Official Book Launch! Yippeeeeee!
Between Two Worlds Day 31 (of 40)
Alone: A 4,000 Mile Search for Belonging is now available!
After four and half years since that incredible little bike ride around the West, three different church positions including three moves, and eighteen months of writing, rewriting, and rewriting again I am pleased, proud and relieved to announce that the book is available.ALONE chronicles my 4,000 mile bike ride through Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and California in 2011 as I sought to reconnect with the people and the places of my past after three devastating years of personal and professional loss. It captures my grief, my struggles and my discoveries as I sought my place in the world again.You can order the book by going to http://www.pedalpilgrim.com/bookThank you all for your support, patience, and belief in me. A special thanks goes to the people of Eastminster Church in Portland who took this pilgrimage with me in their hearts.
Book Announcement #2
Between Two Worlds Day 26Dear Readers,
The book is coming, I promise!We weren't satisfied by the quality of print on the first version. We receive a second hard copy proof from the printer/publisher on Friday. Keep your fingers crossed. Any day now (really!).Below is the book description that will go on Amazon.com. Full details will be available the hour it comes out.Amazon DescriptionIN 2011, PROPELLED BY A GROWING sense of dread, Brian Heron embarked on an epic 4,000 mile bicycle adventure through some of America's most challenging terrain. A series of personal and professional losses left him feeling that his world was crumbling at an alarming rate. His wife of twenty five years had suddenly left one night. Eighteen months later his mother-in-law, with whom we was especially close, died after a four year struggle with dementia. A year after that his stepmother died unexpectedly during a routine, but risky open heart surgery. If that wasn't enough he was leading a church through a process of closing and putting in place their legacy in the community. He was working himself out of a job. In a short period of four years both his personal and professional life were disintegrating like a sand castle facing high tide.Replacing Forrest Gump's running shoes for a bike, he felt compelled to set off. Searching for a feeling of belonging he decided to return to the towns, to the people and the places that had shaped him. He would return to the town of his birth, Bozeman, Montana, where his parents had divorced and his mother disappeared from his life. He would spend a few days in the town of his childhood, Loveland, Colorado, that was the source of his most formative years and painful memories. He would ride through his old college campus where his life most made sense, if only for a few years. And he would return to Northern California where most of his adult life took shape with family, theological education, friends, and serving the community in various capacities.Along the way he would pedal across the rugged Rocky Mountains of Colorado, survive the lonely and desolate desert of Nevada in the heat of August, and negotiate his way through the jungle of California freeways. He would find himself in the belly of the whale in a drug-infested, paint peeling, shitty motel feeling completely alone and abandoned by the world and God. He would battle thunder and lightning storms, 100 degree heat, cars and semis, an especially bold buffalo, and his own personal demons. He would face the truth of his life, the reality of his dissolving profession, and the losses that life had thrown onto his path.New York Times bestselling author of the William Shakespeare's Star Wars Series, Ian Doescher, writes of Brian's book, "Alone is a compelling journey of personal discovery, religious questioning and spiritual awakening. At times deep, at times sad, at times funny, Heron invites the reader to ride along each day of this remarkable adventure. When it's over, you'll feel each of the 4,000 miles in your own soul."Join Brian as he follows the pilgrim path on an adventure of personal healing, the renewal of strength and hope, and the rediscovery of his unique place in the world. Take the journey with Brian, look into the pages of your own life, and learn to honor the wounds and the delights of your own yearning soul.
Book Teaser...
