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Finding freedom in the confines of prison

It was 1993, and I had been making my weekly 30-mile trek from my little cottage in the hills outside Austin, Texas to Bastrop Federal Correctional Institute for the better part of a year. Each Thursday, I worked with the male inmates in the prison drug and alcohol rehabilitation program, and afterward, I taught creative writing to any of the men who wanted to join our group.

Me at my Mount Bonnell cottage, Austin, Texas

During my drive this day I recalled my first trip to Bastrop a few years earlier. I remembered my own deep fear of stepping inside the prison walls, perhaps because of youthful offenses I’d committed that could have landed me behind bars, including the cultivation of marijuana. And I remembered my strong desire to be of service to these men that I didn’t fully understand, but that propelled me forward. Nonetheless, when I first heard the stories of transformation from my friends who had been volunteers at weekend workshops for the inmates, I avoided participating for a year or more. My entire body literally tightened up (yes, especially that part) at the imagined sound of that big metal door slamming shut behind me.

When I finally stepped forward, it didn’t take long to realize that the inmates were guys much like me, with similar abilities, dreams, passions, unexamined beliefs, blind spots, and fears. And, of course, transgressions that had been committed. I connected at a deep level with a number of the men, broke bread with them, rejoiced with them, cried with them, and supported them to grow and to make a fresh start. The compassionate Colombian attorney convicted of money laundering who served as translator for the numerous Spanish-speaking men at Bastrop. The Caucasian writer who was a model for those who wanted to quit blaming others and take responsibility for their own lives. The Native American artist who had killed in a fit of rage and would likely spend the rest of his days behind bars for it. The bond was more transient with some men. The taciturn African American, hard as a rock, who one day let a silent, solitary tear slip from behind his sunglasses.

I saw imprisoned men literally living lives of monks. I saw them adopt new ways of being, taking responsibility for their lives, cleaning up their past, learning to trust, yes, even to love. And I knew that if they could do that while incarcerated, I could no longer wallow in the prison of my mind. I could no longer make excuses and blame others for my shortcomings. I could no longer let my fear hold me back. I could no longer be a spectator. I would embrace my past and live my life fully from that point on.

With support from my friends inside and outside the prison, intensive workshops, my men’s group, and a great deal of personal discipline, I set about creating the life that I had previously only dreamed of. To reclaim my integrity and my authenticity, I committed to consistently tell the truth and keep my word, to forgive and ask for forgiveness, to atone for my misdeeds, and to seek reconciliation. Closure with former wives and lovers and acceptance of family members just as they were. Clearing up my credit card debt and my hefty bar tab left over from the Eighties. Earning my living as a writer and depositing $10,000 in savings. From time to time, I would almost collapse at the enormity of my task, but my path was clear.

If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. I heard that from more than one of the inmates at Bastrop. How many of us, I wonder, continue to do time for our real or imagined offenses—some of us behind barbed wire or concrete barriers, some of us in our mental prisons of lies, pretense, fear, guilt, or shame? During my brief stretch at Bastrop, I believe that I helped some of those guys find freedom within the confines of their prison cells. And, in turn, they helped me break free of the shackles with which I’d restrained myself.

[Note: I wrote this during my stint as an edtorial columnist for the Asheville Citizen-Times in the early 2000s. I also shared it at yesterday’s Jubilee! celebration.]

What, me anxious?

I like to think of myself as a self-aware kind of guy—attuned to my emotions, noticing them as they arose, acknowledging them, and letting them pass. But this past year, with the death and destruction of Hurricane Helene in western North Carolina, followed by the election of an ignorant, vengeful, narcissistic wannabe dictator, my mind has often been crowded with a free-floating assortment of fears.

Thank goodness for my daily meditation practice, biweekly therapy sessions, and hikes with close friends. Speaking fears aloud—with my therapist, hiking buddies, and my wife Shonnie—has helped me gain perspective. I’ve also taken action where I can—leading my faith community’s (Jubilee’s) Social Justice Team, supporting people who are standing up for democracy, and sharing supportive information through blogging and social media. And Shonnie and I began watching lighthearted shows like Ted Lasso and Friends most evenings for some much-needed laughter.

But a few weeks ago, I stumbled on Arthur Brooks’ article in The Atlantic, How to Turn Anxiety Into Adventure. Brooks—Harvard professor and behavioral scientist—defines anxiety as a chronic, low-grade fear response that protected our hunter-gatherer ancestors but now often misfires in modern life. He offers strategies to reframe it.

A few that stood out to me:

See anxiety as “unfocused fear.” Clarify it so it becomes episodic, not constant.
Name and journal your worries. Write down sources, worst/best outcomes, probabilities.
Reframe it as opportunity. Anxiety can sharpen focus and push you toward growth.
Accept, don’t suppress. Resisting anxiety makes it worse.
Lean on relationships and community. Perspective and connection reduce its power.

Since I was already using #5, I tried #1 and #2—starting my own anxiety journal. The top source I uncovered? Donald Trump’s ongoing drive toward authoritarianism.

Here’s how I broke it down:

Worst case: chaos, violence, and a slide into permanent authoritarianism.
Best case: Trump implodes, MAGA splinters, and fades away.
Most likely: their missteps erode support, and elections restore balance.

