C'est la vie

I had to shove a massive pile of clothes off my bed tonight to find my way under the covers. My room is a disaster. Moving boxes, strategic piles to be packed in various containers, and scattered letters of love litter the floor. Today was my final Sunday serving as the Minister of Evangelism and Discipleship at the Arch Street Presbyterian Church here in Philadelphia. In November I was told that the church could no longer finance my full-time position and the congregation learned of this news at the first of the year (this is rotten news by the way: El Rottino. No one likes to downsize and no one likes to be downsized. This decision makes you ask yourself, "Am I the downsizing type?" But soon you realize this is not a productive question, so you make plans to go to Italy -- or this is what you do when you are me).

More on Italy later.

Anywho, the last few weeks have been tumultuous. Philadelphia can be a course place, not without its unique prickles and stings, but man-o-man I have met some magnificent people and I will miss this lovely church community.

A generous crowd gathered for a reception after church and by the time the group dwindled most folks were exhausted. Good byes are the worst. The last of the emotionally sluggish crew decided to traipse over to the Bellevue Hotel and head up to the 19th floor where we sat next to a roaring fire and drank cocktails. Yes, cocktails. The view of the city was perfect this frigid winter day and I honestly could not imagine a better way to spend an afternoon: good friends, rich conversation, and mutual solace was to be found in some martinis and sparkling wine. Judge me if you will, readers, but I will heed you not. It has BEEN a big three weeks.

I just remembered you are never supposed to stress the word "been". My acting teachers from a thousand years ago would be annoyed.

I'll keep you posted, people. Major adventures will be had.



Thank you, Sandi for the wonderful poem. There is nearly no better gift than a poem. I leave you with Mary Oliver's words:

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.