must take such courage and conviction to take your faith door to door. Could you tell me more about that? I’d love to know what brought you to God and to sharing your faith in this way.”

They each gladly shared their stories and it felt truly wonderful to listen. What seemed like only a few minutes turned into an afternoon’s leisurely visit in the summer’s shade. As our time ended, I was no closer to becoming a Mormon than they were to becoming Interfaith but we were able to part amicably, sincerely wishing one another well.

We’d shared something deeply personal, our search for true meaning. And while our journeys had led us to different conclusions, we’d discovered together our common humanity, and had connected through our mutual love for God. As I watched them walk down the driveway, I felt, “They’re my friends, my brothers.”

Fascism? Not when there’s a table where people of different beliefs can sit together, share and truly listen. Yes, it can be challenging, even a bit disarming to recognize glimpses of ourselves in others whom we may have thought to be so different. Yet, it can also be freeing and liberating allowing fear and prejudice to dissipate, making room for some new connection we may not have thought possible.

Yes, I believe there is hope — one table, one conversation at a time.

It was something about those smiles, all bright and shiny on the young faces of the girls of SOLA, aired on 60 Minutes, February 26, 2023. SOLA is the Afghan word for peace and also stands for School of Leadership Afghanistan. Its founder, Shabana Basij-Rasikh, was featured on the program and she impressed me as a kind of girls’ warrior, the embodiment of stealth courage, infused with a clear sense of purpose, the kind that rises to the surface when one is unwavering, fully committed, to a cause. Her cause? Educating Afghan girls to become leaders in their chosen fields. Today the school is thriving in Rwanda, following a harrowing escape from Afghanistan in August of 2021 when US troops were abruptly withdrawn, and the country fell into chaos.

As the young girls were interviewed, they shared their dreams for the future. What did they want to be? A surgeon, architect, politician, spy (made me chuckle) to name a few. I was struck by their faces all lit up with the innocence of, “The world is my oyster. Anything is possible!” But, in the next moment, my heart sank when I was reminded of the status of all the girls and women still left behind living under Taliban rule. No education beyond the 6^th grade. No venturing outside alone. Must always be fully covered.

Silenced. Hidden. Invisible.

It’s interesting to me that we can spend billions of dollars to support the freedom and sovereignty of Ukraine (which I fully endorse) but leave behind, turn away from, half a nation’s population to live in tyranny, imprisoned in plain sight. Are they not as worthy of a commitment from the free world as the people of Ukraine? Who fights for them in equal measure?

I suspect many contemplating this life under Taliban rule might try to quickly dismiss any rising discomfort with such well-accepted notions as we shouldn’t be interfering with the religious norms and practices of other countries. I confess I too, at times, have felt the same. Until I saw those faces, the shinning ones. And, by contrast, the covered ones I couldn’t see but so wanted to.

As an interfaith minister, my life’s work has been about finding unity in diversity. I’ve often said it’s fundamental that we strive to at least respect religious differences even when we personally disagree. But to enslave girls and women, making them prisoners in their own homes, and to deny them to be seen or heard in any regard outside of their cells, well, is simply not okay and must NOT be tolerated by the free world. And such enslavement cannot be allowed to thrive behind a fictitiously created shield of professed religious legitimacy. In my view, this is not so much about the religion of Islam, which has brought us many beautiful sacred teachings and practices, as it is about the sanctioning of pervasive gender-based exploitation. It’s an egregious abusive of power. Pure and simple.

And as I looked at the images of the women of Afghanistan completely covered, I could only wonder what is being lost to us. The Native American Ute have a saying, “God gives each of us a song.” I think of our unique song as that which naturally draws us toward what we love. It can be a vocation or avocation. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that when we are moved to do what we love, we naturally come alive, and our soul’s song goes out to serve all around us in ways we may rarely recognize.

What songs are being lost to us hidden just behind the veil of the Burqa? What dreams lie dormant waiting for fresh air, fertile ground, and the light of day? Recalling the dreams of the girls of SOLA, what new medical advances may be germinating? What engineering wonders wait to grace the sky? What speeches remain unspoken, ones that could move and inspire many for generations? And, what skills, creations, inventions, works born of struggle, sweat and wonder, wait just beyond the veil? We cannot know.  

Imagine with me for a moment a young girl or woman you love, how it might feel to see her locked away hidden from sight, her voice hushed and monitored; to imagine just how hard she tries to stand again each day struggling under the weight of oppressive helplessness; yet we pray, hope beyond hope that, still, she clings fast to her dreams, the ones that can’t fail to make her shine, if only in the dark, secret shadows, of night.  

