Joy in the here is my chief engineer

Poet and filmmaker James Broughton wrote a memoir of his first 65 or so years, Coming Unbuttoned. Now I'm working on the Big Joy Project, which will be a website and a film about his life and times, and the whole idea of living Big Joy.

Malcolm Dorn and Lee and Ann Katzenbach helped me kick off the project at James's gravesite in Port Townsend, where James lived the last 10 of his 85 years and became known to many as "poet laureate" of the sleepy mill town which once saw itself becoming the Seattle of the Northwest.

Malcolm reads from Broughton's "Packing Up for Paradise" as dog Chester Wallydoodle crouches in excitement and we sip champagne

Rocky Friedman, owner of the Rose Theatre, is also helping me with the project. He found the amazing filmmaker Ian Hinkle, who jumped in right away and filmed our opening ceremony.

Ian Hinkle films Malcolm Dorn lighting candles at James Broughton's gravesite

I'm so grateful for all the support I'm getting for the project so far. (Don't worry, I'll be making a pitch for funding soon.)

It's a new dawn, a new day, time to give thanks

"Adventure, Not Predicament" is the epitaph on James Broughton's phallic stone marker. And, this poem:

In the arms of lover I
lie in eternity
clutching the secret of holy excess

Joy in the here is
my chief engineer
over and unto and once upon Yes

Joy in the here is
the nature of nature
touching the habit of daily caress

in the arms of lover I
leap in eternity
over and unto and once again Yes

Angels and Ancestors

Ten years ago I gave James Broughton this orchid for his 85th birthday. His life partner Joel Singer left it in our care; it hasn't stopped blooming

The Angels of Our Keeping

They are the keepers of our company
keeping us in touch keeping us in tune
They keep us widely awake to wonder
They are the keepers of our rash felicities

They keep love from growing decrepit
keep our limbs from going rickety
keep our hotblood from thinning out
They believe in the triumphs of the flesh

However beloved one day you may find
my parts scattered like those of Orpheus
my body dismembered by vexatious maenads
or literal-minded literati

Do not weep when you hold my shards
Put me back together one more time
as you have done many times before
and play my heartstrings in memory of our music

Even in my ashes even in my tomb
I shall be reconstituted by your love
thanks to our keepers who have kept us
metamorphosing in the marvelous

-- James Broughton

The yogic gardener Steven Shaun peers from behind James Broughton's gravestone at the cemetery in Port Townsend, WA, where he lived his last 10 years; if you click on the image you can read another poem, The Gardener of Eden

Today is James Broughton's birthday. He would have been 95.

For those who don't know, James Broughton (1913-1999) was a pioneer of experimental filmmaking, a central player in California’s creative beat scene, a bard of sensuality and spirituality, a preacher of Big Joy. (He called himself Big Joy in the last part of his life.)

Broughton was a poet in the tradition of Rumi, Hafiz, William Blake, Walt Whitman, and other ecstatic, Divine Trickster poets who trick, tempt, tease and seduce us into a direct, playful, and wondrous relationship with life, God, nature, and each other.

I was fortunate to have known James for the last 10 of his 85 years. And today, in Port Townsend, I'm formally kicking off The Big Joy Project, which will include a website, and film, and a biography of James. More to come on this, but if anyone feels moved to make a contribution to the project, it can be done through the White Crane Institute.

James and I 'mentored' each other: he asked for help with prose, I for help with poetry

Holding President Obama...

President-Elect Barack Obama has set a high bar for himself, and for the country.

We need it. We deserve it.

Though it may be simplistic, this video outlines many reasons why Obama was elected.

Our story needs to shift – from greed to compassion, from conflict to cooperation, from me to we. And we’re shifting it. But it won’t be easy.

It’s our turn now.

We need to hold Obama to his promises, yes. But as Van Jones has so eloquently stated, we also need to hold him.

He’s only human. As his grandmother’s death on the eve of his election reminded us, life is as fragile as it is miraculous and strong.

I must say McCain's concession speech was classy: "Tonight — tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Sen. Obama — whether they supported me or Sen. Obama.

"I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president. And I call on all Americans, as I have often in this campaign, to not despair of our present difficulties, but to believe, always, in the promise and greatness of America, because nothing is inevitable here."

We need to start living our new story. Whatever small steps we can take. It’s time.

Autumn scenes

Sunrise at Rivercliff, looking over the St. Croix River at Minnesota on the other side. Forget the computer!

