Request DENIED and other bad news

Reader: On February 24, Steve heard that his request for a transfer to Terminal Island in Long Beach, California was perfunctorily denied. Transferring to T.I., which is in the Los Angeles area where Steve grew up, would have meant being close to his brother, his sister, and much closer to his daughter in northern California. It would have meant visits from family and old friends that will just not happen with him in central Louisiana.

Dear Dee,

February 26, 2012

As you know by now, my transfer was denied—they said on the basis of overcrowding, but I think that is a catchall excuse. According to the census figures you have been sending me on T.I., their population is down considerably. My grief and disappointment are deep and palpable. But, thankfully, they are not lasting. At least I have developed the wisdom to know that this, too, shall pass. I also know that I set myself up for this.

Some time ago, as my revised conceptualization of god evolved, I resolved that if I were going to make prayer a part of my life, I would pray only for that which I had the ability to make happen. That only made sense because if, as I believe, a piece of god is contained within all living creatures, then that is the part of god to whom I can pray. I can pray for strength, courage, faith, endurance or a host of other qualities that I might draw from deep within. But with full knowledge of all that, I foolishly allowed myself to pray for the transfer—a result that was totally beyond my control. But I used what I had read in Lynne McTaggart’s book, The Field, about experiments in inter-cellular communication, to convince myself that I could somehow influence the outcome of this decision. This is what led me to jack my hopes up to unrealistic heights.

In my Sunday reading of Come As You Are, Rev. Fleck writes of his experiences with his wife, Ruth, in Holland as the Nazis occupied it. When I read accounts such as this or think of Anne Frank and her people, or recall stories such as Schindler’s List, it really helps to put my present situation into sharp perspective. While the loss of one’s freedom is no trivial event, my life is a cakewalk compared to what people have had to endure in this process we call life. I can only wonder if I could display the amazing strength of character that those people showed. If I can keep those people in my thoughts, this journey becomes vastly easier. Chicken Soup for Prisoners was a poem by an inmate about the recurring joy of mail call and the tiny disappointments on those days when one’s name is not called.

March 4, 2012

I am trying to do my Sunday readings, but it’s a challenge—even more of an assault to the senses than usual with the noise level cranked up beyond the norm in the TV room right outside our cubicle. The guys are watching the Knicks and the Celtics and, of course, they are convinced that the players haven’t a clue as to what to do unless they scream a steady stream of instructions to them. The screaming is necessary because they are very far away from the game. And when a basket is scored, in addition to the cheering, there’s a siren sound, cuckoo clock noises, wolf howls, monkey chatter—well, you get the picture. But I came up with an interesting way to deal with all this. I put my headphones on and off-tuned my radio to static and hiked up the volume. It works pretty well. And thanks for the new chalice lighting booklet. It just wasn’t the same last week, reading with an unlighted chalice.

This morning, my daughter, K, hit me with the news that my brother has been diagnosed with lung cancer. I called him a little later and he told me they won’t know what stage it’s at until they complete further tests. But in discussing the prognosis, the doctor used the word “grim.” He quit smoking over 20 years ago, but maybe it’s related to his frequent visits to casinos where the air is redolent with second hand smoke. I’m still coming to grips with this news. I wish I could be there to help him through this. I’m going to make it a point to start calling him weekly. I wish we had been closer over the years, but he is the only one on the planet who knows what my Dickensian childhood was like. That created a bond that can never be ignored.

K said that my granddaughter, S, has hit the princess stage. She talks about her prince coming for her. I told K that she absolutely must get her a princess dress. K said she told S that before her prince comes, she has to get her master’s degree.

My Chicken Soup reading today was short, but effective; short enough that with a little editing, I can include most of it here:

To the man, tired to the bone and having less than ten dollars in his pocket, coming home from work to a house that needs paint, a yard that needs mowing and is full of kids’ toys and screaming children…

To the man who drives an old pickup that can’t last much longer who comes home to a wife dressed in old blue jeans and is a little overweight, in a bad mood, wearing no makeup and having uncombed hair and bad breath…

To the man whose dinner will consist of chicken noodle soup and hot dogs…

from the prison cell from which I am writing this, I say “God, how I envy you!”                    

