don't eat alone

I begin the lunch shift every morning by baking. We make English muffins everyday to serve as the buns for our hamburgers and shrimp burgers. If I don’t start as soon as I walk in at eight they aren’t ready when lunch begins at eleven.

Cooking and baking are two different things. Cooking is improvisational theater: you prepare, you gather all the ingredients around you, and then you wait for someone to call out the elements they want in the performance they’ve ordered. Good recipes are suggestions, relying on the cook to trust his or her senses to make sure the dish turns out as it should. Baking is science. The best bakers don’t just measure ingredients; they weigh them. If the dough is supposed to rise for thirty minutes that means you better have the timer set, or else the bread won’t be what you were hoping for.

My muffin making, therefore, calls me to hone skills that aren’t in my regular set. I’ve gotten pretty good at the muffins, but there is much more to learn. Take, for example, the conversation that took place a few days ago as I was kneading the dough. The delivery guy came with the sourdough bread we buy from a local baker, which led to a discussion about a bakery that had relocated. I asked it their bread was good.

“They do a good job, but the bread has never been the same since they left the old building,” our Chef de Cuisine replied, going on to explain that the bread is affected by the whole room, not just the baker and his recipe. “It’s the bricks in the walls, the size of the room, the way the room holds temperature, the ovens and other stuff. You have to learn how to make bread in that room; recipes don’t always travel well.”

“Sort of cooking acoustics,” I said. It’s not that it’s different bread, just that the room affects how the dough grows and develops.

The conversation has kept me thinking about context and what It means to be who we are where we are. I’m playing a new room these days with our move to Durham. The acoustics of life have changed; things don’t rise or fall the way they did in Marshfield, or in Charlestown before that. I’m still me and I’m trying to figure out how the recipe of my life plays out in these new surroundings, and how I will grow and develop in these days.

I’m mindful, in the rise and fall of my life, that six months after our move to Marshfield my depression got the best of me. In the years that followed, I’ve worked hard to understand the taste and texture of the darkness, if you will, and to prepare myself for the difficult improvisation needed to survive. Now, six months into our move to Durham, I’m struggling again. I’m not saying the cause and effect is quite so clear cut as I am saying I’m living through something that carries some resonance with where I have been before. I know this recipe. Even in a different room, I know what I need (knead?) to live through this.

One day, the baker in the bigger room will have baked there long enough for the aromas of yeast and flour to permeate the bricks that feel so new now. One day, he will know how the air circulates to let the dough proof in the perfect place to make loaves that are delicious and consistent. The only way from here to that day is to keep baking morning after morning, adjusting to the cooking acoustics and finding a resonance that runs deeper than change and circumstance.

Me, too.

Peace,
Milton

I don’t think I’ve gone a week without posting since I started this blog.

This week I’ve felt tired. Exhausted. As I’ve commented to several folks, I’ve been running out of me before I run out of day. I have a couple of good ideas of things I want to write about – that aren’t about depression – and I can’t find the energy to give birth to them. This has been one of the few times in dealing with my depression that sleep has not offered some respite. I’m sleeping restlessly and not sleeping long enough. I’m not sure there is a long enough.

Besides being physically exhausted, I’m tired of being depressed. I’m tried of writing about depression. I can only imagine many are tired of reading about it. (Actually, I know some are because they have found kind ways to let me know.) I understand. It’s not that my days are all bad, in fact, the opposite is true. I’ve had some great times this week. Dear friends have been to see us; work is good. But somewhere late in the day, I feel like the cartoon character that runs off the cliff before he realizes there is no longer any ground beneath him and then he goes into free fall, except I just start falling asleep. I have nothing left.

Ginger pushed hard to get me to write tonight because she knows the defeat I feel when I stare at a blank page for an hour or so and then close the computer without making a mark. Something about having found a couple of hundred words tonight does help and I hate that all I seem to have to say is, “I’m depressed.” There’s more to me. There’s more to life. I can see it. I just can’t write it somehow.

