Hugh Hollowell

Trying to build a a better world.

My favorite picture

This essay published

In 2014, due to the generosity of friends, we had our first (and to date, only) trip out of the country together. We went to Costa Rica, where we stayed with some friends in an amazing house on the side of a mountain near San Juan, overlooking a coffee plantation.

We had several adventures on that trip, and we have some amazing pictures of what was truly a paradise. We played with monkeys, stood in the Pacific Ocean, walked through ancient churches, and met some amazing people with whom we shared long meals and laughed much.

But my favorite part of that trip was that we took what has become my favorite picture in the world.

This one.

There is so much I love about this picture. Let me explain some of them.

I guess the first is that smile on Renee’s face. We had been married for almost 5 years at that point, and we were finally on a big trip together. One thing we do well together is travel, and this was (and still is) our biggest trip. She took a big risk marrying someone who does the sort of rarely well-funded ministry work I am called to, and we honestly never expected to be able to go to a place that is legitimately considered paradise.

And then there is that scar peeking out from under her shirt. When we were dating, her heart began to show symptoms of the heart disease that killed her mother, and she had to get a pacemaker with a defibrillator, to shock her in case her heart stopped. Before she would get a transplant a year after this picture, it would shock her at least 8 times, saving her life multiple times.

Her health was precarious in those days. Two weeks before this trip, she had had an ablation to prevent the wild rhythms her heart would swing into. But more about that in a minute.

Another thing is that we are there, in the cloud forest of Costa Rica, because of friends. It is a reminder to me that I get to do work that some people find valuable, and because of that, they invest in me and us and want us to have good things.  This trip happened because people loved us, supported us, and invested in us. The wealth that sent us on this trip was the wealth that comes from friendships and community.

You see those glasses she is wearing? Those were $14 frames from Walmart she bought because that was all we could afford at the time. It sent me into a spiral of depression that, because of my career choices, she could not afford “nice” glasses, but for the years she wore those, she got compliments everywhere we went, and she would light up. I don’t know that $1000 frames would have ever made her happier.

I bought her that handbag early in our marriage. It was handmade by a Raleigh designer, and we had seen it in a shop downtown while window shopping. It was more than $150, which was a huge amount of money for me then, but I had seen the way her face had lit up when she saw it, and I knew I had to get it for her.

And let’s not forget that this picture is taken in front of one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the world, in the cloud forest of Costa Rica, in the middle of a wildlife preserve. The roar of the water, the mist that hits your face, the sheer amount of bio-diversity around you – the toucans in the trees, the birdsong as you walk through the woods – it really is the most beautiful place I have ever been.

But the main reason this is my favorite picture is none of those things. It is because of what happened within minutes of this picture being taken.

The day this happened, we were at La Paz Waterfall Gardens in the highlands of Costa Rica. It is an amazing place, with a wildlife preserve, an aviary, and this long, winding trail down into the valley, past the waterfall, and back up again.

This picture was taken and almost immediately, her heart went into one of its wild rhythms it used to do in those scary days before she was transplanted. This would present itself as crushing chest pain, fatigue, and shortness of breath.

We had walked for more than a mile at this point, all downhill. When it happened, we had no choice but to walk out – more than another mile forward, all uphill, with probably 500 stair steps in various places. It was walking a few steps forward, and rest. It took us hours to cover what should have been 30 minutes or so.

We had no real choice – we were at the bottom of a valley, on a trail barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The only way out was through.

But she did not complain. She gutted it out like a boss, and worked her way, slowly but persistently, up the side of that mountain with a heart doing a thing that, under other circumstances, would have sent her to the emergency room. The image of her forcing herself up the side of a mountain in the jungles of Costa Rica is a funny one to anyone who knows Renee, but don’t be confused – I married a woman who, when she puts her mind to it, is unstoppable.

And all of that is why this is my favorite picture.

The story of Pepe

This essay published

I have written bits and pieces of this story elsewhere, but decided to put it all in one place for posterity. – HH

Pepe the catI knew I was in trouble when Renee showed me his picture on her phone.

“His name is Pepe, and he has spent over a year at the no-kill shelter. He is so ugly no one will ever adopt him. So we should.”

I admit, he didn’t look like much. He was an eight year old ginger Tom who looked like a shopworn stuffed animal. He had been horribly abused as a younger cat, and at some point had a bad ear infection no one treated, so most of his ears had rotted away.