Between Two Worlds Day 15 (of 40)Dear Friends, I am out of town for two days and have inserted these two posts into our conversation for convenience sake. Today is the first couple of paragraphs of my book that will be available in a few days.From the first chapter, "Answering the Call"In less than three years, I lost the three most important women in my life.My wife of 25 years left our marriage suddenly one night. My mother-in-law, to whom I was especially close, died a year later after a long struggle with dementia. Eleven months later my stepmother (my father’s third wife) died during a routine, though risky, open heart surgery. After such gut-wrenching loss, I had hoped I could build a successful life in Portland, Oregon, as a church minister after a nine-year detour into hospice, probation and foster care work. I took the position as minister of Eastminster Church knowing it was facing likely closure and that I could lose my job. Four years on, it was clear the end was in the not-too-distant future—Mother Church was about to abandon me as well. My personal and professional life was crumbling at an alarming rate.I was determined not to let these losses define me. I would win this war against the world by Gump’s running shoes for cycling shoes, I resolved to ride my bike. “Walter,” I told a pillar of Eastminster Church,“ I need to take a pilgrimage. It’s not a matter of ‘if’. The only question is for how long and whether you’ll let me come back.”
Dying to be Finished!
Good news!I sent in my final draft of the book to my editor in England over two weeks ago. I still hate to give an exact date for publishing, but the words, "just after the first of the year" are being thrown around by my small team. The "Dying to Live" title is certainly going to change as the story shifted with each edit. Here is an "unedited" excerpt from my evening east of Boise on my 2011 pilgrimage:
By early afternoon Boise was many miles behind me and the rugged mountains were staging themselves before me. After a brief late lunch in Idaho Falls I circled the town looking for a place to set up my tent for the night. There were plenty of options if I had wanted them, but I was feeling particularly choosy after my Boise accommodations. I had gotten spoiled by the luxury of a bed and my Eden-esque surroundings at Rachel and Patrick’s place. I decided to make my way up the road a little further. I knew there were long stretches of forest along this road with virtually no towns. I was feeling a little adventurous. Would this be the night when I would just have to find a flat spot off in the trees hidden from curious drivers on the road? To my surprise I happened upon a campsite at Ten Mile Campground (exactly ten miles from Idaho City). Only one other family was camped in the area and I found an isolated spot situated next to the creek and hidden from the other campers. It was as luxurious as the home I had left in Boise, but raw and wild.
I unpacked my bike, set up my tent and prepared my sleeping quarters for the night. With an eye for order I set the picnic table as if it was my little home. I pulled out my stove, cooking utensils, and the night’s meal and set up a makeshift kitchen. At the other end of the table I opened up my laptop and placed my tiny notebook within hand’s reach as I prepared to write a blog post about the day-a ritual that had become routine. I wouldn’t have internet access, but I could at least use the juice in my computer to write that night and send the post at the first opportunity the next day. Next came bodily hygiene. I can certainly ride from one day to the next without a shower, but after a day of sweating, heat, and blowing my nose farmer’s style (you know, shut one nostril with a finger and then blow leaving a trail of snot on the road, my sleeves and shorts), a shower is almost essential day to day. I had the perfect place. I walked over to the stream and put my feet in to feel how cold it was. Yes, it was confirmed. This was cold snowmelt coming off the peaks over 6,000 feet above me. I stripped down completely, got out a wash cloth and bar of soap, and sat on a rock just a few feet into the stream. There I deliciously enjoyed the fresh, frigid water as I doused myself with as much of it as my nerves could handle.
Afterwards, I felt clean again. But more than that, I felt alive. Really alive. More alive than I had felt in a long time. I had towering pine trees reaching up to the sky above me allowing intermittent ribbons of light to filter down. It reminded me of the same effect that one gets with stained glass windows in a glorious cathedral. I had my own makeshift home with a creek that served as a bath, a picnic table that was both kitchen and home office, and a tent to retreat to as darkness fell. At home I had a car, a fifth floor, two-bedroom apartment overlooking the city of Portland, a job where I was paid a decent salary, and a reputation as a particularly determined community leader. Yet I was in a simple campsite and I felt that I had everything I needed.
Everything I need...
