Plant

The morning after Ruth Bader Ginsburg completed her journey and handed on her legacy, I picked up six Linden trees from a nursery south of town. The county bee association had arranged a bulk purchase of the trees, known by their “small, pale yellow, fragrant flowers in clusters.” Bees and their human friends like the honey which is “white with a slightly aromatic flavor [and] when fully ripened in the hive it is considered one of the best table honeys,” according to John H. Lovell’s Honey Plants of North America.  He states that “hot, clear weather and a humid atmosphere are most favorable for the secretion of nectar.  Small drops may then be seen sparkling in the bloom; and the bee may obtain a load from a single blossom.” Worker bees, every one of which are female, would have liked RBG a great deal.

Our local county bee association arranged for us to buy Linden trees as a group. Bees and beekeepers will appreciate this in 10 or 15 years. I bought six to help somebody who will probably never know me.

It is cool here in the Carolinas, which is bad news for drones. Every morning below the hives I find drones that have been escorted from the hive, some with force, as they are no help in the rigors of winter. The girls don’t tolerate big and useless creatures. I think I know how they would vote, especially following the loss of RBG. Maybe I’m wrong. I didn’t ask anyone in my bee Association how they were voting. My closest bee friend is also the man I’d call in the middle of the night, if I needed something. He’s a thoughtful and kind man, whose vote will cancel mine.

The Linden trees will not help my bees today or in their eight-week lifespan. They may not be much help to me either for the similar reason. You don’t plant a tree for today; you plant for the blossoms it will provide to others who may not even know your name. A few weeks ago, we harvested honey from nectar from trees Moravians planted without knowing that me and my bees would thank them someday.

Democracy–fragile, tender and organic–is like that. A group can clear-cut it to make sticks to match their stones and beat those they consider enemies to pulp. Win! Every democracy that has ever been experiences its own failure, sometimes death. But we try to construct agreements to weather the unpredictable fire and storms of human social life. We try to anticipate how our best selves might survive our occasional worst. The young experiment called the United States has done pretty well as these things tend to go considering the potentially fatal compromise at our root—slavery and later toleration of decade after decade of gross disparity.

Some consider those issues to be in our past, exaggerated to make the current administration look bad. Not Black moms with young men for whom they are afraid to jog down the street, drive across town or bird watch. And it is not in the past for any public health department watching the COVID data replicate the pattern of almost every other viral phenomenon from cancer to gun-shots, metabolic syndrome to environmental pathologies. Case and Deaton, in their landmark work around diseases of despair shocked the world by tracing the decline in American longevity rates to working-class white men experiencing structural vulnerability that denied them a way to make an honorable living. Humiliated and trapped, they are experiencing something not entirely unlike the phenomenon common to Black men for four hundred years. As usual, the mostly White elites channel that outrage in ways that seem illogical against the Black and Brown men, not those driving the structural causes. The humiliation is so painful that it cries out for immediate release, logical or not.

Some empathy and respect would help, although likely to be lost in the cacophony of internet-speed clang and gotcha. Empathy develops slow, as slow as the speed of trust.

Another friend, Mike Heisler, sent me a book this week by Timothy Snyder, “On Tyranny.” It is “20 lessons from the 20th century” about how to live in these times of liquid anger and fragile polity that RBG hoped to outlive. Snyder fears the people Linwood trusts, just as Linwood fears the people I trust. Lesson 12 is “make eye contact and small talk.” Synder says that “In the most dangerous of times, those who escape and survive generally know people whom they can trust. Having old friends is the politics of last resort. And making new ones is the first step toward change.”

Justices Ginsburg and Scallia were friends who enjoyed each other’s company enough laugh. My daughter Lauren had dinner with Rex Tillerson at the opening of one of her plays (he, a great patron of theater!). Linwood and I will plant Linden together 44 days before the election. I’ll cheer for his daughter’s basketball team, even if I don’t for his candidate. In a sense, that makes no sense. But democracy is not about logical sense—certainly not about winning. It does help messy humans live in between clarities when the best we can hope for is non-violent compromise. It good for muddling our way when nothing can make complete sense. Good for these times.

I feel exposed by the loss of a tiny 87-year old justice in the same way I did with the loss of John Lewis two months and two days ago. They deserve to rest in peace, honored by grateful generations. We haven’t earned that peace or honor, but there is still time. Can anyone be confused about how to honor them? Respect the structures of legal process, support social institutions, the dignity of professional ethics, the essential decency of labor serving the good of all people. Have faith. Vote.

And embrace the process of planting for others to harvest. I gently free the Linden from its plastic container, tenderly loosening the roots. I put my hands into the soil of the hole I’ve dug so it can welcome the roots home. I am not the Linden, or the soil, much less the rainfall or sun. Just one human grateful to have a chance to give life a chance.

Four trees in a trunk, two more in the passenger seat. Planting for the future sometimes requires looking a bit silly today. I’m okay with that.
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Drive

I didn’t know there was a Winnumeuca, Nevada, but less an East and West one, too. People live there.

Six thousand miles through and around fires, hurricanes, political conventions and seven shots in the back. Red states and red parts of blue states in a Mini Cooper with a “Make America Kind Again” bumper sticker. I drove and pumped gas next to several thousand pick-up trucks through Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky and West Virginia. I was taken by what did not happen and what I did not learn.