Perhaps, if we could imagine, it would spur each of us to become a girls’ warrior so, never again, could a shinning face be dulled and hidden, a dream banished, and no song could forever remain unsung.  

Sometimes something happens that brings what’s left, when all else falls away, to the surface. Like one of those pearls resting in the ocean floor suddenly being loosened to rise up. Exposed. Pure. Treasured.

We had such a time over the holiday season. I won’t go into the details, but I will say that, most blessedly, all is well now. But I’m still holding that precious pearl close.

Over the holidays, my dear husband made me the most beautiful card. He’d painted a cabin scene and wrote the sweetest words. I’d been thinking I’d like to do something special for him this Valentines. Then, most unexpectedly, an idea came from watching the Super Bowl—well, sort of. It all started listening to Chris Stapleton sing the National Anthem. Amazing.

When I was young, I used to listen to a lot of country music in the vein of Don Williams, Kenny Rogers, the Judds, and Vince Gill. It’d been a while but there was something about Stapleton’s sound that made me look him up. That led me to a YouTube video of him singing, “Whenever You Come Around,” at a CMT Giants event honoring Vince Gill. And when you smile that smile, the world turns upside down, whenever you come around. Oh my. Trouble is, though, unless you already knew the full lyrics, you’d miss a lot. So, I looked up the original version recorded by Vince Gill. Beautiful.

And as I listened, I cried. Sometimes a good ole’ country song says just what all the lofty musings can’t. Suddenly, I could feel behind my gray hair, wrinkles, and sagging skin that young woman who could blush and giggle anytime he’d smile that smile. And all these years later, that smile, from across the room, can still make me smile that young woman, yet shy-like-a-girl, smile. So, I wrote a poem for my sweet husband called, “When You Smile That Smile.” I won’t share it all here but will share just the ending . . .

When I was young

I ran fast into your arms

Now I am old

But with just a look

Can still come undone . . .

Cause when you smile that smile

And I feel your heart’s tug

I know I’m forever

Just a young woman in love

I’m aware that there are those reading this who, perhaps, have never felt this way. I can tell you there was a time I didn’t either. Both my husband and I had been married before to very good people and, from those unions, had beautiful children. Eventually, though, it was our fate to find one another and, for me, that smile. But we’ve never, not even for a moment, taken what we’ve been blessed to have for granted.

Or, perhaps, you once had such a love but your loved one is no longer with us. Such is the deep price of love I can most clearly feel now since our recent experience. But would I choose to give up the love to avoid the pain? Never. For the pearl, containing both in the darkness of the ocean floor, when it comes into the light, knows only love.

And on this Valentine’s Day I’m remembering too that there are different types of love because, as they say, we’re each a spiritual being having a human experience. True. Many of you have read my books, poems and other writing spilling out my love for God.

But, today, I’m most grateful to my beloved God for giving me this life, this moment . . .

to simply see, one-more-time-please that smile . . .  

the one that instantly makes me . . .just a young woman in love.

This article was published in the Concord Monitor on February 7, 2023

“How do I talk to a little flower? Through it I talk to the Infinite. And what is the Infinite? It is that still small voice that calls up the fairies.” Dr. George Washington Carver

Having been an interfaith minister for almost twenty years, I have hundreds of books in my personal library on a wide variety of theological and spiritual topics. But one short, sixty–two–page booklet, is one of my most favorites: The Man Who Talks with the Flowers: The Life Story of Dr. George Washington Carver by Glenn Clark. It’s the source for this article offered in celebration of Black History Month.  

Most people know GW Carver as the one who discovered over three hundred uses for the peanut and over one hundred and fifty uses for the sweet potato. Some may remember him as a renowned agricultural scientist, a Black man who lived in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, who always wore a flower in the buttonhole of his jacket—the old, scruffy, black one—he bought for about $2.00.

But few know of his deeply spiritual side and to what and to whom he credited his amazing discoveries. A clue: consider how he started each day.

“All my life I have risen regularly at four o’clock and have gone into the woods and talked with God. There he gives me my orders for the day. After my morning’s talk with God, I go into my laboratory and begin to carry out his wishes.”

And when asked, “You have a habit of talking to the little flower or peanut and making it give up its secrets. How do you do it?”