We decided to go for a visit and check him out. He lived in a giant walk-in cage with other cats, but he was cowered under some boxes, hiding. He looked virtually catatonic. He didn’t want to be held, or petted or played with. He came out of the boxes long enough to eat the snacks we gave him, and then he went back into hiding.

The shelter tried to be realistic with us.

“He has been horribly abused. He doesn’t like to cuddle, and he isn’t really affectionate. But he is special, and he needs a home where people will love him.”

If you know anything about us, you know that lost causes do not scare us off. So we signed the papers and agreed to take care of him the rest of his life. Our first clue to how hard this was going to be was fighting to put him in the cat carrier, and his screaming once we shut the door. We had to wrap the carrier in a towel to calm him down, and while most families have pictures of the adoptive parents holding their new kitty, we have one of us holding a towel-covered pet carrier with dazed looks on our faces.

As we left, the shelter people thanked us for picking him, and we thanked them for keeping him alive and well until we discovered him.

We gave Pepe his own room at the house, with a closed door so he could be comfortable before we introduced him to the other cats. He promptly found every single hiding place in that room, and spent much time just staring off into space. If you tried to pet him, he would attack your hand and then go hide again.

It went like that for about four months. But in the mornings, we would find his toys scattered and food eaten, so apparently he is having a ball when we aren’t looking.

So we decided that if all he gets is to spend his remaining five or six years in a loving home filled with kitty treats and toys and with people committed to loving him even when he doesn’t have the resources to love us back, that is a lot more than he would have had in the first place, and a lot more than any of us deserve.

But slowly, things began to change. We made it a point to just hang out in his room. He would come out of hiding and walk around us, still looking lost and confused, but at least out of hiding. I would put cat treats on the floor in front of me, and he would eye them, but ignore them until I walked away, when he would dash in, eat them all, and then hide again.

After weeks of this, he began to eat the treats at my feet. Then he would come to wherever in the room the treats were. We began to open the door to his room to let the other cats peep in (Pepe would run and hide again), with the hope he would decide to explore the larger house. Nope. He would walk right up to where the threshold and look out, but never cross it.

Four months after he came to his forever home, he began to tentatively explore. He was so brave – it was obvious he was scared. He would come out of the room, go some 10 feet into the rest of the house and then run back to the safety of his room, only to creep back out an hour or two later.

These days, things are very different. Pepe has gained weight and his coat is shiny, he walks around the house like he owns it, he plays with the other cats, and, most noticeable of all, he sings.

Here is how I described it when I first noticed it:

I don’t have another word for it – it sounds like singing. Early in the morning when it’s just he and I awake, he walks through the house, going in every open room, singing all the while. Like he’s making rounds.

He still does that. In fact, he is doing that while I am writing this, drinking coffee at the dining room table. He is still skittish, and if you came over, he would probably still hide from you. If I move too fast near his face, he will freak out, and every once in a while he and the other cats will get into it over space. But he is home. This is his place.

The other night, the cat who we were warned is not affectionate and that would never snuggle climbed on the bed and nestled up beside my legs and slept, looking for all the world like he was contented. Every night as we eat dinner, he sits beside the table – we have come to realize that he often wants to be near us, but not touch us. As introverts ourselves, we understand that completely.

Everything I know about trauma and recovery says that if we have been traumatized, we cannot begin to heal and recover until we feel safe – which is why the concept of safe places features so prominently in my work. So Pepe being more fully a cat than we have ever seen him means that he feels safe.

Which makes me very happy, indeed.

The daily ritual that saves our marriage

This essay published

For the last eight years, my wife Renee and I have engaged in a ritual, nearly every single day. It is very rare we miss it, and the performance of this ritual is, I am fully convinced, the reason we have stayed married. This ritual grounds us, centers our priorities and allows us to be vulnerable and open in front of each other as we live out our values.

We eat dinner together every night.

Nearly every night, with rare exception, it goes like this: One of us will cook (For years it was always me, then it was mostly her, and now it is mostly me again), we will set the table with plates and napkins and silverware, we will get the pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator and fill the glasses with ice, put some music on and then we will eat together. Like a family.

I didn’t have a clue this was actually pretty rare until quite recently. Then I started talking to people and learned that many people eat in front of the TV, or eat different meals at different times, or have their phones out during the meals, or any other number of schemes I have heard about.