Somewhere in the course of my day – I think it was reading something about Zimbabwe – I wondered out loud to myself, “I’m not sure God is in the business of relieving pain. Making meaning out of it, yes. But taking it away is not necessarily part of the deal.” Many years ago, I heard (or read) Mike Yaconelli talk about a sermon he preached on suffering and God. He said he closed the sermon by reading a passage from John Claypool’s Tracks of a Fellow Struggler in which Claypool describes his eleven-year-old daughter, whose body was wracked with cancer, crying out to her dad to ask God to take away the pain. He said he prayed as earnestly as he knew how. When he finished, his daughter asked why God hadn’t taken the pain away. Yaconelli said he looked up from the book and said, “That is the God we are called to serve. Amen.”

God is not going to take away my pain. I don’t expect my days will always be this dark and exhausting, or Ginger’s so difficult as she stays with me. I have hope that I will find some treatment that will help me manage my depression more effectively, and I don’t think it is going to disappear because I keep telling God I’m tired of this. Therefore, I have to decide what it means for my life that I live with depression. I have to decide whether my faith or my illness gets the last word. I have to decide to trust those who say they love me mean they love me even if all I can write about is my depression. I have to decide I’m going to fight with all I have to offer Ginger more than the dregs of my existence. I have to decide to accept that living life means playing hurt.

And I have to decide everyday, over and over.

The counter at the bottom of the page says I’ve written 632 words: this is me deciding.

Peace,
Milton

As I was driving to church yesterday, I heard that Morgan Tsvangirai had withdrawn from the runoff presidential election in Zimbabwe because he couldn’t deal with the violence being inflicted on his supporters by Robert Mugabe’s regime. All indications are that Tsvangirai won the first election and Mugabe doctored the results to cause the runoff. The history of Zimbabwe is a tragic story of the killing of a nation that had great promise and Mugabe is one of the key killers.

Pray for Zimbabwe.

I was out of the kitchen today and spent a good bit of time in the yard. I got a deal on daylilies last week and needed to get them planted. I also installed rain barrels under the drain spouts to have water to feed my plants and vegetables. My good friend and counselor, Ken, used to talk about gardening as a helpful response to depression. There are studies that show there’s something about playing in the dirt that makes life brighter. Ken’s take was it was an organic connection. We came from dust and will return to dust; to go out and dig around in the dirt makes a basic, essential, and healing connection. He’s on to something.

Thank God for gardening.

George Carlin died of heart failure over the weekend. He was 71. He was hitting his stride when I was in college and seminary and I still have several of his routines seared in my memory. As he grew older his cynicism sometimes got the best of him; he was at his best, however, when he played with the language. My favorite routine is a wonderful example of what happens when we really listen to our words. Here it is: Football vs. Baseball.

So long, George.

Peace,
Milton

I can remember the night.

I had been the backup for my friend Billy as he sang a concert in the Dallas area, thanks to our friends David and Christy. I had flown in from Boston and Christy had been kind enough to give us a couple more days in the hotel to do some songwriting. Billy started playing around with a fun little melody that made us both want to bounce around the room and before long we were singing

rivers singing gladly as the trees clap hands
thunder keeping rhythm to the song and dance
wind across the waters like an angel band
here’s an invitation to the song and dance

put away your woes let ‘em go let ‘em go
they’re gonna be here tomorrow
tune your heart to the birds that fly
out on the edge of the deep blue sky
can you hear the music through the circumstance
listen to the laughter in the song and dance

Even out of both of our tendencies to see the darker shades of life far too easily, we had written a song of unadulterated joy, which is, I think, a harder song to write. I remember reading an interview after the record, Red Bird Blue Sky, came out in which Billy said, as he talked about the song, “Trouble is overrated.” Yes. And it’s ubiquitous.

