“You’re retired, why would you need a vacation?”

Because you can gather with your logical family, and get away from home and all of the home chores, and go to a cottage and do cottage chores.

While we worked every day, we made sure not to work the whole day. There was one excursion to our sailboat for pure pleasure. There was laughter, a trip to a restaurant, and more than one trip to the pub. Oh, and a trip to the dump.

I did take a break from writing, but I finished two books.

The first one I finished was “Swell’ by Liz Clark. She’s a young woman who graduated with a degree in environment studies from UC Santa Barbara. She’s an avid surfer. A professor friend wanted to assist her dream in sailing around the world and offered his sailboat. When the boat proved to be too small for the voyage, he helped her buy a boat – a Cal 40. He lived vicariously though her emails and phone calls. While her story included the inevitable tales of boat repair in exotic locations, it wasn’t really about the boat. It was about her growth as a woman, the sexist culture in the Pacific Islands, and a developing sense of confidence as a skipper. She learned she could do just about anything, and she learned how one egotistical, jealous lover could just about destroy everything. There’s a lot I don’t know about surfing, like everything really. I recommend the book as it describes the true power of a mentor facilitating someone’s dreams. In the ten years or so of her journey (spoiler – she doesn’t complete a circumnavigation), she becomes a rather amazing person and a great storyteller.

The second book was ‘The Living Great Lakes’ by Jerry Dennis. He tells the tales of the five Great Lakes while weaving in a story of signing on as crew to ferry a ferro-cement (yes, a concrete boat) from Traverse City to Maine. It’s an older book, but still a very interesting read for anyone that has fallen in love with these Great Lakes.

So as I sit here in a recliner, looking out at a foggy Lake Michigan, on the last day of the working and playing vacation, with still another day to play upon our sailboat before going home, Bell’s Oberon at my side, I bid you all the happiness you can stand.

Oh, I should mention that there’s a new URL for this blog: featherinthewilderness.com I decided that I really enjoy these reflections that I write, and the title.

Facebook reminded me that my birthday was a month away and wouldn’t I like to raise money for a cause that was important to me. Gut reaction was: I wonder how big a cut Facebook takes from the donations? Since then I have been pondering: what causes are important to me?

Mental health is really important to me. Having cycled through deep depression a few times, I wish this was a cause that you could raise money for and resolve it. I’ve written before about how you can help when people you care about are in depression. Mostly, what I think you should do is to put the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline phone number as a contact in your phone, and share that contact with others. If being able to call the hotline by asking Siri or another digital assistant makes a difference, and I think it might, please add them: (800) 273-8255 Hey, Siri, call the National Suicide Presentation Lifeline… Makes sense, right?

Comprehensive sexuality education is a volunteer activity that I have found rewarding for the past twenty years. I work mainly with high schoolers and giving my time and accurate information has made a difference in their lives as well as mine. You could donate money to the United Church of Christ or the Unitarian Universalist Association to support Our Whole Lives, or better yet, if you feel so called to serve, volunteer to be a facilitator in your UUA or UCC congregation.

I really enjoy bicycling, and I’ve really found bike lanes and bike paths make our neighborhoods better places to live. You can support that by joining the League of American Bicyclists, vote for millages that expand bicycling infrastructure, or riding your bike. What I really wish is that people wouldn’t use their mobile phones while driving, and pay attention to us vulnerable users of the roads we use in common. If you want to get a sense of what it feels like to be passed by a motorist at speed, stand on a curb along a roadway where the speed limit is 45 mph or higher. Does it make you nervous? Is it better when the motorist is driving slower or a full lane away? If it is safe for you, slow down and give a lane to the bikes. You might get a mental gold star from the bicyclist you pass.

Maybe the cause that I’d really like to see is that people would be kind. I know that I’m not always kind. Usually, I feel badly when I’m not as kind as I could be, and I try to do better. I know I get bothered when people that drive act like they’re the only ones on the road. Or I might reply to an email without giving more thought to my words.