An excerpt from Dying to Live: A Preacher's Pilgrimage to Return to His Soul's Home due to be published this spring.Day 11 53 miles Boise to Ten Mile Creek Campground
Would this be the night when I would just have to find a flat spot off in the trees hidden from curious drivers on the road? To my surprise I happened upon a campsite at Ten Mile Campground (exactly ten miles from Idaho City). Only one other family was camped in the area and I found a campsite situated next to the creek and hidden from the other campers. It was as luxurious as the home I had left in Boise, but more wild.I unpacked my bike, set up my tent and prepared my sleeping quarters for the night. With an eye for order I began to set the picnic table as if it was my little home. I pulled out my stove, cooking utensils, and the night’s meal and set up a makeshift kitchen. At the other end of the table I opened up my laptop and placed my tiny notebook within hand’s reach as I prepared to write a blog post about the day. I wouldn’t have internet access, but I could at least use the juice in my computer to write that night and then send the post at the first opportunity the next day.Next came bodily hygiene. I can certainly ride from one day to the next without a shower, but after a day of sweating, heat, and blowing my nose farmer’s style (you know, shut one nostril with a finger and then blow leaving a trail of snot on the road, my sleeves and shorts), a shower is almost essential day to day. I had the perfect place. I walked over to the stream and put my feet in to feel how cold it was. Yes, it was confirmed. This was cold snow melt coming off the peaks over 6,000 feet above me. I stripped down completely, got out a wash cloth and bar of soap, and sat on a rock just a few feet into the stream. There I deliciously enjoyed the fresh, frigid water as I doused myself with as much of it as my nerves could handle.
Afterwards, I felt clean again. But, more than that, I felt alive. Really alive. More alive than I had felt in a long time. I had towering pine trees reaching up to the sky above me allowing intermittent ribbons of light to filter down. It reminded me of the same effect that one gets with stained glass windows in a glorious cathedral. I had my own makeshift home with a creek that served as a bath, a picnic table that was both kitchen and home office, and a tent to retreat to as darkness fell. At home I had a car, a fifth floor, two-bedroom apartment overlooking the city of Portland, a job where I was paid a decent salary, and a reputation as a particularly determined community leader. Yet, here I was in this simple campsite and I felt that I had everything that I needed. Like the morning at the memorial I felt like I was in sacred space, a sanctuary made of trees, water, and the light of dusk.
A Step Beyond Spirituality
I had a friend share the observation the other day that my first pilgrimage in 2011 spoke a great deal about spirituality, whereas my recent Rome to Rumi pilgrimage focused more on the soul. I hadn’t thought about precisely in those terms, but realized that she was right. I had experienced a shift in the years between my 4,000 mile Western U.S. pilgrimage and the shorter pilgrimage through Italy, Greece and Turkey of this past fall.
I thought about that a little. What had happened? I am deeply engrossed in the rewrite and editing of my book Dying to Live that shares the journey of that first pilgrimage. I reflect in the beginning of the book on the fact that I chose a profession (or did the profession choose me?) that is having to rethink itself. In the Northwest, a growing segment of the population thinks of themselves as being “spiritual but not religious”. In fact, even if you ask many church-goers you will hear them identity more in spiritual terms than in religious terms.My ten-week pilgrimage in 2011 was partly about coming to terms with what it meant to be a religious leader in a time when religious devotion was giving way to spiritual exploration. A lot of that pilgrimage focused on what I was hearing about the dissolving away of our present religious forms. I didn’t have a clear picture of what was emerging, but it was obvious that it had something to do with spirituality even if the term didn’t have any one clear definition.