My brother just returned from a trip to Israel. When I talked to him yesterday he said, “Man, I don’t see how anyone can fix that situation.” And it’s not the only one. My own particular view of the world runs from Darfur to depression, often fueled by my cynicism and despair (since gas prices are so high), and wishing desperately to find a view that offers something other than a view of a world intent on self-destruction.

Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of something – like that night when we sang and danced our way around the Hampton Inn and the few minutes it took to watch this video, sent to me by my friends Ann and Doug, who are among those who help paint a different picture of the world for me.

I don’t know who the hell Matt is, much less where the hell Matt is, but today I’m thankful for Matt, for dancing (he and I share similar styles), for friends, and for the melody of grace that permeates the circumstances of life.

Tonight, I can hear the laughter. And I’m listening as hard as I can.

Peace,
Milton

Jesus’ words of comfort intrigue me because he says God knows when a sparrow falls, not God catches the little bird. In these days, which feel a bit like a free fall for me, I can say it matters to be known – even when I don’t feel caught.

Civilla Martin wrote “His Eye is on the Sparrow” in 1905, which says:

Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come,
Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” His tender word I hear,
And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears;
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise,
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.

I love knowing the story behind hymns. Here is here story, in her words:

Early in the spring of 1905, my husband and I were sojourning in Elmira, New York. We contracted a deep friendship for a couple by the name of Mr. and Mrs. Doolittle, true saints of God. Mrs. Doolittle had been bedridden for nigh twenty years. Her husband was an incurable cripple who had to propel himself to and from his business in a wheel chair. Despite their afflictions, they lived happy Christian lives, bringing inspiration and comfort to all who knew them. One day while we were visiting with the Doolittles, my husband commented on their bright hopefulness and asked them for the secret of it. Mrs. Doolittle’s reply was simple: “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.” The beauty of this simple expression of boundless faith gripped the hearts and fired the imagination of Dr. Martin and me. The hymn “His Eye Is on the Sparrow” was the outcome of that experience.

These days are dark ones and they have been filled with cards and words and hugs and hope conveyed by all kinds of folks who remind me whatever is happening in my life I am not alone. God knows, and that knowledge and love is incarnated over and over around me.

Thank you.

Peace,
Milton

I’ve mentioned Emmylou Harris a couple of times this week. She has always been one of my musical faves and songwriting heroes. And now, at 61, she’s titled her latest release, All I Intended to Be.

The title takes me back about twenty five years ago when I first came across Amy Grant’s song, “All I Ever Have to Be.” My friend Burt and I were doing lots of youth camps and retreats in those days and always looking for songs that would connect with kids. This one did. It knew my name as well.

When the weight of all my dreams
Is resting heavy on my head,
And the thoughtful words of health and hope
Have all been nicely said.

But Im still hurting,
Wondering if Ill ever be
The one I think I am.

I think I am.

Then you gently re-remind me
That youve made me from the first,
And the more I try to be the best
The more I get the worst.

And I realize the good in me,
Is only there because of who you are.

Who you are…

And all I ever have to be
Is what youve made me.
Any more or less would be a step
Out of your plan.

As you daily recreate me,
Help me always keep in mind
That I only have to do
What I can find.

And all I ever have to be
All I have to be
All I ever have to be
Is what you’ve made me.

Today has been a good day. I cooked for someone else. I walked Ella up to Barnes Supply where she knows they have a cookie waiting for her. While I was there, I bought daylilies to plant tomorrow. I got an email message from a friend with information about a clinic in town that has some ideas about dealing with depression that go beyond medication. Ginger has been great about giving me a series of tasks that have kept me moving and feeling productive. I met my blogging buddy and beekeeper, Jimmy, for a beer and to get some honey samples to take to the restaurant. (His roasted garlic honey is amazing.)

Today was a significant day. This morning, on Bunker Hill Day, we traded our Massachusetts tags for North Carolina license plates. We were delayed in making the change because we packed to car titles in a place we have yet to discover, so we had to order duplicates. They came yesterday. In the same way the one little detail of a car plate helps us continue to make the transition to our new home, so the small details of dinners cooked and pictures hung help me find a way out of the dark.