So perhaps that’s my cause. Be kind to one another. No great sums of money need to be raised. Make space for cars to merge on the highway, even the ones that blow past and cut in at the last second. Let that angry email go, and don’t reply, or certainly don’t reply right away. Take a walk to pick up trash. Smile. Show your love.

I like bicycling by myself. I like bicycling with others, too. But lately, what I have observed is how bicycling occupies part of my mind. That part focuses on potholes and pedestrians, bicycles, bollards and broken glass. I guess it’s then when my subconscious can sneak phrases of truth to the higher levels.

It was during one bicycle trip a few months ago to see David, my therapist. Somewhere along the River Trail the phrase “I think I’m going to make it” bubbled up. Later on, during my session as I was describing how I was feeling, there it was again. I think I’m going to make it.

During these depressive phases that I go through, it seems that the part of my brain that focuses on road hazards is focused on my foibles and failures. Every way that I am not the kind of person I want to be grows into dense layer that holds me away from life itself.

I am a good man. People will tell me that from time to time. Depression brain usually replies with a one-syllable utterance, or at best, ‘I try.’ In the glass half-empty, or maybe more accurately a cracked glass, the phrase slips through quickly and is gone.

And then last week, bicycling to therapy, I was surprised when I had this thought: ‘I am a good man.’ (This is not a way to seek your affirmations – rather, it’s my self-affirmation that is most important) I have not felt that I was good for a long time and it’s taken some months of time and therapy to get back there.

And last week, sometime into my session with David, I said, ”I am a good man.” “I am so glad to hear you say that,” said David, “because you are.”

I think I am going to make it. I am a good man. I wonder what subconscious phrase will bubble up on my bicycle ride today.

Think back to the last time you introduced yourself to a new person.

What did you say?

What was the first thing you said? Likely, it was your name, how you wished to be addressed. And then what? At church, it’s usually my pronouns. In other settings, among males, it’s occupation, or former occupation. And then what? Location, where you live. And then what?

Often from there, it’s family structure: married or not, children or not, and so on.

When do you get into the real stuff? The really real stuff. The times you succeeded, or the times you failed? The experiences that have shaped your life. The people that you’ve loved and lost, the people that passed through your life and changed you for good.

The intersectionality of all of the ‘yous’ that you are, each part identifies and differentiates. Those parts you claim, and those parts that others chose to call you.

What more do I say?

Do I mention that… …that dark shadow that sometimes overwhelms me.

Do I mention that… …at times, I have simply wanted to be done with life.

Do I mention that… …death doesn’t scare me, because I’ve seen worse.

Do I mention that… …I think there are some things beyond our comprehension, and I don’t think it’s the common definition of God.

Do I mention that…

Do I mention that…

Do I mention that…

I’ve been reading Parker Palmer new book: ON the BRINK of EVERYTHING.

I read it slowly, savoring every paragraph, reflecting on it every few pages.

You remember I have depression, and now, a few months into feeling good, I can see when this latest episode got started. It was a full five years before I sought treatment in March of 2017. One of my goals is to catch it earlier next time, as there is likely to be a next time. I’m okay with that. I’ll probably stay on meds now, and I’m okay with that, too.

Two paragraphs from Palmer’s book has resonated with me, and I’ll share them with you now.

“Even the most devastating experience can be a doorway to contemplation. At least, that’s been true for me in the wake of my depressions. While you are down there, reality disappears. Everything is illusion foisted on you by the self-destructive “voice of depression,” the voice that keeps telling you you are a waste of space, the world is a torture chamber, and nothing short of death can give you peace. But as you emerge, problems become manageable again, and everyday realities—a crimson glow on the horizon, a friend’s love, a stranger’s kindness, another precious day of life—present themselves as the treasures they truly are.”

“I’m a “contemplative by catastrophe.” My wake-up calls generally come after the wreck has happened and I’m trying to dig my way out of the debris. I do not recommend this path as a conscious choice. But if you, dear reader, have a story similar to mine, I come as the bearer of glad tidings. Catastrophe, too, can be a contemplative path, pitches and perilous as it may be.”