“You have to love it enough,” answered Carver. “Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough.” And he added, “When I silently commune with people, they give up their secrets also—if you love them enough.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about this love. I don’t think it’s the more common emotional love we’re used to that can grow and wain with circumstance. No. I think the love Carver was referring to is what I would call devotional love—a love so complete unto itself that it needs nothing. For example. when I’m able to listen to, say, another person with this kind of love, my own agenda, thoughts, imagined replies are not playing in the background waiting to chime in. I’m able to be completely present to the one right in front of me because I’m not in the way. Simple, yes but, surely, not easy. But just imagine what might happen, how it could shift our national dialogue, if more of us strived to do this with one another.

For Carver, the ability to extract information from the peanut, sweet potato, clays of the hills, the flower or just to create a heart-space within which another person could land, was directly related to those early morning talks with God. He didn’t need to spend his time searching for approval, agreement or validation from others because he already knew himself to be a child of God of God and knew his Creator would guide him to serve the greatest good.  

He’s best known for being able to talk with the flowers as he felt they were windows through which he could see the face of God. Toward the end of his life, he shared an important message he’d received from a little flower: “It told me there is going to be a great spiritual awakening in the world, and it’s going to come from people connected with you and me, from plain, simple people who know, not merely believe, but actually know God answers prayer. It’s going to arise from men who are going about their work and putting God into what they do, from men who believe in prayer, and want to make God real to mankind.”

While Carver was a Christian, I don’t believe it matters what faith tradition you practice as all religions can agree that God is love. But the life of GW Carver gives us a glimpse into just what that love might look like in real life—emanating from the peanut, sweet potato, clays of the hills, flowers, and, most blessedly, from the hearts of our fellow brothers and sisters.

Can we too imagine loving enough to see all creation as that window through which our Creator speaks? Can we too love enough to join hands across faith traditions, with all God’s children, to create that great spiritual awakening? It just may be, in the end, what’s needed to save us, our world, from escalating chaos and destruction.

But, like GW Carver, I have hope that it’s possible. Why? The flower said so.

It’s almost the New Year and many folks are considering New Year resolutions. Me too. But today I’m not thinking of just the future. Today I’m taking a stroll back . . . back to recapture moments . . . something like rummaging through an old cedar chest . . . to find snapshots from long ago . . . just waiting there to be held and remembered, still and quiet, in the vapers of time.

In my human journey, I am my past. And I am my future. As I sit and embrace both, I find the sacred beauty of the present moment, spacious enough to hold both, all of me. It’s where I see the many faces of love that have graced my life and where I can pause and hold each one a bit more tenderly. In those moments, I am full, whole and complete. And it touches a sweet longing in me, deep and true. I wrote a poem about it called “Before I Knew.”

Before I Knew

It’s right below the surface

that pool of tears . . .

Not tears of sorrow or joy

But of a sweet longing that runs deep

A longing to recapture you

in that moment long ago . . .

To hold you close again

before I knew

it would be gone

forever

The poignancy of life, those moments that can fully disarm us leaving only the pulse of love for this amazing gift we’ve been given called life, is, in the end, all that really matters. It invites us to live fully into each moment before it is gone. Don’t blink! Touch it. Kiss it. Hold it close. But the good news is, if we’ve missed it, or just want to remember, we can always return to the cedar chest, quietly waiting in a distant chamber of our heart, where each tender moment yearns for our return.

Here are some of the pictures I found in my cedar chest. Maybe you’ll be inspired to revisit yours . . .  

I already knew the place had been well loved. This wilderness camp we’d come to call 3 Feathers. I knew long before I’d heard of the Mormon family that had built the cabin from trees off the land some fifty years ago. How they’d arranged the logs across the ceiling in the living area in alphabetical order: Beech, Birch, Hickory, Maple, Red Oak and White Oak. Before I knew why there were big hooks on the ceiling and scattered on trees around the cabin, and why there’d once been a zipline chair down to the road—the husband loved swings.

Before we’d met the woman who’d owned the cabin and land the longest, twenty–three years. How she’d added the screen porch saying she wanted to feel just like she was in the woods, replaced the two huge boulders out front for steps, and added a flower bed. Though alone, she said she was never afraid and that just being there was a sweet respite from her busy city job.

Before she’d sold it to a family in Massachusetts who only owned it a few years before it’d found us. They hadn’t visited much so when we bought it there was a certain silence about the place. Clearly well loved, yes, but silent. Not even birds came to our new birdfeeders.