You’d think somebody somewhere would have at least muttered something. I never saw two hands on the wheel, so there was plenty of opportunity for gestures. I’d be an easy target and, well, sort of deserved it, what with my bumper sticker. Nothing. Not a peep or cross-eyed glance. I saw a couple dozen Trump/Pence signs—about one every 200 miles and maybe 6 for my guy. Hundreds of signs for citizens running for Sheriff and county commission. A few for Senate hopefuls who had lost in the primaries. More COVID signs than all of these combined.

People are sick of political sugar and spit. Maybe ready to stop shouting, go vote, do what we need to do to beat the virus, teach our kids and go back to work.

 

I-80 could be named for its average speed. 15 seconds equals a day on foot.

When I was planning the trip, I had, well, overlooked the nearly thousand miles of Utah and Nevada. To dodge the fires I ended up crossing their former ocean basin on US 50, the “loneliest highway in america.” From 37,000 feet in years past I had liked to pick out the Grand Canyon and been curious about the the tiny bright green dimes surrounded by brown rock to its north. Through my windshield I could now see that the pivot irrigation machines making green hay as well as rainbows in the morning light. But I would have to stop to learn anything about the people who tend them, what they hope or fear, where their kids are and how many cows the hay will feed. Driving back on I-80 I found myself following the California Trail which one wind-blown Nevada rest area explained was a walking path for thousands. Why would someone would walk Nevada with their kids? What were they leaving or seeking? How could I say anything about Nevada until I walk, too?

 

Ruby Mountain near the border of Nevada and Utah. Up close it is many colors, a rock rainbow.

US 50 road goes through through St. Louis and across the Mississippi, though no longer a lonely road. I had forgotten Illinois and the beautiful rolling forests gifted by glaciers on both sides of the Ohio. I jotted down the names dozens of museums I hope to stop at someday, constant reminders of the thousands of miles of things I did not know.

 

Sutro Tower out Charles and Asa’s bedroom windows. It ain’t fog. Smoke.

I did learn a lot about smoke. The brown acrid smoke of the Haight in San Francisco persisted in clouds, high haze and columns of fire till east of Denver. A continental-sized phenomenon that literally took my breath away. Not a thousand mile wall of flame, but the drifting smoke is clarifying things in the minds of people you might not expect. YHWH promised Noah no more floods; he didn’t swear off smoke.

On the high plains Sequoia-sized turbines are spinning by the thousands with hundreds more under construction. In the Kansas night they blink in unison from one horizon to the other, blades nearly touching. Only nimble birds make it to Canada and back and those only if they avoid looking into the glare of the solar arrays. Don’t buy oil stock. And don’t let them drill the arctic for oil we won’t need.

Among the things I know I don’t know is how to live our human lives when our machines are so powerful. My Mini gets 47 miles to the gallon, but still sucking my grandsons’ future from their air. Greta is right: we’re not trying hard enough. Get out of the planes and not because of the virus.

 

Charles in “school.” Easier to find Waldo than the teacher.

School was pretending to open as I drove. I watched my way-too-smart grandson try to pay attention to a screen on a wall, picking out the teacher’s voice amid a cacophony of chattering kids. It’s easy to say the kids aren’t learning much. I’m sure the adults are no better picking out the lessons from noise. Our kids watch as we pretend to notice the screams of our burning planet.

We’ll have lost about a quarter million Americans by Election Day. And a few more cubic miles of Greenland ice. And a few million acres of trees, including bristle cone and sequoia that finally met people too dumb to survive.

“Go back to your screens and don’t bother us,” our kids see us say. They notice. COVID invites some adult behavior.

 

Door hangers! Not much help, this democracy stuff. But our best and only hope.

Saturday morning after I got back a handful of citizens met at our garage door over a precinct map and box of election door hangers. Some of us headed to the apartments near the highway, another and his two grandsons headed to Washington Park. It went quick without the door knocking and conversations. We had instructions to only poke the Democrats awake, but we think everyone is paying enough attention to remind them to act like citizens. It is possible that all the wheels will fall off our cultural wagon; that we are too late with too little wisdom to make the choices that give life a chance. But maybe cultures and democracies, like ecosystems, rebound when the grown-ups show a tiny bit of respect for each other and their place.

 

Why.

Another thing I did not see in 6,000 miles of American pavement: “Jesus is coming back; prepare to meet your doom.” But maybe Jesus is already back, teaching us steps one and two of Shalom: Don’t shout at people you don’t know. And don’t give up on the world that God so loves.

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Rev. Lewis

John Lewis never missed a chance to encourage us to love mercy, do justice and walk humbly. He spoke at the first Earth Day in Decatur, Georgia because a high school kid asked him to. And then at Lauren’s high school graduation for the same reason. Three years ago he keynoted the American Public Health Association annual convention by video because as you-know-who was beginning his war on public health and he needed to stay on the House floor. The APHA public advocacy leadership group was meeting just before Rev. Lewis spoke, trying to figure out how to speak across the angry partisan lines. I shared the following.

