Did you ever wake up and just think WTF?

There’s something happening here
But what it is ain’t exactly clear
There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware

I think it’s time we stop
Children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look, what’s going down?

”For What It’s Worth” by Stephen Stills

In recent weeks I’ve been wondering what the hell the Universe is trying to tell me. Whatever the message, the challenges have come fast and furious—Hurricane Helene and its aftermath, the election of a narcissistic carnival barker as our president, and the departure of my faith community’s minister. Throw in my concerns about aging and death, and I found myself in a perfect storm. Distressed and overwhelmed, I fell into a deep funk, not quite depression, but nonetheless, a dark mood of hopelessness with doubts about how to proceed.

Hurricane Helene

Hurricane Helene aftermath

Our family and nearby neighbors were all without water, electricity, WiFi, and cell service for a while. And fallen trees blocked streets, crushed a few cars, and damaged several houses. But we were some of the lucky ones. Throughout Western North Carolina with rainfall amounts ranging from 12 to 30 inches and winds from 46 to 78 miles per hour, 103 deaths have been reported and 20 people are still unaccounted for. In addition, many homes are uninhabitable, some actually having been swept away by flood waters. Roads were washed out, bridges were destroyed, utility infrastructure was damaged and out of commission. Many lost their businesses and/or their livelihoods. Asheville’s Biltmore Village was submerged and much of the River Arts District was demolished.

Various smaller towns and villages were damaged beyond repair or even obliterated. Families in some rural areas were trapped and initially had to be reached on foot or by helicopter. Grocery stores and service stations were closed. And much, much more. The total damage in this region has been estimated at between $53 billion, and recovery will be measured in years rather than months. So, while we and our neighbors were lucky for the most part, I’ll never again feel secure that our region will escape the worst effects of climate change as had been predicted. And even with the exceptional compassion and support from local folks, people outside the region, nonprofits, and government agencies, the emotional trauma of this experience has taken a toll on all of us.

The Presidential Election

Friends & neighbors writing postcards for Harris-Walz campaign

On November 5, Election Day, Shonnie, Gracelyn, and I were satisfied that we’d done our part to support the Harris-Walz campaign by knocking on doors, sending postcards, phone banking, texting, and Gracelyn’s fundraising efforts by creating and selling Harris-Walz bracelets. So, that evening we joined friends at the Buncombe County Democrats election watch party at Highland Brewery where anticipation and excitement mixed with a measure of apprehension prevailed. The crowd was jubilant when the North Carolina governor’s race was called for Josh Stein, anticipating this victory to be a harbinger of things to come.

Since it was a school night, we headed home around 9:00 p.m. I’d hoped the presidential race would be called before I went to sleep, but despite frantic online scrolling, it wasn’t to be. However, when I roused from my light slumber at 3:00 a.m., turned on my phone, and saw that, not only had the blue wave I’d hoped for never materialized, but that Trump had won. Feeling profoundly disheartened, it took a lot of deep breathing to return to a restless sleep.

Gracelyn’s creation

I rose the next morning, disconsolate and disillusioned, wondering if our grand experiment in democracy was over. I read that friends were already calling to organize to resist the coming authoritarian regime, but I had no vision nor energy for such actions, at least not yet. Believing it might be time to get the hell out of Dodge, I Googled life in British Columbia, specifically Vancouver Island because of the more temperate weather. In doing so, I was reminded of Canada’s universal healthcare, strict gun control laws, and more liberal/left-leaning government, all of which sounded pretty damned good to me. I reviewed our passports to make sure they were up to date, then discussed the possibility of living in Canada with Shonnie and Gracelyn. Shonnie said that she would prefer Quebec since she was once fluent in French and could easily be again. Gracelyn, on the other hand, had discovered an art high school in Victoria, B.C. that looked ideal to her. But we decided we weren’t going anywhere for the time being.

Jubilee! Community

Jubilee! has been our family’s faith community since 1998. However, the organization has been confronted with numerous tribulations since founder and 30-year minister Howard Hanger retired in 2019. Employing a replacement who didn’t work out, COVID, declining attendance and donations, financial inability to maintain Jubilee’s Wall Street building, then selling our long-time home. And now, the minister I’d hoped would lead us toward a new vision for our community has resigned in order to be near her aging parents and will be leaving at the end of the year. I guess it’s time for Plan B.

Aging and Death

I lived much of my life as though I had an infinite amount of time in my earthly existence. Fortunately, in recent decades, living a spiritual life has meant being conscious of my eventual death and being ready to go at any moment—all affairs in order, everything said that is to be said, everything done that is to be done, atonement for my misdeeds, forgiveness extended to myself and others, no loose ends. But I’m feeling some urgency to complete several important projects, including my autobiography, the story of my life that I’ll leave behind for Shonnie, my daughters Lilla and Gracelyn, my grandkids Molly and Jack, as well as other family members and close friends. In addition, I have yet to finish my memoir that I hope will receive a wider audience before I depart my mortal form.

What now?

So, how do I discern the meaning of these wakeup calls, these momentous messages the Universe has sent me about my community, my house of faith, my nation? As I pondered that question, I remembered something Rev. Howard Hanger would frequently say during his Sunday morning sermons in his imitable Foghorn Leghorn voice: “I say . . . pay attention, son!” So, yeah, pay attention. But pay attention to what?

Still contemplating that question, I turned to a dog-eared book I keep by my bedside table for times such as these—Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life by Gregg Levoy, a former Ashevillian—I randomly opened it and read a highlighted paragraph:

We may be helped by many things: dreams or intuitions of just inexplicable faith; the solace we reap from books; the support we gain from our participation in any group whose members are working toward awakening and self-remembering; the memory of a father or mother; the part of ourselves that never went to sleep; or simply the remembrance that life is short and death is long.

After absorbing this passage, I began listening to my mind, my heart, and my gut. And in doing so, the dark clouds parted, and the emotional distress eased. And my path became clear. After a several year hiatus, it was time to get back to my calling—my writing.

My true calling: I’ve known it since grade school when I was fascinated by words and phrases that would roll effortlessly off my tongue. And it’s that thing that I spent the first forty years of my life avoiding: taking my writing seriously. Even though I was drawn to jobs that required a certain amount of writing (I wrote proposals, articles for business journals, features for textbooks, and teachers’ ancillary materials), when it came time to reveal my deepest thoughts and feelings, I crawfished like crazy. But as Levoy says, “Callings keep surfacing until we deal with them.”

As the words cascade into my journal and I cut through the babble of my mind, it is clear: my calling is to write. I am compelled to do so. Any other path would be a breach of my integrity. I am duty-bound to put my knowledge, thoughts, feelings, intuitions, and inklings out into the world—for myself and in service to others. For my writing is often a journey of discovery. I learn things about myself that I was not conscious of. I get to examine my thoughts and beliefs and decide if they serve me. I have the opportunity to separate truth from fiction. I am able to comprehend why a planned action might (or might not) be in order.

And I write in service to others. I write to remind folks that they possess great personal power, that they have the capacity to live the lives they’ve always dreamed of. I write to reveal the innumerable possibilities that life offers, far beyond the choices promoted by the current dominant culture. I write that change—personal and societal—is possible and underway right now. I write to help create a shift in the cultural paradigm—to one of greater love, connection, honesty, integrity, generosity, responsibility, respect, and courage. I write in support of spiritual warriors, people who are willing to share their unique gifts in service of a better world, regardless of the consequences.

So, today . . . I write!