Ken “Duke” Monsi Broten

March 17, 2012

A couple of weeks ago, there was a notice that they would be having 12-step meetings every other week in the chapel. I was in a 12-step group while I was on house arrest. In fact, it was when I mentioned to someone in that group that I had tried going to church but felt like a fraud, that he suggested I give UU a try. Then I recalled you telling me some years previously that I was really a UU. So I grabbed the opportunity to attend a UU church like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. It only took that single visit to know that I had found a home. I thought about going to the 12-step meetings here, but I am more convinced than ever that a 12-step cannot work in prison. It is missing two essential ingredients—anonymity and trust. One of the first lessons you learn in prison is to trust no one—ever. I have seen that borne out more than once as people I thought were my friends have betrayed me. So I have settled for having no friends. I keep to myself with my nose in a book.

Okay, I got to that point before the 2 o’clock move when the large group came in from the yard. But then, instead of going out and walking the mile, I took a nap. Not the best choice from a health standpoint, but I wrote the following to justify my laziness:

Here is a whimsical poem for you
To show where a nap gets its power;
An hour asleep is a moment or two
But an hour awake is an hour

Love, Steve

What was I thinking?

February 18, 2012

Dear Dee,

You asked me in your last letter about my state of mind when I committed the deed that got me in here. So now, I draw a deep breath as I revisit that dark and deeply regrettable period of my life. I realize that you have gone for a long time without asking many questions about what I was doing and thinking while I was engaged in that crap. You deserve some straight answers. First, I never paid a penny to anyone for those images. I would initially stumble on some or have some sent to me by people who I met in chat rooms. Why? Because one of the several guises I would assume was that of a pedophile. The game of “dark fantasy” that I was playing consisted of creating characters that were engaged in activities that are taboo in society.

So why did I feel compelled to do it? That was the question I couldn’t answer at the time I was arrested. So I carried it into therapy with me when I had some sessions while under house arrest. After a lot of talking and a lot of digging into my past, I began to get a picture of what sent me down that strange road. The whole time I lived with my dad between ages 11 and 18, he repeated over and over that I was “useless, worthless, and no damned good.” On a conscious level, this set me on a path to prove him wrong. But, children often take to heart what a parent says to them. A seed was planted deep within me and it was as though I was paying perverse tribute to my father when I would go online pretending to be useless, worthless, and no damned good.” It was all a stupid game and I was so steeped in the fantasy of it all that I failed to notice when fantasy ended and real-world activity began—specifically the trading of those horrible pictures.

At the time, the children in those images weren’t real to me. They were just pixels on a screen. It was only after my therapist urged me to meditate on those children and what their lives must have been like that I was hit with the full force of what I had done. I then realized that I had been guilty of prolonging and perpetuating the abuse and exploitation of those poor kids by introducing those pictures to new eyes. I’ll carry the guilt of that for the rest of my life. I have always loved children and advocated for their protection and nurturing. What I did was a complete violation of my own moral code. And I was further struck by the fact that my little “game” could very well have ended up encouraging others to harm children. That will always gnaw at me.

It was not the content of the pictures that gave me the cheap thrill. It was the hunt for them. When I look back on it all, it seems like it was someone else doing all that. There is nothing in the world that would compel me to ever repeat that behavior. The day of my arrest was an instantly sobering experience and it felt as though I had received shock therapy. People will always have questions about me—if he sought out those pictures, doesn’t that mean he would molest children? They will regard me in a completely different light.

It became an addiction, this game that I played—one that rose up and swallowed me whole. One day I was just an old man with too much time on his hands and perhaps grieving the loss of employment in a once well-respected career; the next, I was a convicted felon and registered sex offender. You said you had been afraid for a long time to broach this subject with me. Well, don’t fear any longer. I no longer harbor any secrets. A very bright light has been shined into what was a dark corner of my soul and my life is an open book.

I’d best bring this to a close before my hand becomes a withered vestigial claw.

Love, Steve

Christmas/2011-January/2012: Casting Out Fear

Dear Reader,

My friend has requested that I catch up the blog to present day and more importantly, reveal his true identity. When we started the blog, he was nervous about possible repercussions and wanted to remain anonymous. Since then, he has become aware that another inmate, also at Oakdale Federal Correction Institution in Louisiana and also in for the same crime (there are hundreds there for that reason), has had his letters published in a blog since April of 2010 with no negative feedback. That blog (http://mediarow.com/oakdale-chronicles/2010/04/) is called The Oakdale Chronicles and contains some fascinating entries, especially the early ones about how it was to be a newbie at Oakdale, a series called “A Sex Offender Like Me” (http://mediarow.com/oakdale-chronicles/2011/12/a-sex-offender-like-me-the-resilience-of-hate/,) and a series from July, 2012, called “A Necessary Intrusion.”