I’ve been thinking of John Lewis all day. You’ll hear him use the word love at some point, as he always does. If he doesn’t say it, you’ll feel it. When Reverend Lewis speaks of love, he is is speaking tactically not inspirationally about public engagement. He didn’t make this up. He got it from Jesus through King with an accent of Gandhi. He tells of hearing the voice of Dr. King on the radio as a high school student at home down an unpaved road in Alabama—the kind of place known to public health people well. Reverend Lewis also got it from the Apostle Paul who wrote a letter to a polarized contentious gaggle in a young social movement in a tough seaport town of Corinth. The opposite of religious abstraction, the 13th chapter explains what love means:

If I speak in the voice of powerful people or spirits but do not have loving kindness, I am only a distracting noise. 2If I have predictive data and interdisciplinary analytics that give me confidence to move mountains of poverty, but am not kind, I am nothing. 3If I proudly commit to radical levels of community benefit and take on huge obligations for the health of the public, but am not humbled by love, I do nothing.

4The love that life needs is patient and kind. It does not envy others’ projects, it does not boast of our own ministries, it is not proud. 5It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of who ran up the debt and who got more. 6Loving kindness does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always finds a way.

8Love never quits. Where we have predictions and projections, they will cease; where there are speeches, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

9For we know in part and we predict in part, 10but when living complexity comes, what is partial disappears. 11When we were young in our work we talked like beginners, and thought like beginners, reasoned like novices. When we became grown-ups, we put the ways of childhood behind.

12For now we see only dimly as if looking at an eclipse toward the hidden sun, as through a smokey haze; then we shall see it all directly. Now we know a bit; then we may know fully, even as our own lives will be fully known.

13And now these three remain in life: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

We dearly miss you John. But we know what to do.

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Shhhhhhh

img_5204This is to people like me who are generally well meaning and inclined to be decent. I don’t have a single clue about how to communicate to folk who think it’s a good idea to have a man like we’ve got sitting alone and angry in our White House. Other than the same thing I’m saying to myself: be quiet and listen. Take the rage and anger in and let it crack our assumptions that we understand. Just be quiet.

And for god’s sake, if you are missing a lot of pigment in your skin for some reason, be especially quiet. Don’t try to explain. “White-splaining” is salt in the wounds. Quiet.

Ideally, turn off the TV with pictures from somewhere else. You can assume that nearby there are people with similar witness. In little Winston-Salem both of our senior law enforcement officers are Black and with vibrant lives of faith. I’m listening to them. And John Lewis, of course. And, a new one for me, Killer Mike. Any number of Black mayors; struck by Mayor Bottoms of Atlanta and Bowser of DC. Bishop Michael Currie.

Most of the work of our FaithHealth Division is woven into the fabric of the neighborhoods where the pain is felt predictably; where people know people dead of COVID-19 but still go to work. I’m listening to my own people. I am not inclined to talk.

I was raised in a gentle suburban Methodist family where nobody cried at the death of Dr. King. We couldn’t make sense out of why people in Baltimore responded with flames. We thought he should have slowed down with his movement to change things everyone knew had to be changed…at some point.

A half century ago. Shhh. Listen. Take it in.

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Testing Positive

bee babies

Bees naturally behaving appropriately taking care of the larvae that is their future. We can do that.

COVID is a nasty little beast only now becoming itself as a global phenomenon. Bill Gates says it is like being in a world war except that all of humanity is on the same side (here). I don’t think that helps as it make the virus seem like is as mean as people whipped up into stupid war frenzy. It is just doing the things that virus do without malice. We need to act like people, too, except the grown-up kind who do the things that people do to look out for each other.

More ugly COVID shocks and surprises lay ahead as the other deep pools of suffering, stigma and exclusion become the new epicenters. Refugee camps, prisons and vast favelas of Africa, Latin America and India will experience a whole new dimension of suffering about the time the nail salons are opening up in the US.

Last week Grand Rounds for our FaithHealth Division  was titled “Testing Positive for Faith amid the COVID pandemic.” Dean Johnny Hill of Shaw Divinity School led the conversation with Dr. Brian Davis who has recently joined the Division after two decades in leadership roles in the NC Baptist Convention.

IMG_6313 2

Growing baby bees need a lot of grown-ups to bring in a lot of pollen. But the older bees kind of enjoy doing such a natural act of generosity. They teach this to me every morning on our deck where they live.

If you google the phrase “testing positive for faith” you’ll be on an odd ride into the edges of the kind of faith that prays when they should be washing their hands, that mocks the God who has given us science as an answer to prayer. You can buy a stupid T-shirt. But don’t let some odd people run off with an excellent metaphor. How would one test for faith in these early years of the 21st century?

COVID teaches us that one can be infected without showing symptoms. Likewise, it is dangerous to judge faith to fit your idea of the proper symptoms. The CDC adds to its list of symptoms to watch for, now up to 19. Although older people seem more likely to have a serious case of faith, it does show up in the younger groups, just not as likely to create a whole change in life. Just as COVID is still becoming itself, so it faith in these months.

We have been told–and come to believe–that the 21st century is marked by a dramatic chasm between large groups of people who declare they want none of organized religion at all and those who “believe.” The “nones” focus on decency and kindness without the sermonic overload. The outer fringe of believers leave reason, science and democratic norms behind.