Depression is the snake eating its tail. I turn in on myself until I can see nothing but me and I’m unrecognizable. The view is desperate, defeating, and delusional. I don’t want to get trapped inside myself, but I do. When the hearts and hands come to pull me out of myself, I find hope in gratitude, as I do tonight.

I am not all I intended to be. I didn’t choose to live with an emotional trap door inside. I didn’t intend to be depressed. What I heard and felt today is I am recognizable to those who know and love me, even when I feel lost to myself. They don’t ask what I intended; they just see me.

And, by the grace of God, that’s all I ever have to be.

Peace,
Milton

The past few days have been marked by the words and actions of people around me who have offered love and encouragement in a number of tangible and meaningful ways. I’m still not past needing a melody to get through a post, but tonight I offer one out of gratitude: Pierce Pettis’ “Love’s Gonna Carry Me Home.”

these days I’m noticing things
the snow and the rain
the wind in the trees
when it gets moving
they seem to say
that I’m not alone
and someday
love’s gonna carry me home

these days I’m learning to smile
the hand of the child
has pulled me into fields of laughter
they make sure that I know
that someday
love’s gonna carry me home

amazing grace big surprise
hits you right between the eyes
hits you hard like a small flat stone
slays the giant and leads you home

these days my life is a song
it’s not very long and so I’ll sing it that much louder
don’t take it hard when I go
it’s ok – love’s gonna carry me home
it’s ok – love’s gonna carry me home

Peace,
Milton

P. S. — Cooking helps, too. There’s another new recipe here.

I spent the day on a men’s retreat with some guys from church. We were out at a lake house. The day was beautiful, the conversations were honest and open, and the day was full of meaning. I came home filled up and still ran out of gas before dark. The days feel too long and the nights too short. I sleep, but I don’t rest. I find, in days like these, that I turn to two things that offer me hope: cooking and music. I made dinner for Ginger. The meal was simple, yet it helped me to cook and then sit at our kitchen table with her.

I sat down to write and could do little more than listen. I leaned into an old friend, Emmylou Harris, and her “Prayer in Open D.”

There’s a valley of sorrow in my soul
Where every night I hear the thunder roll
Like the sound of a distant gun
Over all the damage I have done
And the shadows filling up this land
Are the ones I built with my own hand
There is no comfort from the cold
Of this valley of sorrow in my soul

There’s a river of darkness in my blood
And through every vein I feel the flood
I can find no bridge for me to cross
No way to bring back what is lost
Into the night it soon will sweep
Down where all my grievances I keep
But it won’t wash away the years
Or one single hard and bitter tear

And the rock of ages I have known
Is a weariness down in the bone
I use to ride it like a rolling stone
Now just carry it alone

There’s a highway risin’ from my dreams
Deep in the heart I know it gleams
For I have seen it stretching wide
Clear across to the other side
Beyond the river and the flood
And the valley where for so long I’ve stood
With the rock of ages in my bones
Someday I know it will lead me home

With the rock of ages in my bones, I’m going to lay down my head and my burden tonight.

Peace,
Milton

P. S. There’s a new recipe here.

I can remember the day in 1989 that I bought the CD.

I was in Sound Warehouse and picked up How Did You Find Me Here? by David Wilcox the same afternoon I bought Steady On by Shawn Colvin. It was one of my better music buying afternoons. Ginger and I moved to Boston the following summer and both Colvin and Wilcox played outdoor concerts in Copley Square. When we went to see David, I carried a copy of Any Starlight Night, Billy Crockett’s newest CD at the time (on which I co-wrote some of the songs) because I wanted to make a connection. I was early and David was behind the stage working on his guitar. I walked up and thanked him for his record and gave him my offering and went on my way. I don’t think I even told him my name.