I left on September 3 this year for Italy for the beginning of my Rome to Rumi pilgrimage. Strangely enough, this pilgrimage mirrored in some ways the 2011 pilgrimage. I chose the Rome to Rumi theme and route to once again wrestle with, reflect upon and write about this movement away from institutional forms of religion in favor of more direct experience of the Sacred, as seen in the Sufi mysticism of Mevlana Rumi. Once again I was flirting with the issue of religion and spirituality.But, my friend was right. My language had changed. I had gone from numerous references to the growing interest in spirituality in 2011 to an exploration of the soul in 2014. I haven’t completely put my finger on what the transition was, but I think I am close.I think the two pilgrimages represent my own evolution in this tremendous transition that many of us, if not all of us, are experiencing. There is an unmistakable transformation taking place where the seams of our religious institutions are splitting in favor of something that is loosely defined as spirituality. I see it. Others see it. We all feel it. And I am experiencing it both as a person dedicated to my own spiritual journey and as a person ordained to professional ministry.
But, spirituality is a general catch-all term for just about anything that has to do with the sacred world, but doesn’t look too much like religion. My exploration of Sufi mysticism and the Soul is where my spirituality begins to take form. One might say that spirituality is to the Soul as music is to rock and roll. Spirituality and music are general categories. The Soul and rock and roll are the specific ways we live out and celebrate those areas of our lives.I had gone from exploring the shift from religion to spirituality in my last pilgrimage to exploring the shift from religion to one particular form of spirituality in my second pilgrimage. The last pilgrimage was more about what we were moving away from. This pilgrimage was more about what we, and me in particular, are moving toward. That it, mystical forms of religion.Still, this pilgrimage had a surprise for me. I thought I was going to Konya, Turkey (site of Rumi’s Tomb) to highlight the language of mysticism and the soul for my readers and followers. In the end, however, the pilgrimage became about the yearnings and the disappointments of my own soul. I had flown over to Europe under the mistaken assumption that I could use this pilgrimage to invite others to take a journey that I thought I had already completed psychologically and spiritually years before. As it turned out I may have had the language, but I had not yet completed the work.My work in the end was finally to commit to something that I had been talking about for years. I had been dating my soul on and off for quite some time. This pilgrimage was about finally standing at the altar and saying, “I do.”
Training for Enjoyment
“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.”
Please don’t stop reading now! I know the language is archaic and it has a distinctly religious ring to it. I promise, I am not going to bore you to tears with a sleep-inducing sermonette.This line is the answer to the first question of the Shorter Catechism of the Westminster Confession of Faith first written in 1646. It was adopted as an official confession of the Presbyterian Church (USA) of which I am an ordained member. (Hang in there!)In 1987 I entered a contest to memorize the catechism. There were three prizes: $1500, $1200, and $900. We were also assured that in the event of a tie for first prize each winning contestant would receive the full $1500. That was all I needed to hear. I went for it.I have fond memories of walking around the town of San Anselmo, California carrying my eight month old son in a snuggly on my back while I went through the 107 index cards that had the 107 questions and answers to the catechism. It paid off. I typed it back perfectly for the judges and was awarded the money I needed to finish that semester.Now, over 25 years later I only remember this very first question and answer to the catechism. Both the money and my memory of it are long gone. But, this one line has been working on me, even agitating me, for the last few years.Three years ago, I took a very personal pilgrimage cycling around the Western US, crossing eight states, five mountain ranges, the Nevada desert and over 4,000 miles (watch for the late fall release of my book Dying to Live: A Preacher’s Pilgrimage to Reclaim his Soul.). Throughout the ten week journey I felt like I was pushing through something and trying to break through some unknown, but palpable barrier. One day in Idaho especially reflected this. I rode by a number of hot springs determined that I was going to reach my destination 80 miles out. I reached my destination, but regretted missing the hot springs.
