drlamccrae

[drlamccrae]

Being an adult is exhausting.

Being a parent, or shall I say co-parent, is even more exhausting.

Now add trying to buy your first house.

And having 5 step kids. The second oldest is 17 and just told us she’s pregnant.

Within a month I became a husband, stepdad, and now … a grandfather.

Growing up, I had no idea what my parents meant when they said they were tired after working. It literally did not register to me. They were just at work, right? I was the one that had to go to school. I thought my job was the toughest. Clearly, I did not understand adulting and bills.

We also grew up in a very clean and tidy household. I never thought my parents were strict. We just had rules and standards. And, I thought everyone in my life had similar experiences. We all did chores. We had responsibility. We were taught to take pride in where we lived. We were taught to take care of our belongings and our bodies.

My family was known for having a clean, tidy, organized home that always smelled good and had the best musical mixes in the background.

That’s all id like to say about that for now.

[drlamccrae]

Commitment

It has been quite awhile since I have sat down to write. Just write. 

Growing up, I imagined being a writer. I would take copious notes. Read. Write. Think about book titles. Make little books and presentations. At that young age, I was not aware that there was no money in writing. Writing and books seemed (and still do) like the most precious items to me. 

For the last two decades, I have been trying to find my way. My way to the page. My way to writing. My way to fully expressing. 

Early on, AOL had blog sites and personal sites. I tried my very best to write publicly but did not realize being a queer, curious, Black kid was not safe. Anywhere. Especially not safe on the internet. 

Once in college, I found myself to MySpace. If I could go back and archive all of those writings, I would have enough to fill a thousand books. At the time, MySpace was safe, or so I believed. I had a protected profile. I could write and share as freely as I wanted too. Like many youngsters, I spent tons of time customizing my MySpace page, adding features, and connecting with others. 

Over the years, I used Blogger, Blogspot, Wordpress, Penzu... you name it, I’ve likely used it. But nothing seemed to stick. Nothing felt like “home.”

Frustrated. I would return to pen (or mechanical pencil) and paper. I filled journal after journal with my thoughts and ruminations. 

Each time I attempted to write something, anything, it failed to rise to my expectations. It was difficult for me to focus in my writing. Often, there were several themes and stories contained in one piece. I tried to fit my non-binary way of being and thinking into the expectations of a society that consistently rejected me. Then, writing became painful.

A few years ago, a former partner purchased a replica of James Baldwin’s typewriter. That inspired me! Countless hours were spent writing, typing, thinking, and flowing. However, this became increasingly annoying to my partner. The click-click of the keys was too much. Too damn much. So, I packed up the typewriter and swore I would return once I felt home. 

That time still has yet to arrive. 

Tonight, I just sat down to write and know it is the first step to getting back into shape. Into the shape and form of concentrated writing. When I was ex-patting in Prague, I belonged to a writer’s group. Once the pandemic hit, I stayed as involved as I could through Zoom, Discord, and Facebook. Now that I no longer have social media, I feel both more spacious and disconnected. For some of my contacts and people, the only way we stayed connected was through Facebook. But Facebook drained my soul. And again, I stopped writing. 

Writers have to write. 

And that takes commitment. 

It is not that I am not committed to the vision and dream of writing. It is that I feel as if I can’t find the time. Or, that I think my writing won’t be good enough by standards of people I’ve never met and honestly could care less about. All of these obstacles are emotional baggage that have become an albatross around my neck keeping me from my dreams. 

No longer. 

No more. 

Often, I have found inspiration in the writing of adrienne maree brown. She pours herself into the craft. She writers, unapologetically. I deeply admire her commitment, her passion, and her art. And she writes, everyday. Without a care for who approves, who reads, or who judges. She knows she has the right to take up space. Online. On paper. Everywhere.

And so do I.

So, I am committing. Re-committing. To writing. Not just every day. But every time I have an opportunity to share, curate stories, and reflect. 

Thank you for letting me share.

-D

[drlamccrae]

Have you ever tried to chase a dream?

Every night, I am taken to a new adventure in another plane. I can never quite explain it to other people. I am alive in my dreams. Like, really... Alive. I have different experiences. Different homes. Different families. Different bodies. No matter how much and how hard I try to explain, people just don't understand. I am living. Fully. Completely.

In this world, I was assigned female at birth. I walk through this plane as a person who is trans-masculine, masculine of center, non-binary, queer person. Yeah. I know it's a lot. They've always said I've been too much. I've never known what I've been too much of though. There's been no real explanation. Just my existence is too much. How does one reconcile that?

It's the middle of the night. I wake up. I was pulled from one of my dreams, back into this reality. My wife is lying next to me. She is fast asleep. I envy her at times. She is so peaceful when she wakes up. In the morning, when I ask her about her dreams, they are, at best, negligible. She doesn't understand. Who can? We are living together, in our dreams.