But back to my friend…his name is Steven Kent Marshall. He wrote to me: “My arrest and sentencing were publicized across the nation, so it is no secret. I see no reason now why readers of the blog and especially the children in the photos shouldn’t know who this is that is slowly making his way back into a state of grace. It completes the story.”  In short, I think that hiding behind a veil of anonymity made him feel less than genuine. His arrest was widely publicized because he is a former television writer and producer and that fact drew interest from the press.

So my task now is to fast-forward from December of last year to the present. For the next several posts, I will pick out pertinent or particularly interesting passages from Steve’s letters during that period.

Christmas, 2011

“They put up a few lights and a Santa cutout just outside the library. But the really interesting and creative decorating goes on in the housing units. There is a competition as to who does the best. We won last year and came in second this ear. Last year, a large chunk of the common area was given over to a winter scene of a castle with a small village outside its walls. It was all constructed out of scrap cardboard and painted by some talented artists. This year the common area wasn’t available because it is used as a TV room so they were limited to the hallway just inside the entrance. One wall was taken up by a painted manger scene. Just over it were paper mache heads of a donkey and a cow looking down on the scene. Another section of the wall had a Santa in his sleigh and some elves waving. But Santa’s face was the stern visage of the warden and the elves were associate wardens and other prison officials. Coming in first just means our unit gets to eat Christmas dinner first but last year, it also won us back our microwaves that had been confiscated for six months because someone in the unit made booze.

Christmas Day itself, apart from the meal, was pretty much a normal day. While most people got the day off, we in the dining hall were working. The meal wasn’t as spectacular as Thanksgiving, but special nonetheless: Cornish game hens, dirty rice, mac and cheese, and dessert consisting of sweet potato pie, a cinnamon roll and a chocolate chip cookie. On Dec. 22, they handed out the Christmas bags, a large plastic bag filled with chips, candy, cookies, crackers and other snacks. It makes for a nice gift, but it is accompanied by a memo stating that everything in the bag must be consumed by January 6^th. Anything left will be considered contraband and will be confiscated. As a good inmate who follows the rules, I scarfed everything down within a week. I now have an extra ten pounds to get rid of.”

January 8, 2012-Reading

“I just finished reading a book that terrified me. Lost Memory of Skin by Russell Banks, while fiction, is a well-researched story about a 22-year-old convicted sex offender (SO) living under a bridge in Florida in a self-created community for SOs. Because they are prohibited from living within 2500 feet of schools, parks, daycare centers or anywhere else where children might gather, there are only a couple of geographic locations where they may live: this one or the middle of a swamp. The protagonist, known only as The Kid, is a good-hearted, socially inept character who knows he made a stupid choice and will be made to pay for it for the rest of his life. The jacket says: “This book probes the zeitgeist of a troubled society where zero tolerance has erased any hope of subtlety and compassion—a society where isolating the offender has perhaps created a new kind of victim.”

An incident he found amusing:

“When I called my daughter yesterday and asked to speak to my granddaughter, she got on and said “Hi.” When I said “Hi” back, she handed the phone back to her mother saying “I can’t see him.” I guess Skype and the camera capabilities of the iPhone have rendered me obsolete.”

January 15, 2012-Transfer

Last Tuesday, I went to check on the status of my transfer, having waited for five weeks. I found out that the case manager screwed up on the application and it was bounced back to him the day after he submitted it. He threw it into a folder and did not resend it. Then he retired. The last census report for Terminal Island that you told me about was the lowest it’s been since we started tracking it, so I figured our timing was perfect. Who knows what it will be once my application goes through.

January 29, 2012 – Fear

Today’s sermon was “Casting Out Fear” from Rev. Thomas Disrud of First Unitarian of Portland. It examined situations where fear was appropriate in protecting us from real dangers. He then contrasted it with the kind of fear that develops in situations dealing with those who are different from us in race, sexual orientation or religious conviction; how fear is used to manipulate and control. It also made me think back to when I was first incarcerated and the daily fear I lived with, dealing with a world so radically different from the one I had inhabited all my life; being surrounded by some unstable personalities that could erupt at any time in response to some perceived slight or insult. But the more I learned about this world, the less I came to fear it. I learned that I could navigate it safely by observing the rules that exist in there, both those imposed by the authorities and those created by the inmates. So fear, for the most part, is really all about the unknown, just as Rev. Disrud said. I guess the real lesson here is: if you fear something, study it. Learn about it. Grow from it. (Boy, I love this religion!)