One of my hosts on the trip had asked me, referring back to the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, “What are you running late for?” I never was able to answer that question, but I did know that the first answer to the Shorter Catechism kept buzzing around my mind like an annoying mosquito in my ears.Friends and family will tell you that I know how to work hard. They will also tell you that I am a neophyte when it comes to purely enjoying myself and life. Translated into the Shorter Catechism, “I know how to glorify God; I have not yet allowed myself to simply enjoy God.”Which brings me to last Sunday. I am training for my upcoming pilgrimage from Rome to Konya, Turkey, a distance of approximately 3,000 kilometers. I have not put the miles in this time to be fully prepared for the daily treks of fifty plus miles with fifty pounds of gear on my bike. From a physical standpoint I am really behind schedule.But, I am not worried. There is a curious thing taking place. On Sunday I felt like I was training my enjoyment muscles as much as I was firming up my calves, quads, hams and butt. I decided that enjoying the ride was probably better training for this ride into mysticism than the logging of the actual miles, the average speed, and the vertical feet I had climbed. This is not easy for me. I raced bicycles competitively in my twenties, formed and coached a college team, and placed second in my division in a mountain bike race just a year ago. As I said, I know how to work hard!Sunday, I felt like I was training for a different sort of pilgrimage experience. This time the goal is not to complete the pilgrimage on schedule (as if there were one). It is not to prove that I can climb mountains or cross deserts. It is not to find the Holy Grail somewhere along the way or at the conclusion of my journey. This time it is to enjoy the journey, follow the pace that my soul desires, and return in six weeks or eight weeks or whenever I damn well feel like it.
“Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever,” instructs the Shorter Catechism of my faith. This time I won’t be skipping the hot springs. There will be Genoa salamis and Italian pastas to enjoy. There will be Greek beaches and ancient ruins that will call for me to linger and ponder. There will be the famously hospitable people of Turkey with whom to share tea, dinner and broken conversation. Maybe even there will be God, if I can slow down long enough to enjoy Her!
Falling, Falling into Life...
With the pilgrimage to Rumi's Tomb and the sacred city of Konya, Turkey nearing, I am reflecting more on how my spirituality has shifted toward the world of mysticism--that is, for the experience of the Sacred over simple belief in God. Here is an excerpt from my upcoming book Dying to Live: A Preacher's Pilgrimage to Reclaim His Soul that gives a window into my evolving spiritual life. It was from my 4,000 mile cycling pilgrimage through the Western United States in 2011:
"The highlight of the afternoon was standing on the overlook for Lower Yellowstone Falls. I nearly wept at the stark beauty and raw power of this water as gravity forced it over the rocks and sent it crashing down hundreds of feet below. I had the strange experience of wanting to lean into the experience of the Falls as if it wasn’t good enough to just observe it from a distance. I wanted to actually feel its power and soulful, violent movement. Of course, I knew that I could not do that as just a few feet more toward the edge would have sent me pummeling toward the bottom like the accelerating water. I would have gotten the experience, but not lived to tell the tale.I remember the first time I had this experience. It was when we were living in Racine, Wisconsin (remember, the one place I am not visiting!). Our house was just one mile to the west of Lake Michigan. I often took walks over to the lake and along its rocky beaches. When it wasn’t too cold (and it often was!), I would head over to the edge of the lake in the winter. The waves were often four, five and six feet high and would come crashing in against the rocks and the ice that had formed.
I remember this strange yearning and deep longing to jump in and allow my body to be carried by the crashing waves. I wanted to experience what the waves were experiencing. At the time my thoughts unnerved me just a little. Did I have a death wish? Was my yearning about wanting to die?I know now that that wasn’t the case.Years later I discovered the world of the mystics and was reminded of Dan Fogelberg’s music where I recognized this language of longing—a longing to be one with the ocean and mountains, to live into the deep intimacy of family, friends and lovers, and to practice the enjoyment of work, dance and good food.I have had that same feeling many times since then and know now that it is not a death wish, but simply a longing for union and communion in its deepest form. I suppose someday death will also stop by my home and I can only hope that I will embrace that experience with as much acceptance and passion as I have for life itself. But, there is no need to hurry the clock.I meditated on the falls before me and felt gratitude for its sublime beauty, power and creative violence and greedily yearned for more, much more.I wanted more. I wanted it all."