Like Gates’ war analogy, this one sounds right, but is simplistically wrong. It is unhelpfully superficial way to see the complex mélange of identities in even the smallest modern village. COVID shows us that the divide between communities of faith and the many facets of scientific roles has evaporated. At Baptist hospital we rarely pray in public, even at governance and leadership meetings out of sensitivity to the diversity in a modern academic medical center. But in the early days of when COVID came to our halls, one of our doctors asked if we couldn’t get the chaplains to pray more than once a week; how about every day? With the exception of a few politicized TV wingnuts, congregations listen to Dr. Fauci with as much trust as they would any Bishop. We stay home and we follow the guidance of science as to how to show our faith with an array of creative ways of looking out for our neighbors as ourselves.

IMG_6706

This is one of thousands of working girls finding what the young need and bringing it home. Everything they touch thrives, naturally.

In Winston-Salem one of our most faithful pediatricians designed a facemask more comfortable and thus more likely be worn. Bill Satterwhite worked with a sock company in Mt Airy (the model for Mayberry) to get them into production to mask the city. Standing six feet apart, but locked as one, the effort is blending faith networks of all persuasions, business, government, philanthropy and, of course public health and healthcare. The people doing the bold project are all more than one of those identities, testing positive for faith AND science, smart business, democracy and decency. The flexible spine is called Love Out Loud, but mostly works quietly to build the relationships that can carry the freight in times like this. None of them has to think very hard about how to do this collaborative interdisciplinary interfaith inter-everything activity. Nobody has to speak slowly so the faith people can grasp the idea of viral risk. And nobody has to teach the business people and engineers ethics as if they didn’t have mothers. Some of the masks are for sale (the first batch offered sold out within 45 minutes). But most are given away by employers to their staff and many thousands through the non-profit and faith networks.

Normal grown-ups know how to act appropriately and with efficiency. COVID probably thought it was competing against the venal idiots doing the TV press conferences. It turns out the virus has to tangle with more normal grown-ups than anyone thought existed. We were asymptomatic! But infected with faith and science so we can do smart things together.

Of course, to see that, you have to ignore a lot of stupidity from roles you’d expect intelligence. Walk away from the TV and see if the fog of false division is lifting just as you’d hope. We’re very deep in the hole with deep wounds to heal, mostly from long before this virus came out of the bat caves.

JB Phillips translates one of the letters attributed to Paul as “faith means putting our full confidence in the things we hope for, it means being certain of things we cannot see.” (Hebrews 11:1). He continues, “And it is after all only by faith that our minds accept as fact the whole scheme of time and space was created by God.” Science helps us see the scheme and what it is possible to hope for. We can see beyond the horizon of the current chaos to what could yet be.

Public health science is profoundly relational; six feet, showing respect with masks and clean hands. The arts of public justice and mercy require clean hearts and no less science.

Many of the same people responding to COVID were beginning to work on the intractable and pernicious challenge of early childhood.  Some of that is very hard, but most is about as obvious as washing one’s hands. But instead of social distance, we need kind-hearted engagement with the mom’s, men and kids otherwise guaranteed to stay poor another generation. Before COVID, we were meeting, but secretly going through the motions because we didn’t really believe things could be different. The actions planned were entirely precedented. Way more kids would lose more years of their lives to inaction than they ever would from COVID.

COVID shows us that we could make the choices to lead toward life. We can contact trace every kid born in the county, know their name and help their mom and the ones that love them.

We’ve already spent more trillions for COVID than we thought it would cost to give this generation a shot in hell at a decent life. We know now that we could turn around and go another way. It would just take a lot of faith and science to do so.

But a lot of grown-ups are testing positive these days.

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Deviant Birth

cherry burl hosed

Wild Cherry Burl given to me by John Pledger of Trinity, NC. Triad Bee Supply. Not as old as me, but well seasoned and ready for its second life.

I’ve had several early birthday gifts. The best tasting were the cookies my daughter Kathryn sent. Lindwood Jr. and I opened our hives and confirmed that all four of our queens are busy birthing. And last Thursday—best of all—about 75 people from around the world held an UnZoom to explore the confluence of Leading Causes of Life with Positive Deviance. It wasn’t designed as a birthday present, but it gives me more energy than if every one of my 40,000 bee daughters each baked me a cookie.

Five years ago a very unusual meeting gathered in the West Wing of the White House to explore how to align the assets of community to advance the health and well-being of all. The meeting was designed largely by Dr. Arvind Singhal using Liberating Structures. Unlike almost every other White House gathering before or since, this one did not know any answers in advance, only the question. And even more unusual, the question was not posed as a problem but opportunity. How much is possible?

A lot has changed.

cherry burl on the bandsaw

The bandsaw reveals the grain complexity and deep voids.

Some of the same people gathered with dozens of others on Zoom to explore the same basic question of possibilities. How might the integrating ideas of the Leading Causes of Life and the toolkit of Positive Deviance turn on the lights about how much we have to work with? Not “even now” amid COVID, but because of what COVID is teaching us about how very much capacity we have to do things very differently when we choose. One might say that we are forced, but we see the same virus provoking many kinds of response, so obviously it is only posing the question. We humans are choosing to act, informed by different blends of fear, science and imagination.