Turning a corner

December 4, 2011
Dear Dee,

It’s been quite a week of discovery and revelation for me. Last week’s sermon, dealing with the Buddha’s lifelong quest to find joy in the face of suffering, continued to resonate with me. As it tumbled through my consciousness, I eventually put it together with that line of Buddhist philosophy that I earlier claimed as my mantra: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” Now, it’s highly unlikely that I’m ever going to find true joy in this circumstance. But I certainly have it within my grasp to stop suffering.

In thinking back over the many letters I have written to you and others in the past two years, I know they have contained no small amount of complaining about various aspects of my existence. I’ve made a conscious decision that his must stop. That is not to say that I need to like, approve or accept all that this caged life puts before me. But complaining about it changes nothing. It does not improve my lot in life nor does it foster any changes in it. What it does do is prolong and promote suffering. So I have developed a “sub-mantra,” if you will; a phrase that I invoke whenever I encounter any situation that would normally trigger a complaint: “That’s just the way it is here.” I have used it several times in the past week to good advantage. I realize that, for the better part of the last three years, I have been grieving the death of my previous life as I knew it. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross outlined the five stages of grief. (I don’t think I am recalling them all correctly, but this is my best stab at it.) shock, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance. I know I have navigated my way through the first four. I am now poised for acceptance and I think this new way of thinking will facilitate my reaching that final level.

There has hardly been a day since my arrest, conviction, and incarceration that I have not said to myself, “I can’t believe this is happening to me” or “I can’t believe I’m in prison.” Well, it’s time to start believing it. There is nothing positive to be gained by refusing to believe an objective truth. It’s the emotional equivalent of the “birthers” who refuse to believe Obama is an American or those who claim there is no global warming. The truth is what it is. I broke a law, I was convicted of it and sentenced to prison, and I am now serving that sentence. Enough whining. Enough complaining. If you should catch me doing so in any future letters or phone calls, please feel free to give me a gentle but firm rap on the wrist. Suffering is optional…and I have now opted to stop suffering.  

My transfer request, submitted on November 1, finally went into the system on December 2. It should take about a week to leave the compound and I can expect to hear something by early to mid-January.

The sermon by Harold W. Wood of the UU Fellowship of Visalia was on the Neo-Humanism of Paul Kurtz, known as the father of secular humanism. He was the founder of the Center for Inquiry and resigned from it last year after the organization announced “Blasphemy Day,” in which religion would be satirized, challenged, and criticized. He said it amounted to hate speech and went on to lead a “neo-humanist” movement that seeks to promote greater tolerance for religious thought, a position that is much more in line with what UUs believe—respect for the inter-dependent web of all existence.

The Mandela chapter “It’s a Long Game” scored a couple of bull’s-eyes with me. He believes in taking the long view; that it is better to be slow and considered than to act quickly in order to appear decisive. What resonated the most with me was his view that a person is the sum of all that he or she has done and should not be judged by a single act in their lifetime. There are, among my acquaintances, those who have done just that, judged me on the thing that got me arrested rather than the entirety of the life I have lived.

That’s it for this time. I’ll talk to you on or about Christmas.

Love, Kent

Fall drifts by...

Dear Reader,

My friend, Kent, was, in the fall of 2011, on an emotional plateau. He had learned how to cope with his environment and was getting good at suppressing his longing and regret for the life he threw away. In retrospect, he said later that, since his arrest, he had been moving through the stages of grief: denial, anger, and depression. His letters for the next couple of months reflected his continued struggle against falling deeper into the pit of anger at himself and hopelessness of his situation.

September 20, 2011

You gave me a fresh perspective to consider regarding the ruin of my life. It’s true that I wouldn’t have had the good years that I did if I had self-destructed earlier. I guess I’m still just bemoaning the fact that I did it at all. But there are no do-overs so I’m just going to have to try to make the best of whatever time is left me.

September 25

Today’s sermon by Jennifer Forker was titled “Awareness and the Art of Being Human.” It was a reminder of how out of touch I am from my own sense of awareness. This is because I operate with my feelings in the “off” mode. In order to be aware, I have to fully feel and I just can’t do that here. I truly hope I can get to Terminal Island (TI) and get myself into regular therapy, where it’s safe to let the tears flow. I know that’s what will happen when I flip the “on” switch for my feelings. I spent years in my men’s group learning how to give myself permission to cry. But here I cannot afford to put that ability to good use. And I know in my heart that I will need to. There is so much grieving that I need to do; so much loss to be acknowledged.