Two maples on the main drag in Osceola, Wisconsin

Brother Mark and Mother Helen and I spent a wonderful weekend at Rivercliff, Helen's house on the St. Croix River

Mark and I took a walk in the woods. It rained, so we called Helen on the cell and sang, "Singing in the Rain"

Maple leaves along the forest floor sang the reds, not the blues

The St. Croix River 40 years ago was declared a "Wild River" /"Scenic River"... you can no longer build within view of the river

And the very best news from Minnesota -- my nephew David is healing FAST and BEAUTIFULLY from his auto accident

Is there life after high school?

Mary Carlson and I do an American Gothic harvest pose during a deadline break in the high school newspaper office, circa 1968

I guess there is, if my 40th high school reunion is any indication.

But there’s also death, and decay, and regeneration.

I was one of my high school’s storytellers, as editor of the high school newspaper. I don’t feel capable of telling the story now of all that’s happened to my 750 classmates. But the reunion sparked some great memories, rekindled a few friendships, and pointed up some black holes.

The former Edina High School is now an elementary school and administration building

I loved preparing by re-reading a number of the articles from the Edina High School Buzzette (yes, our team was the Hornets), paging through my yearbook, the Whigrean (yes, our colors were white and green), listening to music from 1968 (what’s the quintessential song – “Sargent Pepper,” “Mrs. Robinson,” “For What It’s Worth,” or “Get Together”?), and encouraging friends who I hadn’t seen for decades to join me at the reunion. (A few actually did.)

A number of my classmates – many still live in the Twin Cities area – organized the reunion, using a website and e-mails to round up as many as they could. About 160 people showed up, including spouses, to the Minnikahda Club, where we dined on pheasant mcnuggets (that’s what they called them!), paella, pizza, salmon, turkey sandwiches, and fancy salads. We lined up for photos – first the whole class, then those who had attended either of the two junior high schools and then those who went to the six elementary schools. I was struck by how many of us lived in Edina (known as the wealthy “cake-eating” suburb of Minneapolis) for our whole childhood.

Mary Carlson didn't come to the reunion, but the scrapbook she made in 1968 about our Buzzette adventures provided great laughs and memories

Our high school principal, Rollie Ring, was to have been present to sign copies of a book he’s written about his years at the school. But his son Roger, a classmate, said he didn’t feel well enough to join us. We were the last of his relatively tame classes – while we fought to abolish the dress code which required girls to wear skirts and allowed nobody to wear blue jeans, it wasn’t abolished until the following year. A couple years later, when my brother David was on the Buzzette staff, a student strike protested the Vietnam War.

Twin Cities musician Steve Sandberg joined Inga Quillama for some jolly moments at the 40th Edina High School reunion for the Class of 1968

A surprising number of people flew in from around the country. John – a lawyer-turned-yoga-instructor – was there from New Hampshire. Inga – an artist/nurse who was a stalwart member of our newspaper staff – came from California. Jody, my best female friend from high school, came from Berkeley with her husband Rich, who commented, “I think I’m the only person of color here!” whereupon I said, “you’re right -- and it seems I’m the only out gay person. Welcome to Edina. The only black person in our school was the African exchange student. But we did have a visit from the Harlem Globetrotters.”

And in fact, a number of us started a group called Come Open Your Eyes (COYE), the purpose of which was to educate ourselves and our community about African-American history and cultural issues. After the race riots of 1967 in Minneapolis, we went to visit black leaders in North Minneapolis, and asked, “What can we do to help?” They told us: “Go back to Edina, and educate your community.” So we did. We read and discussed Before the Mayflower and the Kerner Commission Report and other sources – and petitioned the school board to teach big missing pieces of American history (black, Native American, etc.). We canvassed and surveyed both students and parents about their attitudes (“How would you feel if your son or daughter dated a black person? If a Negro family moved in next door?”). We sponsored lectures by black cultural experts at our churches.

Fellow COYE and Tarantula Club members Anne Sivright and Jody Parsons joined me at the reunion; all of us came from out of town

Not many people were talking about this at the reunion. Much of it was meet-and-greet, catching up on where people lived and what they did. I was pleased, and somewhat surprised, that there were a large number of Obama supporters, mixed in with some McCain Republicans and many who were just fed up with the political process altogether. Eyes rolled about the economy.

A surprising number of our classmates have died – lost to cancer, accidents, AIDS, suicides, and other afflictions.