I have written thousands of pages about one thing—life. I’m not a philosopher or academic, mostly a faith guy who sits near the door when I go to church. Through a winding path that took me from the basement of Oakhurst Baptist Church and Seeds Magazine in Atlanta and then through Africa I found myself at The Carter Center, leading an agenda called the Interfaith Health Program. When invited by Dr. Foege and Jimmy Carter, I deferred until I could try to preach a public health sermon. That sermon became the framework for Carter’s column in the very first issue of magazine in which he says, “we must make the choices that lead to life.”

cherry burl rounding

Flat on both sides and ready to round. Still guessing what life will emerge.

We did then what we do now—encourage and connect leaders who love their communities like God intends—not because of COVID, opioids, or Diabetes or some other cause of death. Life.

From time to time, when Jimmy Carter couldn’t go somewhere, he might send me. Imagine the disappointment! In Milwaukee I showed up at a prestigious University of Wisconsin event on radical infant mortality disparities focused in the slender strip of neighborhoods where I’m sure COVID cases abound today.

Dr. David Williams, the eminent Adventist sociologist now at Harvard, was the first keynote speaker and I (who was not Jimmy Carter) the second. He spoke with stark clarity about race, health and death in the United States. He created a moral and spiritual moment, as accurate data often does, and then handed the microphone to me. I knew my PowerPoint of helpful programs was grossly inadequate, so I spoke the very first time about the leading causes of life. Actually, just the first four causes. Shortly thereafter, I was in Cape Town where Jim Cochrane added Agency, as any African would.

cherry burl coring

This tool releases the daughter bowl from its mother. Because of the dense grain and voids, it took about 8 hours of, well, labor.

I reached out to Larry Pray to help me write the first book on The Leading Causes of Life, which we had hardly begun when he suffered one of his many strokes. The book began with Larry’s wonderful sentence, “life has a language.”

What’s the language for?

A few birthdays later Dr. Paul Laurienti of Wake Forest told us that nobody really needs Life language unless life is complex and dynamic. But it is.  Ask a pangolin or a bee.

Life language flourishes in times of fundamental discontinuity and unthinkable challenge. This is when we must see—and talk about—how life actually works.  Where do we work? The only place is amid the oddly wonderful, ever-muddling humans in what I came to call the boundary zones. Such zones are in between the domains of structure and certainty, settled power, and evidence-based this and that. That’s what you’re watching on CNN and out your window. Today, of course, we can see plainly that almost everything is in the boundary zone!

cherry burl mother daughterWhen we do not have words for life, we lose it. Not because some disease has stolen it, but because we have misplaced it. We literally forget what it looks like. We lost the words to even ask for help in finding it again.

Paul Laurienti described the five causes as tent poles that open up space for our collective imagination and dialogue so that we can find our way. You have to open up a space and hold it open long enough for us to figure out the right next steps that lead to life. In the crush of the pandemic, we need ventilators, masks, and sensible leaders to do the urgent and obvious things. Just past the bio-medical peak, we begin to need another kind of dialogue—about the life we now must craft with purpose and values that will give life a chance in the years ahead. COVID is not our last crisis. Others more profound are likely as the melting planet calls time on our silly fantasies. We must talk life while we have a chance to seek it.

How? Ah, that is what Positive Deviance is for.

And do we need it? On my birthday we have recorded 165,257 deaths from COVID around the world, 41,114 in my own country. This still pales before those quietly lost to HIV/AIDS (roughly 770,000 in 2018). And remember opioids? Tobacco? Diabetes? Suicide?

cherry burl nested

There is so much beauty in the world to be released. If you’d like these, you can find them on Etsy. The money goes to the Joe Biden campaign. I was thinking WHO, Sierra Club or CDC, but one will get you all of them and more.

Heather Wood Ion knows an epidemic when she sees one. Commenting on the UnZoom she said: “we were reminded to trust our own human inheritance.  We know what is needed to bring healing to the fragmented and yearning world around us.  We know that there is around us all a web, invisible but unbreakable, that will bring us the nourishment we need if we are open and accepting of its vitality.”

The angel at Jesus tomb asked, “Why are you looking for life at the tomb?” Go search among the living. Find a vaccine. Elect an actual President. Plant a billion trees and some bee-friendly flowers. Go shop for a neighbor. Sing with your family.

Later today I’ll blow out enough birthday candles to start a tornado. TC has arranged for my scattered but blended family to sing happy birthday …. by Zoom.

Alive.

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Smart daughters

Bees arriving

Linwood Davis, Jr and I introducing bees into their new home on my deck. Spraying them with sugar water so they are happy and distracted (same thing, i think).

Nature is not out to kill us. The current virus that looks like a crown is a mean sucker perfectly tuned to exploit our human fault lines. It is happy to find us with foolishly fragile global supply lines, unfunded public health infrastructure, and eating pangolins. None of these were ever good ideas, which we see now.

Each generation gives the next one a chance at life when grown-ups do the mundane things that hold us together. This is how the Center Holds (against Yeats). This is the name of a new podcast series about the greatest drama of our time–(public health). The podcast is a collaboration of Stakeholder Health (mostly hospitals), Public Health Law Network and…..theater professionals. In a crisis, leadership is more than normal chattering; we need to cast our voice way better. You’ll listen to Lauren Gunderson and Scott Burris of Temple School of Law make each other smarter, and they were both really smart already. (click here).