Sometimes he would talk about his support system.

September 20, 2011

I’ve begun to feel like I’m adding stress to my daughter’s life when I call her and ask for pictures and things. Shortly after I began serving my sentence, she said she wanted me to call her every week so that she would know I was okay. But with the passage of time, I think she has come to accept that I have learned how to stay safe in this world. I think my weekly calls have come to be a reflection of my own neediness and I just need to back off and give the girl some space.

September 29

I feel guilty now about skipping my call to K and worrying her. I’m just trying not to be so damned needy. But I won’t do that again.

My pen pal from Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF) is a hoot. He is a retired stock broker and he keeps giving me stock tips, even though I’ve explained that I am not in any position to act on them. I enjoy his letters, which I refer to as thought salad” because he writes about whatever pops into his head.

The books are plentiful. I get a couple a month from P via Amazon. Plus the library has a good selection and there is also a box here in the unit where people put books after they read them. At the moment, I have about 15 paperbacks stashed in my locker (we’re only supposed to have five).

Thanks for sending the copies of the letters people have written to the U.S. Sentencing Commission. I get some encouragement out of knowing there are people out there fighting on my behalf and who don’t regard me as a monster. I guess that number will continue to grow as the number of men who are being prosecuted for this has increased 2500% since 2006 as one of those letters pointed out.

Last night, I had a 15-minute conversation with my son, C. It represents a major leap in the healing of our torn and tattered relationship. He said he would like to hear from me from time to time. Not so long ago, he wouldn’t even open a letter from me. Progress! This is something I have prayed for daily. As I have said before, I don’t pray for anything that is beyond my capability to achieve on my own. So I selfishly take full credit for arriving at this hopeful juncture.

I’m flattered and a little blown away that you think some of my letters might be worthy of publication. But I’m not sure how the authorities would feel about it. We are strictly forbidden to call radio or TV stations or newspapers. I would feel better about it if I remained anonymous.

His thoughts were also occupied with what happens when he gets out.

September 20

For about 30 seconds, I flirted with the possibility of getting released to my sister’s house. But this is also the house where I spent my adolescence with my father and stepmother. Those walls hold nothing but deeply unhappy memories for me. The notion if living there again is just unacceptable.

September 25

Do you go to church every Sunday? I look forward to being able to do that. One of the first things I will do when I get settled on the outside is find the nearest UU church. I hope I can get involved in their community outreach programs, such as dealing with the homeless. But I fear that I will be required to notify anyone I might work with of my status as a convicted felon and registered sex offender (SO). I’m not sure if that rule applies to volunteer work. You have to do it for paid jobs and when you’re renting an apartment or house. That, combined with restrictions on housing locations, makes it extremely to find a place to live. A lot of SOs end up in tents under freeway off ramps.

September 29

On the matter of future computer ownership, there is some hope. I re-read the judge’s instructions and he said no computers or smart phones “without written permission from the probation agent.” I think I can make a case that. For a writer, a computer and the internet are tools of the trade. I can certainly agree to have a monitoring program installed. I won’t be going anywhere on the internet that I shouldn’t—of that I am certain.

He answered my questions about how things work there.

September 29

To answer your question, this place is a government facility under the justice department, not a private for-profit. However, it feels as if it’s run as a money-making enterprise. They won’t let you send blank paper or anything that we can buy here. Our phone calls cost 23 cents per minute and e-mail (which I’m not allowed) costs 5 cents a minute. A Sony radio (which we need in order to hear TV audio) costs $38. I think the same one at Radio Shack would cost about $10. The government gives the prison $68 a day for most prisoners. But they give $228 a day for each sex offender. Why? I have no idea. There are around 600 SOs here.

But weighing most heavily on his mind was the possibility of a transfer to another facility. The rule is that he is eligible after 18 months at his current place.

September 20

I’m starting to fear that the census is so consistent at TI because it’s so hard to get into. But the time draws closer to make the effort -–just 41 days to go.

September 29

As of this writing, I am exactly 30 days away from transfer eligibility. I’m trying as best I can not to get too excited about it as there is every chance that I will be shot down or denied my first choice. But the possibility of having more access to K and her family, as well as my sister and my brother is so enticing and encouraging.