Over the years, we saw him perform several times, most of them outdoors, as I look back now: in the Charlestown Navy Yard, at Harborlights, and one inside gig at the Berklee Performance Center. We bought his CDs and sent copies to friends because we knew the vulnerability and intimacy in his songs would resonate with their situations. Tonight, we found him again. David came to Durham and we went with our new friends Lori and Terry to sit and listen on the lawn of the American Tobacco Campus.

Ginger and I went early because we were used to Boston days where free concerts meant get there early to get a good seat – or a seat at all. We parked the car and walked past an Airstream trailer hitched to an SUV and there was David Wilcox leaning over his guitar case. Since then, he and Billy have gotten to know each other and David performed at Blue Rock, Billy’s artist ranch and studio. I walked up and said, “You don’t know me but we share a mutual friend in Billy Crockett.”

“He’s a good man,” David said. Then he asked if we would be willing to help him carry some CDs and DVDs to the stage area. We listened to a marvelous evening of music. After the concert – a good while after the show – he was still standing around talking and we walked up to thank him for the evening. I also got to tell him I thought his song, “Show the Way” should be our national anthem. I also got to tell him how the song has been a touchstone and a life line for me during my depression. Ginger and I stood and talked to him for about ten minutes, I guess. As we got ready to leave, he hugged me and we went on our way.

I never did tell him my name.

These past couple of weeks I have struggled against the gathering storm. My depression, it seems, is working hard to suck me in. As usual, Ginger gets hit hardest because the bottom drops out when I get to the end of the day and stop moving. I think it’s harder to live with a depressed person than it is to be the depressed person. Yet, on a night when we were only two of several hundred people sitting on the lawn under the Lucky Strike tower listening to David and two of any number of folks who wanted to talk to him, he found me with his words and music and helped me stave off the darkness, at least for tonight. He doesn’t know who I am, other than the guy who knows Billy and who got choked up when he talked about “Show the Way.” He’ll remember talking to Ginger, I’m sure, long after he’s forgotten talking to me. Still, almost twenty years after that afternoon at Sound Warehouse, it’s my turn to ask, “How did you find me here?”

And to say thank you.

Now, please rise for our national anthem.

You say you see no hope, you say you see no reason
We should dream that the world would ever change
You’re saying love is foolish to believe
‘Cause there’ll always be some crazy with an Army or a knife
To wake you from your day dream, put the fear back in your life

Look, if someone wrote a play just to glorify
What’s stronger than hate, would they not arrange the stage
To look as if the hero came too late, he’s almost in defeat
It’s looking like the Evil side will win, so on the Edge
Of every seat, from the moment that the whole thing begins
It is….

Love that mixed the mortar
And it’s love who stacked these stones
And it’s love who made the stage here
Although it looks like we’re alone
In this scene set in shadows
Like the night is here to stay
There is evil cast around us
But it’s love that wrote this play…
For in this darkness love can show the way

So now the stage is set. You feel your own heart beating
In your chest. This life’s not over yet.
So we get up on our feet and do our best. We play against the Fear.
We play against the reasons not to try
We’re playing for the tears burning in the happy angel’s eyes
For its….

Love that mixed the mortar
And it’s love who stacked these stones
And it’s love who made the stage here
Although it looks like we’re alone
In this scene set in shadows
Like the night is here to stay
There is evil cast around us
But it’s love that wrote this play…
For in this darkness love can show the way

Peace,
Milton

P. S. — There’s a new recipe here.

I was reading the June issue of Harpers last week and found this sentence:

That sentence led to this poem.

Ruthless Gene

I wonder how long gone
she was before anyone
noticed. The Moabitess had
been around, refusing to
leave Naomi and desperately
seeking Boaz, since Bible days.

Who knows how Gene came
into the picture, or why
he was being studied, or
how the researchers found
him, but by the time they
arrived, Ruth was long gone.

“Why did she leave?” asked
one of the white coats.
“Why do you think?” he
answered, stamping out his
Lucky on the back of hand.
“Why do you think?”

That’s just the way my mind works sometimes.

Peace,
Milton