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The Diaries

One year, 5 months & 21 days in -- time stands still ...

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Good evening, everyone. It has now been more than a week since I’ve been able to leave the “house”. I was issued a disciplinary report for two unspecified rules infractions (which were not explained in any more detail during my appeal hearing when the punishment was upheld), I have not been allowed to return to work and I have not been allowed to attend 12-STEP or visit my farm for my once-a-month pass. I have only been allowed to attend my Sunday church service, which the “house” staff and my probation officer cannot prevent. Obviously, I have only been able to communicate with a few of you over the phone, and I really appreciate everything that folks have done for me in this circumstance – Carla bringing me books to read and Phil bringing rolls of quarters for the phone and vending machines, sharing their impressions of the benefit and its after-effects, sending out an email to all of you for me (thanks, David), updating the web-site (thanks Marlene/Nuclear Ember), discussing the Tennessean and Scene articles with anyone and everyone – spreading the word. For all of that, I am most thankful.

It was nice to “attend” the benefit for even a short time, listening to Phil, Grace and Nevernal speak between Delicious Blues Stew and the Mike Henderson Band, remembering what life was like before this “house” party to know and work with (and care about) folks like those three, like so many of you. And to get a few minutes to speak to the folks at the benefit, via a loaned cell-phone from the “house” guards and a space in the “house” parking lot to holler my greetings and to say a few words. And to invite almost 300 people to come to my “coming home” party on May 19 at the farm. Boy, do I have my work cut out for me when I return home (presuming, praying that my release will still happen as scheduled) to get ready for all of you and for my other neighbors and friends who haven’t been getting these diary entries. We will have fun – however many of us make it there. Just bring food, musical instruments, hiking clothes and camping gear, and a towel for the sauna and the cold, cold creek.

I appreciate Carla and Shannon going into my email boxes for me and reading nice notes from you folks and from others who are new friends. Getting a note from Barbara and Bill in Seattle, telling me they had danced and rocked to the music (thanks to Radio Free Nashville’s internet broadcast of the benefit) and smiled at the remembrances of the farm and of me. Barbara had been one of the farm’s original owners and I look forward to their visit later this summer, to walk the land with her again and to introduce Bill to it for the first time. Other notes from Wisconsin and Mississippi and Colorado and California and Virginia and DC and Pennsylvania ... and Vancouver and Vanuatu!! And all points in all directions.

Besides those nice notes from you folks, the reaction inside the “house” has also been very positive from other inmates. Two different inmates brought in multiple copies of the Scene for me to “autograph” for their co-workers. Others have talked about my case with their co-workers, their families, their parents, their pastors, their fellow-churchgoers. I also appreciate the reactions from my own church members, some of whom had attended the benefit and others of whom had read the media coverage. Even my minister spoke to me about the importance of bringing attention to this issue and offered whatever support he could provide at this time of being “locked down”. The Scene’s cover picture was very provocative, showing me with a computer-generated crown of thorns and marijuana leaves. A few of my relatives (and I’m sure others) reacted to that artwork, even though I was as surprised as everyone else to see it. When I spoke with one family member today about that, I bit my tongue and avoided saying that I would be happy to put my church attendance up against those who took offense and can only hope that folks can separate style from substance, can read the article rather than locking up on the artwork.

Within three days of the Scene article being published, it was posted on over 100 web-sites, was at the top of the “Greatest” page on Democratic Underground, had been translated into a half dozen languages. Here in Nashville, there has been a rush on the issue with most inmates and friends saying that they’re having a hard time finding any copies anywhere in town. I even had one friend tell me today that in New Orleans (where he is attending the NO Jazz and Heritage Festival), he had already seen a half-dozen copies of the Scene floating around in the crowd. And it’s not just the Scene. On Sunday morning, Channel 5 re-ran their story from six days earlier, something that is pretty unheard of in the instant news business.

I am a little anxious about the next Scene issue that will be published tomorrow. I have kept Jeff Woods informed about my “lock down” situation while also talking with him about how successful and informative the benefit was and how pleased I am at the reaction to the media coverage on my case. However, I have also told him that my future freedom hangs in the balance right now and I hope that any follow-up piece that the Scene does will not further inflame the “powers that be”. Of course, that is out of my hands and I have to trust that anything that comes from the continued coverage of my case will further the dialogue and hasten the time when medical marijuana becomes available here in Tennessee and throughout the country. There are three possible "good news” stories that might come from all of this – that I will be freed in nine days, that I will be able to keep my farm and that our medical marijuana laws will change. The most important outcome is the latter and, whatever comes next, I must remember that.

So these last few days (I hope, I hope) here in the “house” are different from all that have come before. More time to read, to exercise, to visit with other inmates, to nap, to pray and meditate – and then to repeat. Nine more nights to sleep with a dozen other men, nine more mornings to eat institutional breakfasts (without coffee) and then to return to bed, nine more afternoons to read (thanks, Carla, for the dozen new books), nine more early mornings to lie in bed and watch my dormies get ready for work. Nine more days until the rest of my life starts. Nine days to use well and to learn more from. Nine days not to waste.

One day late last week, I looked south from the men’s day room, across the parking lots between Cummins Station and the boarded-up titty bar in front of Mercy Lounge, the less than two blocks that is my Southern horizon here. And, as dusk descended on my world, I saw three mallards flying low and southwest, weaving among the power-lines and light-poles, the bricks and the garish paint, stroking their wings to get away. From where I stood, it looked like they were anxious to leave but that they had enough energy to fly another 40 miles that evening toward the setting sun, over Vanderbilt and Belle Meade, over Belleview and Fairview, up Pinewood and Shoals Branch roads, passing over Lick Creek and through the woods of Tom Rail and Beard roads, not stopping to rest until they floated down on my big pond, near the palm of the hand that is my farm. And there they would rest, and nest and nourish themselves, not missing the streetlights and power-poles, coasting among the willows, surrounded by the symphony that would be tree-frogs and crickets in the warming spring. At that place that we will soon gladly share, they wait for me, they nod their heads to the deer, the foxes and raccoons, the dove and the quail and the two big black mutts that might wander up the hill to be with them, wading in the warming water. As they plan the decorations and the music for their own “coming home” party for me.

I can’t wait to introduce all of you to them. To swim with the ducks and to feel the fishes below them, to walk on the ridges among the cleared and yet-to-be-cleared fields, to view the old graveyard with its periwinkle miniature sky-blue blooms, to smell the honeysuckle, to taste the watercress, to drink the spearmint and lemon balm teas made with ancient, hard-flowing spring waters. To light a fourth fire, to see your faces illuminated by it, and to smile with you. To help nice people meet other nice people, bathed in the fire and the warmth of each other, and the flickering mystery of that land’s first fireflies, floating among the barn-swallows and nighthawks, serenaded by tree frogs, whippoorwills and gentle guitars. What doesn’t kill us makes us thankful, makes us quiet, makes us calm. Takes us home.

I owe you folks my mind. I give you back my heart. Thanks again for everything.

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