October 16

Of late, all my anticipation has been going into the approach of my transfer eligibility and the intense desire I have to be out of this place. Of course, I will still be in prison, but if all goes my way, I will be in a place where I am regarded with more respect and will have more choices available to me for a healing journey. And, of course, there’s the hope of being on the ocean, which holds for me a wealth of soothing and calming properties. I’m probably setting myself up for a crushing disappointment should the transfer be denied.

October 30

The day after tomorrow is transfer application day. Wish me luck. I sure hope I’m not setting myself up for a crushing disappointment.

November 6

I saw the case worker on Tuesday and officially requested my transfer. Someone I know applied and it took five weeks for him to get his answer and then another week for him to he shipped. Already not a good sign, the case worker said to me, “There are four or five people ahead of you, so it’s gonna take me a couple of weeks before I can get yours in.”

His Sunday readings continued to feed his inner spirit and provoke introspection.

September 25

Today I read the first chapter in Mandela’s Way, which was titled “Courage is Not the Absence of Fear.” “Pretend to be brave,” he says, “and you will be brave.” I think that’s what I did in that first encounter with the DWB back in January. I certainly don’t consider myself inordinately brave, but pretending to be does help. It does give you an edge. I think.

October 2

The chalice lighting today was a very moving statement on the ability to embrace grief and let it wash over us, embracing its healing properties. SS wrote of undergoing cancer surgery just 13 days before her husband did. She survived and he did not. She delivered her talk just two weeks after the passing of her mother.

Today’s chapter of Mandela’s Way was titled “Be Measured” and speaks of the need for calm in the face of turmoil. It cites several examples in which Mandela has demonstrated this trait not only in his personal life but in his dealings on the national and international stage. He is truly an inspiration.

October 9, 2011

Rev. Nadine Swahnberg’s sermon, “Casting for Character,” reflects upon the dearth of character in our modern world. In reading it, I was reminded of something I once read somewhere that stated in effect “The true test of character is what you do when no one else is watching.” This line of thought led me to reflect on what I had done to lead to my incarceration; acts performed in secret that I reasoned “didn’t count” because no one else knew about them. I have since come to realize how wrong-headed that thinking was. It turns out that someone was watching the whole time, monitoring my actions, even my thoughts. That someone was me. Why did I come to believe that my own opinion of myself didn’t count for something?

I became quite accomplished at lying to myself. If someone had asked if I were an honest man, I would have replied that it was the virtue I prized the most. And yet I lived whole portions of my life in secret, lying by omission about my activities. So when I was arrested and my whole life thrown open to the world, I was aghast at having to admit that I was not an honest man; that I was, in fact, a person of low character who had been actively engaged in violating my own moral code. It was a shattering experience. But I had to come to grips with the fact that I had become accomplished at editing out my faults when engaging in any kind of self-evaluation. If you look at your own life and see only your virtues, you will doubtless arrive at the conclusion that you’re a pretty fine person.

This is not to say that I am not without virtues. I feel I am a kind person; that I have empathy for others and that I have been a good father to my children. I derive pleasure in helping others. Some of these virtues seemed to get plowed under in the latest chapter of my life. But it was the flaws in my character that I had to, at long last, acknowledge and begin to work on. That led me to therapy, 12-step work, and the front door of my nearest UU church. A religion whose central focus is on becoming a better person was just what the doctor ordered. I have to thank you for recommending it, even though it was years ago. Somehow, your words stayed with me and came to the surface precisely when I needed them.

I’m firmly committed to the journey to rebuild my character, this time without all of the cracks and flaws I once found it so easy to ignore.

October 20

The second lesson in the CLF’s Spirit of Life course dealt with rituals—which ones are important to us and what we do to incorporate rituals into our lives. I wrote of weddings and funerals, holiday dinners where the food is secondary in importance to those who are gathered together. I also wrote of my weekly “congregation of one” ritual. On that subject, I should tell you that the letters I write to you are an important ingredient because they keep me focused on the content of the sermons and readings. It would be easy to just glance over them and then, just as quickly, forget what I have read. But, because I am committed to write to you about how the topic relates to me and how I felt about it, it keeps me thinking about what I have read.

And thank you for reminding me that I do have some contact with my feelings, thanks to this Sunday ritual. I tend to walk around with my emotions and feelings tamped down. But on those Sundays, I do some soul searching and get in touch with the feelings I usually keep stored just out of reach.

As always, thanks for caring.

Love, Kent