Next time, I’ll catch it sooner. In the meantime, I’ll accept everyday realities as the treasures they truly are.

Peace to you.

Sitting in my chair, freshly brewed coffee in my mug, I’m staring out across the trees shrouded in fog. Staring into space is one of my luxuries in that brief time from just a few minutes before dawn until it’s time to rouse out the rest of the family, all belonging to other parents.

‘This is good,’ my internal dialogue goes, ‘this is a simple life.’ I no more think that until my mental eraser comes out. There is nothing simple or straight-forward in rural Tennessee. Certainly not the road that carries us the twenty-two miles from Lee and Dorothy Crabtree’s lovely home to the Morgan-Scott project. Nothing simple in planning meals, or construction projects, when it might well be thirty miles one way to get supplies. Living here, near the top of the ridge on Sawmill Road, is way more complex than my urban life back home.

‘Why don’t you stay home and work on homes in your city, and sleep in your own bed?’ says one of my distant friends. Why, indeed. There’s certainly a need for volunteer work in Lansing. For me, it’s the people. The spirit within our hosts who have graciously given us this basement apartment for a week, the spirit within Ella and Bill, Junior and Crystal, Pastor Tom. Each giving of themselves to care for others, a sense of generosity that flows deeply in all they do.

Almost always we are overwhelmed by the generosity of the homeowner’s whose homes we are working on. Jack and Doris, 91 and 88 respectively, who made lunch-time dinner for five people they have never met, nor likely to see again. We did the very best work we could do on the 4×8 deck, and 4×10 ramp. These wooden parts are put together with care so that Jack and Doris will be able get in and out of their home safely.

The roads in this neck of the woods are twisty-turny, requiring your full attention even when you’re sweaty and tired from working in the hot and humid weather. Google Maps tells me that our commute would take over three hours from our home away from home, to our worksites, and the project. There’s some eight thousand feet of uphill, and over eight thousand feet down. Get out your road atlas and look at I-75 from Kentucky into Tennessee. Most maps show this area that we laughed, cried and sweat from our eyes to our toes as empty space. This is not a simple life, no, far from a simple life. But for a week or two, every year or two, this becomes my life and my home.

My readers will remember my surprise weight loss and my anxiety about getting the test results back. I got some of the blood work results, just what was outside of parameters. (I am hopeful to get the full results to how the other things fit together with previous tests over the years) My fasting glucose was was higher than it’s been – 115, so my doctor and I will decide what we can do to lower that. My Vitamin D level was high as well – should be since I’ve been on a large dose every day for nine months. Cutting back on the supplement will solve that issue.

All in all, good news.

But what I am mainly feeling anxious about is going to Tennessee today to work with the Morgan-Scott Project. It’s a little unreasonable to feel anxious, but nevertheless I feel it. I was there with a group from my church, Edgewood United Church. it was hot, as it often is, and we had opted to stay in a house that was loaned to us and had air conditioning. Unfortunately, there was a small roof leak that made a corner of our bedroom wet, and there was mold in the air conditioning ducts. That combined with the previous week’s work in a house where the floor joists had rotted into the ground had set me up. It set me up for a nighttime asthma attack that had me questioning if I was going to be able to breathe another breath.

Anxious is something I do really well. I guess that’s something for me to work on. Cognitively, I know I’m staying in a different place, and I’ve got a rescue inhaler, so there will be no problem in Tennessee.

Same with my health, rationally I know that I am in good health and these are minor bumps compared to what I’ve already faced in life, but still…. and that’s the time for closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. And another. And another.

I know that the anxiety isn’t helpful, and most, sometimes, occasionally, I can let it go. Things usually turn out the way they are going to turn out without my fretting.

Time for another deep breath.

I purchased a copy of Parker Palmer’s new book: ON the BRINK of EVERYTHING. It’s a slow read for me, one, because I’m savoring it, and two, because I’m taking time to feel the words and let them take me to the weeping places.