Well, since I am up I go to the bathroom. Turn down the heat a bit. Look at her nestled in our bed. She's my queen. Our boy, Leo James, is snuggled next to her. Though he is a four-legged son, he is the twinkle in my other eye. Truly, I am blessed beyond belief.

Something pulls on my spirit. I quietly close the door behind me on my way out of our bedroom as I cross the hall to our guest bedroom. It seems like I am being called, beckoned, back into another world. A world and space I can only access in my dreams. I am fatigued by going in between this reality and the next.

It's 4:37 am.

At this hour, I could be taken into a space for the next few earth hours or only sleep until my first alarm at 6 am. It feels like an active space to which I am being called. Slowly, I turn over, turn off the Salt Lamp, and settle into the sheets. Underneath me, I support my side with soft pillows. Ever so softly, I begin to close my eyes.

The Monster is hungry. He needs to be fed. I must offer a sacrifice.

Before I know it, my eyes are wide open. I stare a whole at the ceiling. Every time I close my eyes, I am taken back to that dark place. That place of unknowing. Cold. So very dark. Riddled with pain and suffering. It's where the Monster lives. So much despair.

Sleep: The Monster. Awake: The Monster.

If I don't feed The Monster... he'll take me. For the last 12 years, I have been able to keep The Monster from consuming me. But tonight, he s so very hungry.

I can't rest.

What happens if I track The Monster down in my Waking Life? I mean... I can follow my dreams to his location. I've never done this before. But, I keep getting it confused. Am I awake? Am I sleeping? I KNOW the place in this life. it's just, well, I've never been.

This morning, I will find my way. I will end this. I will take control of my life. Or... The Monster will take me.

I pull my A-shirt over my head. Grabbed a pair of basketball shorts and leave my phones and devices at the bedside. I don't need anyone to know where I am going. Or, rather, where I've already been. As if cellular phones and devices can transcend this in-between space.

It's too early in the morning. I should be resting. How can I rest when I'm alive, awake, and active in this other place. This liminal space. The space that I can only understand.

Outside, my all-Black Dodge Ram 1500, brand-new, awaits. The Hemi engine is going to be obnoxious if I start this up this early in the morning. I put it in neutral and coast out of the space until I get to the end of the court. Then, I'm off.

After cutting through the woods, following my internal compass... I come to an open passageway. It's the perfect size for my truck to pass through.

On the other side: complete darkness.

I am going to have to do this thing on my own. I will find myself and The Monster in these woods, on this night. I believe I can find my way, integrate the planes, and take control of my life... all of my life.

While I pass through the woods, the leaves start to change ever so slightly. Perhaps it is happening. I feel my body starting to change. My voice gets a little deeper. I look behind me, my truck has disappeared. Beside me, I see Leo. Where did he come from? Is this possible?

Am I dreaming or awake? I hate asking this question and constantly not knowing the answer.

After what seemed like an eternity of trusting my felt sense to take me to The Monster..... the Light calls to me. This can't be the dark place of The Monster. But it's something else completely...

... and so am I ...

(Shut Up and Write - June 1, 2021 Challenge - Day One)

[drlamccrae]

Memorial Day Community Altar 2021

Today, at the end of the worship service, Leo and I had the opportunity to hold space for the community as we built an altar to honor those: “Martyrs of the Race Course.”

The altar included ordinary cloth. This cloth symbolized the contributions and offerings of people of all cloth and creed. It is for the people whose backs are up against the walls. 

The Red, Black, and Green represents the Pan-African Flag. This flag was used by people all around in the world in the largest social movement of its time: the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA). Red represents the blood shared and shared by the disasporic African peoples of the world. The Red represents liberation. (Okay, y’all know I would add a touch of orange, right?!). Black represents the unity of all Black lives... Black represents the affirmation that all Black lives matter. Green, in my interpretation, represents the inherent worth and dignity of each Black life... that is Black wealth and Black abundance as united descendants of Africa. This Pan-African flag connects past, present, and futures of hope in this project of liberation. It is a symbol of pride and dignity. 

The purple accents represent these Ancestors as Saints. Purple represents those taken by the tentacles of white supremacy. Purple represents the immense sacrifice of laying down one’s life. 

The altar also includes gold, offered in memory of all Ancestors as well as Frankincense and Myrrh oils. 

People are invited to light a candle in  honor of a loved one. You can also write their names on the mirrors and white cards laid out on the table. 

This altar will also accept names, photos, items, memories, flowers, and any other contributions people would like to offer. 

This altar will remain until the week of June 19th. 

[drlamccrae]

Sunday Evening Coffee Reflections - 5.16.21

Today, I began my tenure as the Director of Justice and Reparations Initiatives at Memorial Episcopal in Bolton Hill located in Baltimore, Maryland. The congregation is coming to grasp with their history of upholding white supremacy, the confederacy, racism, and segregation. To begin righting the wrongs of ancestors several generations removed, the congregation has pledged $500,000 to reparations initiatives in Baltimore City. 