Meanwhile, nature gives another Carolina Springtime, marked in our family by the arrival of 36,000 daughters. They came Saturday morning from John Pledger of Triad Bee Supply, who brought 300 boxes of them up from North Georgia to local NC (3,600,000 million little ladies). Our three boxes became two hives, each of which has its own queen cleverly marked with a little florescent dot so we can find her. She buzzes in Italian, as she’s a hybrid developed to be very gentle. She traveled in her own queen cage along with 6 attendants to care for her until the other workers can chew their way through a candy plug and set her free. The picture below is of one of Linwood Davis, Jr’s queens.  We have matching hives, like good friends do.

Bee lindwood's queenThe queen was fertilized by some anonymous drone in North Georgia, which happens. My books mention “an audible pop,” followed by the happy drone falling dead on the ground. This got my attention. Once free, our queen will go to laying 2,000 eggs a day so the hive can gather nectar and pollen and make honey.

So when do you get your honey, you ask? My local bee teachers tell me not to harvest any the first year unless they have really visited every flower within 3 miles. I’m not very patient, so am hoping for a least some this year. Neighbors get first dibs as they had to endure the first day with a lot of bees in our townhouse cove. Not bad as bad me in my cycle outfit, but still quite a sight.

I did get one sting when I tripped and smushed one of the girls. I didn’t blame her.

Bee day 1

The “bee bus” is open, so now the bees can enter the hive, drawn by the queen. It wasn’t actually that easy, but by dusk they all had settled in.

I’ll open the hive in a few days to make sure the queen got out of her cage okay. And then in another week to make sure she’s gone to laying the eggs. After that, I’ll check about once a month. If you want to come visit on one of those occasions, let me know. Bees are good at keeping humans at social distance.

About the time the honey-making rolls, the COVID will peak and then recede. Millions of lives and entire industries, will have suffered enormous damage in ways we can’t quite imagine yet. The bees make it through this kind of thing by working seamlessly, making hard choices with everyone doing thousands of mundane things right, one at a time.

Bees don’t poop in the hive. My many bee books told me so; but actually learned it looking up through the sunroof of my Mini Cooper. It is parked right below the new hives, which makes a nice target. Honeybees only live a few months—not much different than us humans in the big scheme of things. They find humor  amid their work. Good tip.

Bee pickup

Here’s how you distribute 3,600,000 bees. John Pledger is the thoughtful man in yellow. Triad Bee Supply

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Cheating Range

Salisbury Viaduct

My dad took care of this bridge like a grown-up. I think of him when it comes time for precinct meetings.

Here’s how democracy works: people vote in places called precincts that usually contain a couple thousand voters. TC and I vote in Precinct 601 in Forsyth County, with 2,212, including 1,028 Democrats 860 unaffiliated and a sprinkling of Republicans. The precinct starts over at the Moravian cemetery called God’s Acre. In Chicago some of them might vote, but only living people get to do so here. The precinct actually starts with Salem College (the oldest womens’ college in the colonies), then heads west through a lot of condos, a couple cool coffee shops and restaurants. Then uphill through Piedmont International University  and another “public house” serving yet more coffee. The precinct casts votes at the Christ Moravian Church at the top of the hill there. The precinct continues through a few hundred fairly dumpy houses scattered down the hill before ending at Peters Creek Parkway. You can walk from one end of the precinct to the other in 25 minutes which between now and November we will do several times.

In most elections about half the people vote. No Democrat has to try to convince any of the 294 Republicans to change their mind. It might just annoy them enough that they will forget how embarrassed they are these days and vote. We need those among our 1,028 people who are not inclined to vote to show up. If 10% of them vote in all the precincts like our little 601, then Mr Trump and his thieves go back to stealing from their hotel guests and gullible golfers instead of my grandchildren.

We already beat this guy by three million voters with a candidate less likable than anyone still alive in the democratic field. We just needed another 70,000 voters in precincts in the three states of Pennsylvania, Ohio and Michigan. On the day it mattered, they did other errands and didn’t show up.

Bad on them, of course.

But bad on their precinct workers!

Mr Trump is like a balloon held aloft with the anger of this agitated followers who he keeps frothing by at least one outrage every news cycle. Many of them are Christians who should know better. Bad on them. But his empty balloon is also filled with our anger at him. We should know better, too. Bad on us.

Anger is not like voting. Neither is “liking” Facebook posts or retweeting about his stupid stuff. Voting happens at the precinct level. Boring as hell; about as fun as your average church committee. This is the kind of mundane thing that grown-ups do when we think the future of the species is at risk.

We have all heard about rigged elections and meddling by all sorts of folks; another distraction.  We just have to get this out of cheating range. It turned out that in 2016 we needed slightly more than the 2.09% Hillary won by. So maybe we need to win by 6% (about 9 million votes). That’s not even hard. We just need to show up and get our neighbors to do so, too.

The annual meeting of precinct 601 is this Saturday at 10am at the Moravian Church at the top of the hill. It will probably be 6 or 10 of us and a few candidates anxious to meet some actual voters who might vote. We’ll elect a new chair and talk someone into being the treasurer to whom we’ll write some checks. Then we’ll talk about how to organize rides to the polls and such.