Here is the thing: This is one of the most important things we do in our marriage. We are both introverts. I have a very extroverted job. I am an early riser who is generally in bed by 10 and she is a night owl whose idea of morning is 10AM. I am a writer. She is a photographer. It is very possible for us to spend a Saturday together and say less than 20 words all day.

But every night we hold this intentional space where we can share (or not) what we are thinking, what our days were like, what we are thinking about, what our dreams look like. Some days it is nonstop talking for 90 minutes. Some days it is quiet, as we smile at the cats’ antics and listen to the music and just enjoy being in the presence of each other.

* * *

I am a big believer in rituals. I have written pretty extensively about the power of rituals in this essay.

The Church of the Diner

This essay published

This weekend I was in Baltimore, a city I have never spent any time in. So, being in a strange town all by myself, I did what I always do – I found a diner to eat breakfast in.

I have eaten in diners in, I believe, 28 states (not counting the states of confusion, drunkenness and delirium) and they are always the same.

In a real sense, they are like churches, with a public liturgy, a crowd of regulars, a common text and while there are many choices, we all have our favorites.

You have your 23rd Psalm, I have my ham and cheese omelet with a side of fruit.

Like churches, which are easily identifiable as such, there is a common architecture for diners as well: Formica tables and broad expanses of glass facing the street, a counter that serves the single folks, the pot of coffee, the orange juice machine.

The elements of the service are similar from place to place, too. Just like a chalice or altar is immediately recognizable, so also are the thick white china mugs in a diner, perhaps the most perfect device ever invented for consuming coffee. Coffee tastes better from a heavy porcelain mug with a thick lip, and if the server is on it, she will run hot water in it first to warm the mug up, keeping your coffee warmer longer.

In the Church of the Diner, they welcome regulars, but are happy if today is the only time you come in. Unlike most churches I have attended, they welcome newcomers with no expectation you will ever return. They are content for you to join their community just for today, to participate as much or as little as you want, and trust you will leave happier than when you arrived.

“I don’t know you or your story, fella, but you look hungry. Come on in,” they seem to say. And so I do.

As a child, I was castigated for bringing an outside book to read during church, but at the Church of the Diner, my book is welcomed, as is my scruffy, unshaven face and my coffee stained t-shirt.

They were not offended this past Sunday when I did not want to be part of the crowd, but instead was content to sit in the corner with my book, drinking coffee and periodically staring out the rain-streaked window as I watched the world come alive.

I have long thought that Diners are one of the last bastions of egalitarianism left in this country. The Judge will sit in a booth next to a plumber who sits in the booth next to a homeless man who is buying his coffee with spare change given him by a kind soul.

As I looked around, I wasn’t proven wrong. The other diners are diverse. There is the shift-worker eating a meal before heading home. A sex-worker sitting at the counter, drinking coffee. A table of rowdy folks in their early twenties haven’t made it home yet after a Saturday night out. A collection of old men sit at a corner table, flirting with the waitress and occasionally laughing a bit too loud – a scene you get the feeling has happened daily for years.

Everyone is welcome at the church of the diner.

* * *

At a diner near my house, a server passed away suddenly. I did not really know her – she had waited on me several times, and we passed the time of day, but at diners I am often just the observer, sitting in the corner with a book, listening to the ambient chatter, soaking in the presence of others. So I did not really know her the way other regulars did.

On the counter near the cash register is a picture of her, a candid snapshot downloaded from her Facebook profile, because who has actual paper photos of anyone these days? And in the weeks after her death, a jar sat there, taking up a collection for her funeral expenses. I always put my change in the jar, and sometimes, an additional 5 or 10 dollar bill. After all, in the Church of the Diner, we take care of our own.

Like any church, they have their nutjobs. The people who can’t make it through the day without a drink, the people who take advantage of community to hustle and scheme. The annoying person who won’t leave you alone, when it is obvious you want to be left alone. Amazingly, there are diner fanatics as well.

There is a woman who regularly comes into a diner I frequent. I am there once or twice a week, at random times, and she is there fully 50% of the time. She knows the names of all the servers. She has the menu memorized. She has, a server told me, been coming in for years and has applied to work there many times, and never gets called in to interview. But she is undaunted, and keeps coming back.

There are faded newspaper clippings on the wall near the cash register: Obituaries of regulars, commendations received by police officers who are regulars, a spelling bee victory by one of the kids who come in with their parents.

A mentor once told me that communities eat together, celebrate together and mourn together. And he told me that while we were sitting in a diner.