As I begin writing, I look over my right shoulder at the trees surrounding my porch. I count at least 6 or 7 difference species of trees. And when I say count, I mean my partner lovingly tells me about the beauty that surrounds us. I see the rain, falling down like a sheet of mist. I look at a Kamado grill that is waiting for the season to begin. 

At my feet, Leo has returned. I share custody with Leo and co-parent him in community. He has been in my life for the last 11-12 years. Though his name is Leo, he is a Pisces. I love him dearly and am glad he has returned home here in his “country” (e.g. county) home. 

I paused for just a moment to pour a fresh cup of coffee. You know how it is? After what feels like a long and full day... after you have done just a little bit of resting and unwinding.... it’s time for that early/late evening pick me up. This delicious brew comes from a restaurant I visited with a pastoral colleague. The notes of this delicious Light Amber Maple Coffee are amazing. I am grateful for the opportunity to start my day again, at any time. 

Directly in front of me and to my left sit a half table full of plants and succulents. It is the time of the season to start thinking about what our summer porch will look like once we decorate with flowers. I keep thinking it is too late in the season for a garden. Perhaps it is just too late in the season for me to have the energy to manage a bucket garden. I think that may be a more accurate reflection. 

Today, I wanted to begin a new tradition of taking time to reflect with coffee on Sunday evenings. This is spiritual practice. Thank you for witnessing. 

It has been years since I darkened the doorsteps of a Christian church in a pastoral role. Yes, I worked briefly for a congregation in D.C. but the majority of the congregation was filled with non-believers. It was a non-religious, quasi spiritual set of folks that gathered on Sunday mornings with a choir and offering. This somewhat liminal space felt familiar to me. It felt that this was the only way for me to serve in congregational life... from the margins and periphery. 

My heat was broken and soul weathered with the experiences of following my calling as a pastor in the United Methodist Church. 

So never in a million years would I have expected to be serving on a team in a welcoming, inclusive Episcopal Church. God has a funny way of just showing up and showing out. 

You know, I love mafia movies and shows. Without a doubt, I am a mafioso. I think about that scene (any of them) from the Sopranos when Sil Dante (played by Steven Van Zandt) goes into his impersonation and says: “Just when I thought I was out.... they pulled me back in.” I saw that with a smile and a sip of coffee. 

That’s just the thing... I thought I was “out” of the Church forever. I am too different. A trans-masculine, gender non-conforming, binary, queer individual. That’s a lot. Even for me! All jokes aside, I gave up on thinking that the people that call themselves followers of Jesus would ever make room for me. 

And that’s exactly what happened today. Memorial made room for me and so many others. My soul began to feel a sense of ease and release. And I dared to think that maybe, just maybe, this could be home and sanctuary for my battered soul for just a bit. Maybe, just maybe, this is a place where we can all experience mutual healing and liberation. And perhaps, God even had this on the plan. 

I grab my Black Starbucks mug (I know... get me a new one....) from the left of the table, take a sip, and put it down on the table in front of me on my right. It’s still a little bit too hot to just drink like an American. And if you have ever been to Europe and witnessed them drink cappuccino, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Contrarily, if you, like me, have ever spent time in jail, you also know what it means to have too hot instant coffee to drink because of limited microwave time and space. You have to heat up as much as you can and as fast as you can... Which means waiting for the coffee to cool down. Even in that simple act of sipping coffee and letting it pass from one hand to the next, I am reminded of all my many blessings. 

Believe it or not, sometimes, things are just too hard. I put up my hands and say “I’m done.” Then promptly walk away. My heart is unsettled when I hear of injustice and discrimination. I will always advocate for the marginalized and disenfranchised... for folks like me. 

Well, a few weeks ago, I decided “enough” with clinical counseling. It was not the clients that were burning me out but the organizations that cared more about increasing billing that about the well-being for the clients. I said “I’m done.” But I can’t ever be done with something that God has called me to and has uniquely positioned me for success. 

Long story short, my connections around addictions counseling were the most meaningful today. It wasn’t that I was “done” with clinical counseling. I was done with the internalized white supremacy systems that see people as clients, disposable, and beyond hope. God and my ancestors needed to take me out of that situation and environment to position me for success in this calling I have answered with this community. I recall the Rev. Ezra T. Maize preaching about God not being able to show us the blueprint because we would miss the whole point of the journey trying to rush to a destination. That Sunday, Rev. Maize said: “The blessing is in the wait.”

Almost a full decade later, I have returned... to Baltimore, to the pulpit, and to the streets as a minister of justice, liberation, and abolition. 

I am grateful. Humbled. And honored to be a part of this journey. 

Thank you,

Rev. Dr. L.A.

#letsgetwellyall