Grounding

My daughter, Christine, has recently been chiding me for the conspicuous lag between the subject of my blogs and my actual location. She’s right—and I feel bad. My last entry—posted on March 7 from Hammond, Louisiana—was about Bali, from which I departed more than a month earlier. A few days ago, I was having Tex-Mex in Houston—when I haven’t even begun to mention all the fresh fish, shrimp and grits, gumbo, cracklins, and other southern delicacies I’ve enjoyed in Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana these past six weeks.

While I’ve actually been traveling in the South for three months, I’ve written little that is unique to the region. And there’s been no shortage of material. On the contrary, I’ve had so many intriguing encounters I hardly know where to begin. My defense, as I tried explaining to Christine, is that I’m not only putting in considerable miles on the road, I’m also spending most of my “free” time with friends (and friends of friends). That, of course, was my original intent. But it doesn’t leave much time to write (at least not the considered reflections I want to post).

I don’t expect to catch up—which is reassuring in a funny way. Well into my third journal, I’m confident a book will eventually emerge from all the handwritten notes I’ve taken. And book or no book, I’ll have plenty of stories for the grand children (tales which will surely be embellished as both they and I age). For the time being, however, I’ll start sharing my Southern adventures—which I hope will at least pacify Christine.

Shortly after the detour to Bali, I hit the literal and figurative turning point of the trip. On February 8, my friend Stephen flew to Ft. Lauderdale to join me for a week. Three days later, on February 11, we reached the end of US Highway 1 in Key West, Florida—the furthest point from Portland in the continental states. Now, even though the route isn’t direct, every mile brings me closer to Oregon. While I’m not in a hurry for the journey to end, it feels good to be heading home. I’ll be there on May Day.

“Are you finding God?” my sister, Susie, asked on the phone last week. I could answer a hundred different ways. My initial thought was of Buddy Moody, a cattle rancher in Poplarville, Mississippi, who, after sizing me up, shot back, “I didn’t know that God was lost!” And Jacky Jack White, a country musician and part-time preacher up the road in Meridian, Mississippi, who asked, “Did you know that God’s lookin’ fer you?”

While I like to think that neither God nor I am lost, I was hoping to be on the receiving end of a little more sunshine here in the South. Key West didn’t get above 65—and the wind made it feel even cooler. It got down to 19 one night in Alabama, and there was snow 20 miles north of my campground in Mississippi. If it hasn’t been cold, it’s been rainy—and sometimes both.

But I’ve been warmed immensely by “Southern hospitality”—which, I’ve concluded, has nothing to do with the climate and everything to do with the people (and the food). No matter how foul the weather, I’ve been welcomed everywhere by people who made me feel right at home—whether I knew them or not. My rather circuitous route through Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana was not the result of calculated planning, but rather of generous invitations from friends and strangers alike who had heard of my travels and were willing to open their homes and hearts.

While hospitality has been the South’s most charming feature, the region offers a deeper lesson: we run a great risk by stereotyping anyone. Case in point: While many people talk openly about having a “personal relationship” with Jesus, a good number of them are likely to, in their next breath, condemn the deep harm they’ve suffered in churches. As one minister put it, “Religion’ll screw people up as fast as drugs.” That degree of candor—and distancing from conventional religion—was not what I expected.

Another discovery here has been the clarity of consensus around what really matters. Before setting out on this trip, I asked, “Can the ways we connect with God help us recognize and appreciate what’s truly important—and perhaps even transform how we engage with each other and the Earth?” While I have yet to discover a common language as it relates to God, I’ve heard nothing but agreement about what’s truly important.

“Where do you find God?” I asked two young sisters at a Coldstone Creamery in Marco Island, Florida. They were with their mother and aunt—who were quite animated and curious.

“Everywhere,” nine-year-old Summer answered casually.

“So, what really matters to you?” I followed up.

This time ten-year-old Sky jumped in—with equal speed and certainty. Affectionately embracing Summer, she said, “My sister!”

Sky’s innocent, spontaneous declaration encapsulates the only slightly longer replies to that question from every adult I’ve asked. My friends, Jay and Barbara, who hosted me in Foley, Alabama, summed it up in four words: “Family. Friends. Community. Relationships.”

You don’t have to travel 21,000 miles through 33 states to appreciate that perceptions of God vary dramatically. But despite the considerable differences as it relates to a Supreme Being, people are almost totally unanimous about what ultimately matters. Family. Friends. Community. Relationships. What might happen if we truly and collectively embraced that understanding? As Buddy Moody put it, “What we focus on around here is lovin’ people up.”

When you get right down to it—no matter what your faith or spiritual inclination, what really matters is family, friends, community, relationships… and lovin’ people up.

Now that’s the kind of ground I can stand on. How about you?

(Galveston, TX)