It’s not likely to get all the way to fun. But it does feel good. Come on Saturday.

charlie and Asa through the window

Charles and Asa: why I show up at the precinct.

And don’t forget to tell your kids why you did it.

If you live in another precinct, or state, google it and find your meeting. It will be just as quirky and uncool. (Here’s the link to Forsyth County Democrats: https://www.fcdpnc.org/annual-precinct-meetings.html

 

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Silent Sky in DC

Lauren and Wynter

Wynter Ruchti and Lauren Gunderson looking forward together on opening night.

Rex Tillerson and I went to my daughter Lauren’s play at Ford’s Theater in DC this week. Left me with a lot to think about.

Silent Sky is about the astonishing true story of how Henrietta, a pastor’s daughter, ended up at Harvard where she figured out, well, the universe. At least how big it is and where we are in it. That sets up the real story, about how short our lives are with so much left unknown, undone and unasked. The play is running in the Ford’s Theater, with the box where Lincoln was assassinated, a few feet stage left. We were there at the opening which Lauren dedicated to Greg Ruchti, an astronomer and nephew, who died in May, of colon cancer. That’s his daughter Wynter with mine looking forward through the telescope. Hard to miss that second point about brevity.

Ford Theater

Cindy Gunderson, Jenny Ruchti’s mom and Wynter’s grandmother at the Ford Theater before Silent Sky. Lincoln Box to the right.

As in real life in our family, some of the best lines in Lauren’s play about Henrietta Leavitt, Silent Sky, go to the quieter sister instead of the famous one. Henrietta, the scientist, is dying, aching at having only begun understanding the universe. Most would revel in her legacy–ironically credited to Hubble, who also got the space telescope named after him (oh, and that Nobel).Henrietta mourns the “work that I can’t finish; she aches to know “what else is true.” But, “that’s what a legacy is,” said her sister, Margaret, who saw life through the lens of her kids and a small town to love. “It could mean that you may not know how you might matter to people right now, and you cannot know how you will matter in the future. But you are already connected—and you already matter. Because what do you outlasts you.”

Lauren notes that these lines tend to make men over 45 years old cry.

I haven’t personally discovered much about the universe, but am near tears these days about the massive work left to Wynter, and our grandkids, Charles and Asa. This April will be the 50th anniversary of Earth Day, which was brought to my attention by the Wake Forest University newspaper wanting to interview me as one who participated in the first one. My blow on behalf of the species was digging a hole to bury a gasoline auto engine in the hard Carolina clay near the library. Like many sophomoric ideas, it underestimated the labor involved. Some frat boys, seeing the engine and me chipping away with the shovel, offered to pee in the hole to soften it up. I thought of that during this week of dismal environmental and political news, marked by the Doomsday Clock getting within 100 seconds of catastrophe. The scientists calibrating the clock noted accelerating decay on both those fronts. I noticed slightly more than half the senate pissing away our future.

We really don’t have the time. And the Senate isn’t the one letting the world down.

Rex Tillerson came to Lauren’s play and sat next to her at the VIP dinner. The best thing he did with his whole life was getting fired from being Secretary of State for telling the truth about his “moron” boss. Other than that, he ran Exxon and wrote a book about exploiting the Arctic oil reserves. And he served on Ford Theater Board for many years. Lauren asked him what he was excited about. His first answer was, “not much.” And then he said it was the kids today, to whom we have left such massive work to do. He thought they seem capable, with great energy. I agree with Rex, who is a year younger than me and probably never buried a single auto engine. But I’m not claiming any moral high ground. I’ve flown 1,571,397 miles on Delta so far, which translates into nearly two thirds of a million pounds of carbon. I drive a 3-cylinder Mini Cooper, but I’ve released the equivalent weight of nearly 240 of them flittering about.

It would be almost possible to tolerate Rex and me, if the first Earth Day marked the great turning away from what we now so clearly see is a great burning. I don’t know about you, but he and I have squandered these years.

The dismal Doomsday Clock could steal our resolve when we need it most. It could encourage us to give up and go look for another planet only a few dozen light years away. I don’t think Henrietta would recommend that. For the lifetime of me and all those I love, this planet is the only one to work with. Anyone who has burned as much carbon as me simply does not get to quit as long as there is anything to be done.

Jesus was often asked dumb questions by snarky Pharisees, much like the frat boys I looked up at. He had been passing his day healing this and that sick person, suffering this and that condition. They thought they had him, as he was doing this and desecrating the Sabbath! Jesus said, “…as long as my Father is working, I will, too.” I’m pretty sure that God has not given up on the planet, yet. But more to the point, we simply can’t stop looking forward, as long as Wynter can find a telescope. And can’t stop cleaning the watershed as long as her grandfather (my brother, Ron) is restoring the church property at the headwaters of a little creek that drains into the Chesapeake.

Bee Class

Two hundred newbie beekeepers at the Forsyth Extension Office. Who knew?

Saturday morning I went to my first beekeeping class at the Forsyth county extension office. I had managed to talk our condo association into letting me put a hive on our deck. I expected to be among a dozen earth day alumni fossils ignoring the obvious bee apocalypse underway. What could be more hopeless; like sand castles against the rising seas? Two hundred people of all sorts and types pressed into the room, including one Divinity school student of TC and mine with purple hair, totally unfossil-like.