Palmer is clearly an avid reader, and has selected poems, not of his own, but of others, that say what needs to be said. Jeanne Lohmann writes in her poem, Invocation, words that resonate within me: “Our words are feathers that fly on our breath. Let them go in a holy direction.” Words are feathers. Let that sink in.

Next, Palmer selected the poem, Love by Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz. The first two sentences were all I needed today, before I had to set the book down and gaze the far-off stare:

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills.

Whatever else is in the book is still a mystery. I’ll probably finish in two or three more weeks.

Speaking of mysteries, I had a lot of supportive messages after last week’s essay. I greatly appreciate each and every one of them. I’ve only gotten one test result back and it was normal/negative. The other results haven’t been given to me yet, and that’s frustrating. I already made a follow-up appointment with my doctor because there’s something to discuss no matter which way the test results go. It was suggested that my bicycling could explain it. In three months, I have only ridden 250 miles. So even if I didn’t up my calorie intake that only accounts for 12500 calories or under four pounds.

I’m feeling okay, and one thing that I learned years ago: I’ll be okay – no matter what.

Some eighteen years ago, I had a subarachnoid hemorrhage. It’s the kind of brain hemorrhage that is fatal more often than not. I was fortunate that the aneurysm resolved itself and I didn’t need surgery.

Prior to the hemorrhage, I had plans to engineer a live broadcast of the Detroit. But then, my plans were completely erased. After that, my plans were simple – survival, and then recovery.

Just after I started to feel better some seven months later, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

Upside-down Etch A Sketch – plans erased again.

Careful readers will remember that I’ve been been working through a major depressive episode that I was slipping into for several years and have been in treatment for over a year. And I just started to feel good at the beginning of May, and yes, I’ve been making plans for the summer ahead.

Prior to feeling better, I scheduled an annual with my doctor, time to get some blood work done, and get other things checked out.

I was astonished when I stood on the scale and found that I had lost ten pounds in the past three months (not part of my plans) and I’m off more than twenty pounds in less than two years.

So, here again – my Etch A Sketch seems to be turned over (but not yet shaken). With my cancer history, it was prudent to have an ultrasound.

I write this having viewed the doppler imaging of the ultrasound, and to my untrained eye, it appears that I don’t have cancer (it didn’t look like it had before years back). The report will come in due course. The labs aren’t back yet, either. I’m rather hopeful that they point to some explanation, or else there’s going to be more testing as we explore the other reasons for my symptoms. I keep reminding myself of all the other follow-ups over the years, of the mindset I had to adopt, that the test results were merely confirmation of what already was.

My Etch A Sketch turned over, waiting for the news of what already is.

We’ve been watching a new-to-us TV mystery: The Doctor Blake Mysteries. Set in post-World War II Australia, it shows a part of the world reeling from the aftermath of the war, the on-going conflict in Korea, and the dirty little secret of UK nuclear tests on Aboriginal lands.

But what has really struck me, made especially more poignant after celebrating with our LGBTQIA friends, was an episode that opened with a man dying in a car crash. Bit by bit, it’s revealed that he was dying from a Asian Pit Viper snake bite before the crash. The snake was put in his car by a jilted former lover. It’s a love triangle of three men, at a time when it was illegal (unnatural acts was the term) to be who these men were. Doctor Blake treats the other two men, as each ends up in police custody, and treats them with great care, and with an interpersonal cost to himself. You can see how gay men (and women) were closeted in those days, having few people they could trust with ‘their secret’.

At the same moment that I’m viewing this, and thinking about how far we have come, I am struck by how some folk want to go back to that time. A time where white male heterosexuals ruled and made the rules. We will not go back there.

I belong to a Christian church that has participated in the Pride parade and rally at the state capitol for twenty years now. My friends are not the ‘Christians’ that can’t bake a cake for a gay couple, or won’t allow them into the stores. Instead, they are the Christians that bakes the cakes, come to the weddings, celebrate, and dance their butts off afterwards. We’re the Christians that care but don’t mind who you are or where you are on life’s journey, how much you believe or how little. The present is rainbow, the future is rainbow.