But others are doing amazing and interesting work – special education teachers, dancers, consultants helping to reinvent government, a priest working in Hispanic communities, conscious TV producers, nurses and storytellers. We danced to music from the 60’s – a lot of which surprisingly is still popular with today’s younger folk.

Some people agreed to stay in closer touch. Those teen connections are deep, but they don’t always translate into closeness after decades. Reunions can be fun; they can also remind you why you left.

Camping it up

Evening canoeing on Puget Sound is one of my favorite parts of camp

Take a week away from worry
Worry for another’s scurry
Winging along crooked paths
Eating junk food, taking baths …

Try Camp Parkview
Sing a song
Pull a paddle
Right a wrong

Last month, my brother Mark and Gordon and I went to summer camp.

It wasn’t just any camp. It was a camp for adults with disabilities, celebrating its 25th year at the Baptist-owned Camp Burton grounds here on Vashon Island.

Every morning camp co-founder Nancy Trenbeth led the group in exploring what community means

For many years now, since the mid-1980’s, Mark and I have enjoyed being together in a cabin with other campers and counselors and doing all the things you do at summer camp – arts and crafts (tie-dyed shopping bags!), archery (Mark got 4 bullseyes!), canoeing, swimming, and telling ghost stories.

Gordon and Carl Fox try on being a pig and a dog, thanks to Jennifer Burris's hats

Since Gordon came into my life, he’s joined us and has become one of the most popular counselors at the camp.

Annie (left) brought her good friend Maryann, who livened up this year's camp

What I love about Camp Parkview is taking a week away from my reality and getting into the rhythms of nature with a group of special people (aged 18 – 60something) for whom loving and eating are their primary foci. For many of them, camp is the highlight of their year.

Steve Jarvis always says "I want to go home." We imagine at his group home, he says, "I want to go to camp."

We danced a lot. In fact, the canoeing sessions often turned into dance-a-thons with campers rocking out on the beach.

Dancing to a live surf band at Grisham Hall is a favorite for many campers (and counselors)

My favorite moment is when we’re out in canoes with campers enjoying the smells of the water, reflecting on the day, hearing birds and belches after dinner.

Storyteller Merna Hecht brought the "Theater of the Beautiful Faces" to this year's camp. Chelsea helps hold the curtain.

It’s also fun to work with a truly intergenerational group of counselors (we had a great ratio this year – in our cabin, 4 counselors and 6 campers), many of whom spend their vacations volunteering at camp even though they work with special-needs populations all year long.

Anthony warms up for the Star Spangled Banner

The talent show on the last night is often a kick. This year, it started with longtime camper David DiJulio singing the Star Spangled Banner, while Anthony, in an American flag shirt, waved and danced around the stage. Mark played Jim Morrison of The Doors. He did a rollicking version of “Light My Fire,” with backup dancers Gordon (rubbing sticks together), Jennifer (lighting a match), camp co-founder John Holliday (flicking a Bic), and myself (lighting a longer lighting torch) singing along.

Mark Silha practices his best Jim Morrison imitation on the deck at Soundcliff

Camp, indeed!

Stairway to ... ?

Climb with me to the stars... aloft to the loft... where dreams coalesce...

It’s so important to think about where we need to go, and how best to get there.

For about a year, since the Forge (my writing cottage) was completed, we’ve needed a good way to get to the sleeping loft, the “treehouse” level, where a memory-foam mattress provides one of the best sleeping places in these parts.

Gordon has designed most of the Forge building itself, so he’s been thinking about this cosmic elevator for a long time. Built-in wall steps? A notched log? Fold-out stairs? A ladder? Ah…

The ladder stores elegantly against the wall, so the door to the mudroom can open

Our friend Hans Nelsen, a renowned woodworker and artist, saw Gordon’s drawings of a possible ladder, and made it real. Now there’s an easy ascent to the sleeping / napping / dreaming level.

A nap in the middle of writing? Why not?

The ladder bows in and out, and gives your climbing feet a sound massage with its cherry rungs, as your hands cling to its Douglas fir rails. It’s sleek, comfortable, graceful.

Even when not in use, it invites elevated thoughts...

Javier Sanchez, visiting from Mexico, was the first to use it to sleep in the loft.

And now the Forge feels more complete, even though there are a few more details to finish. So … no excuses not to write!

Thanks to coaching from my friend Ruth Ozeki, I’ve embarked on a daily discipline which will help me ascend beyond my own fears and into the realms of better sense-making and communication. No phone or e-mail in the morning! Instead, forging words, ideas, images.