I went home and ordered a second hive. The bees come March 28th, just a bit before the 50th Earth Day. I’ll have tens of thousands of new bee daughters, on whom I can’t quit now.

So, what does “not quitting” look like in these hard-hearted times?

Walk away from angry people, especially if they agree with you. We have no time for the friction and drama of anger.

Speak and act as if the children were watching and listening. They are, so we must feed their hopes by meaningful work and thought.

Think about those kids while you’re at work and not just on the weekend. In my case that means spending time in committee meetings about the carbon footprint of the hospital, which dwarves my lifetime impact just about every single day.

Bees on the deck

Me with my cypress hive from Triad Bee Supply. Bees come March 28.

Go lose yourself in others and things that may last beyond you. Do something real for someone real, even if they are a bee.

Go outside and look up. Lauren draws from Whitman as she did again in another play, I and You: “I became tired and sick. Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself, in the mystical moist night air, and from time to time, looked up in perfect silence at the stars.”


Silent Sky runs at Ford’s Theater through February 23.

 

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This tinsel thing

SONY DSCThis tinsel thing we do in late December is not and never has been about the Jewish baby whose mom magnified the Lord with hopes of bringing down the rich and mighty. That baby was born in June, utterly unfit for the ornamental purposes that Empire demands. Empire likes religion to help dangle the promise of wealth and privilege in exchange for complicity. Priests and preaches are usually happy to rent themselves cheap, quick to drop the Jewish Justice Jesus in favor of Christological abstractions. This is not a new political strategy. We do Christmas in December to help the abstracted christ eclipse Rex the Sun God. The bishops even came up with a virgin birth to match all the other invented gods of the day. Constantine chuckled at the priests who thought they were manipulating him. Our current potentate plays an ancient transaction, throwing a few meaningless gestures towards supplicant clergy. Cheap tricks that always work; but not for long.

Christmas was a late deviation from the Jesus story, which always focused elsewhere. It took as proof that something serious was atilt in the order of power the quiet thriving of the most curious sprout from the root of David, the odd Jewish sect that spread across the tough seaport towns of the Mediterranean—the church. For nearly 30 decades the band of deviate Jews that sounded a lot like wanna-be Greeks persisted in what they called The Way. The people called Christians were known by their love for each other and constant creative attention to the needs of the widows, orphans and other disregarded ones.

By the time Constantine pasted Christmas onto the mid-winter holiday traditionally honoring Rex the Sun God, that little band had acquired not just priests, but bishops, councils, theologians and drummers drumming—the whole accoutrement of theological lapdog of Empire. It would be centuries more before we invented the Christmas tree (thanks to my Nordic people) and Jolly Santa (thanks to Coke). I don’t know how we devolved to 14-foot inflatable plastic figures for the lawn entirely abstracted from any meaning of any kind even a little bit. Once you move the birthday anything can happen.

One Christmas eve in Belmont the Baptists were tired of being outclassed by the Catholics with their massively successful midnight service of handbells and fragrant candles. The preacher organized his own darn service, so there we were, with four-year old Lauren scribbling away on the pew awaiting Christmas the next morning. The preacher only had one sermon, so with relentless predictability he went with it. He ignored the Angles’ promise to be not afraid. He wanted us very afraid, reminding us that Jesus tied for our sins. But even a preacher has to stop to breath in. At such a time church can be very quiet. She asked in clear child’s voice, “He died?!?!”

Sometimes very powerful questions make it through the Christmas din. That inconvenient Jewish kid is persistent, lurking on the edges of the Wal-Mart version of the story. Why did Mary go on and on about the rich falling down? Why did Herod try and kill him? Why the stories of him refusing the privileges of power when offered by Satan again and again, right up until his arrest at the end of his brief three-year prophetic run? Why did the people follow him into the wilderness? Why did he give away everything for free? Why did the wise and wealthy who listened carefully to him walk away in tears clinging to their barns and baubles? And what on earth are we to make of the cabal of priests and pirates who killed him as one more leftist irritant?

What does that have to do with hot mess of a culture? Some morn the end of the Christendom, but I’m glad for it. Back to Jesus! Some lament the end of our democratic-industrial-military-techno complex responsible for the melting planet and dumbing screens. Back to Jesus! But not the one in the made-up plastic manger. I mean the one in the manger that scared Herod and all his priestly suck-ups.

Last night we celebrated Christmas Eve in Davis Chapel on the campus of Baptist Hospital. We read the old stories and sang the old songs a few hundred feet from 540 very ill people being cared for by a couple of thousand healing heroines. Gunshots and overdoses in the ED. Eight on suicide watch, impossible to leave alone. And 71 kids in the NICU, a really big manger. Hard to miss the point; God is not done. Not with me, you, us or the whole created shebang. Not yet. Not yet.

Shhh. Don’t tell Wal-mart, Amazon or what’s his name in Mar A Largo.

“Do not be afraid,” said—and still say–the angels among us. Rejoice! But how do you tell the angels from those playing the angles? Read the story for yourself without the lens of empire.

God so loved this place that he sent a little Jewish boy to an improbably insignificant border town into a family so compromised they didn’t even know who the father was for sure.

So does hope come and come again and yet again. So is marked The Way worth walking even now.

I think I will rejoice.

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