So, Doug, my husband, and I took cornmeal and my drum and we went around the cabin and surrounding land singing to the Spirit of the Place and offering it a blessing. Mostly, we gave it our love. Within just a few weeks our birdfeeders became home to a wide variety of birds. We saw our first bear on our crittercam who’d come to check out the place, and I got to know the tree that held up the foot of my hammock. It’s just what happens when you love a place. Not with the kind of emotional love full of need but, rather, with a more devotional love that seeks connection, not completion.  

We all think of cleaning our living places, repairing what’s broken, maintaining. But do we think of blessing the space that surrounds, holds and supports us in so many ways day after day? Do we think of offering its Spirit our gratitude and love? Instead of decorating to the latest trends, what might happen if we just went about surrounding ourselves with all the things that most tenderly brought us to love? What might happen if we more clearly understood that just like our rock, plant, animal and human friends, where love only thrives from reciprocity, our surrounding places also have a Spirit seeking, not to merge with us, but rather to dance with us in mutual care and delight?

What if we suddenly knew the Spirit of a Place had as much to give, to teach us, as we to offer it? Perhaps then we’d find ourselves, more often, gently resting in its essence . . .

sheltered and at peace.

Below are some pictures of how we’ve loved our blessed 3 Feathers . . . and how it’s loved us in return . . . enjoy!

Love this picture!!

I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The first time I heard the term “woke” it was used in a derogatory way to describe people on the political left. Like me. Curious, I decided to find out just what it meant. I learned the term originally emerged in the 1930s in a recording by Lead Belly, and later by Erykah Badu, to signal attention to the social and political issues affecting African Americans. In 2014, following the killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, it became a cautionary watchword in the Black Lives Matter movement meaning to stay awake to police brutality and unjust practices. Since then, the term has taken on a more generalized meaning and now is often used as a catchall for leftist social justice politics.      

Interesting. It seems in our current climate of increased polarization, hate speech, violent rhetoric, and mass shootings—in a country where anyone eighteen or older can carry a weapon of war—I’d say, if you’re not “woke” to your surrounding conditions, you’re not paying attention. As a nation, we are simmering on a high flame toward a boil and anyone of us, at any time, can be collateral damage in some indiscriminate act of terror. Now, no matter our race, religion or political party, we are each someone’s enemy. Now, sadly, drawing from its original meaning and use, we could say it behooves all of us to stay as “woke” as possible.

But I believe most people, across the political spectrum, don’t want to live in such a climate of hate and distrust and, in particular, don’t want to be responsible for the potential fallout of such a state of affairs on our children and grandchildren. We recognize childish bullying for what it is, masquerading too frequently now as normalized political discourse. We see the extremism, emanating from the far corners of both political parties, religious groups, and nationalistic movements promoting ideologies that thrive on divisiveness. And many of us are disgusted, feed up and simply exhausted.    

The irony is, if we removed the labels Democrat and Republican, we’d likely find the majority of Americans would feel quite comfortable, if not proud, to be called “woke,” as the term is more often used today. For example, to me, “woke” now means striving to overcome barriers to an atmosphere of tolerance, even when inclusion feels incompatible to personal beliefs and points of view. It means a desire to legislate reasonable gun control so we can send our children to school with less fear of a mass shooting. It stands for a yearning to think of ourselves as a people worthy of our Statue of Liberty, a people who welcome immigrants fleeing rampant persecution with an immigration policy that is both compassionate as well as judicious.   

“Woke” now means we want the government out of our doctor’s offices, bedrooms and healthcare decision–making, and that we’d never think to require a ten–year–old girl, or any woman, to endure a pregnancy, in particular, started by incest or rape. It means we herald free speech in our schools, encouraging children to practice the Golden Rule and older students to engage in real dialogue and examination of where we’ve been and who we are as a people, and how even the greatest nation on earth can do better. And, finally, at its core, “woke” means we want an American democracy run by the people, from the bottom up, and not by a theocracy that legislates unilateral beliefs and values from the top down. Yes, I, for one, now stand proud to be called “woke” and suspect there are many Americans, from across the political divide, who would stand with me.

Can we imagine unarming our hearts so we could, at last, see the truth of what we have in common? The place where, regardless of our political party, religious affiliation, racial or ethnic status, we could join hands in the spirit of common purpose and unconditional love to work together to form a more perfect union—where life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, for all peoples, could, at last, become the final word in reality.