I’ve also used my journal to process fears about aging and other concerns. So, am I free of anxiety? No, I’ve begun accepting some anxiety as part of the human condition. But I do feel calmer, clearer, and less consumed by it.

So, if anxiety is currently an issue for you, here are my suggestions:

When possible, take action to address the cause of your anxiety.
Share your concerns with trusted friends and family members.
Start an anxiety journal to get your fears out of your head and onto paper and update it regularly.

You may also want to check out Brooks’ articles in The Atlantic or his blog: reelikklemind.com.

Oh, and one more thing: ditch the doomscrolling.

Deep in the Heart of Texas

Early one morning in May of 1992, I awoke with the realization that I was no longer tethered to any geographic location. My daughter was about to graduate from college, and my commitment to pay her college expenses had been fulfilled (for the most part). My divorce had just become final. And my consulting contract with the Fort Worth insurance company was almost complete. Where did I now want to live? What was the ideal location to create the life I envisioned for myself?

I thought of Portland, Oregon, and Boulder, Colorado, but I wasn’t bold enough to strike out for a city where I knew no one. I considered Asheville, a small city in the mountains of North Carolina, and though I felt drawn to the southern Appalachians, I didn’t know how I’d make a living there. Finally, I thought of Austin and decided to drive three hours down I-35 to visit my friends Tom and Sharon Parish, whom I knew from the More To Life program, and get a feel for the city.

The Parishes welcomed me as if I were a member of their family. On Saturday evening, in what was to become our weekly ritual, we shared a meal, watched a movie, then tuned in for the weekly telecast of Star Trek.

Over the weekend, I ran on the trails around Town Lake (now Lady Bird Lake) near downtown Austin, where there were a multitude of other runners, as well as countless walkers and bikers. Then I got a snack at the original Whole Foods Market, a modest neighborhood grocery store on North Lamar Boulevard. Afterward, I drove a few blocks south and spent an hour or two browsing the aisles of Book People, a huge and well-stocked bookstore with many progressive and personal growth titles. Then I ambled across the street to Waterloo Records, a store that featured CDs of Austin musicians and music from around the world. While I drove, I listened to an eclectic mix of music on Elektikos, the morning music program on KUT-FM radio, where I would first hear the music of Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Lucie Blue Tremblay, Ali Farka Touré, and Philip Glass.

After my weekend had run its course, the choice was clear: my cat Chocolate and I were moving to Austin.

Lily, Sharon & me

I quickly became a surrogate member of the Parish household, which included Tom and Sharon, who were, of course, married, and their daughter Lily, who was not yet two years old. Living under the same roof were Sharon’s former husband, Stanley, and their son, Justin, who was eleven-years-old. It was a unique arrangement, and it seemed to work quite well for everyone involved. I was deeply grateful to be included in their weekly family gatherings on Saturday nights to share food, films, and “Star Trek,” gatherings that helped forge a strong bond between us.

With the assistance of Tom, I began gathering a list of local companies that might use my services and started making phone calls, since connecting with potential clients via email was not yet a reality. I landed a number of personal interviews, including several with Austin ad agencies, but their typical response was “We’ll call you if something turns up.” Then I remembered that Holt, Rinehart & Winston had a high school textbook publishing division in Austin.

I called Holt’s main number and briefly explained my situation to the receptionist: “I’m a writer, and I’m new in town. Do you know who I might talk with about doing some work for y’all?” The receptionist was very receptive to my query: “Let me transfer you to Alice Jones, the managing editor of our English Department. She may have something that would be a fit for you.” When Alice picked up, I again explained why I’d called. Alice said, “I don’t have anything right now, Bruce, but send me your resume, and I’ll keep you in mind when another project comes up. In the meantime, let me transfer you to Frank Johnson so you can check in with him. ”I talked to two other editors and got a similar response from each.

Then I was transferred one more time: “Hello, this is Bob Todd,” the voice said. “Bob, this is Bruce Mulkey. You sound a lot like the Bob Todd I used to play handball with in Orlando.” There was a laugh of recognition on the other end of the line. “Yep, I’m the guy,” he chortled. “I think you kicked my ass the last time we played.” Then it was my turn to laugh. I explained to Bob that I’d recently moved to Austin and was looking for some work. Bob said he didn’t have anything, but he knew that Susan Feldkamp, an editor in the science department, did and that he’d set up a meeting. Then we talked about getting together for some handball on the University of Texas outdoor courts.

During my meeting with Susan the next day, she described a project creating teacher’s ancillary materials to accompany a new high school science textbook that was in the works. As was their custom, Susan asked me to do a sample—the ancillary materials for one chapter of the text—work for which I’d be paid. I worked my butt off for several days on an anemic little laptop I’d borrowed from Tom to create an impeccable sample. Susan liked my work and assigned the entire project to me, to be delivered on a stringent schedule. From that point on, I had a steady flow of work from the Science and English departments at Holt, Rinehart & Winston and, thus, a steady flow of cash. While the work didn’t require a great deal of creativity, I was stringing words together, and I was getting paid for it.

A few months after my arrival in Austin, I rented a rustic, two-room cottage on the side of Mount Bonnell. It was an idyllic location, surrounded by cedar and hardwood forest with a small creek running through the ravine below. On the other side of the road, not visible from my mountainside perch, the Colorado River meandered through the hills west of Austin. My deck extended over the mountainside with a one-hundred-foot drop below.

Living in a somewhat isolated setting, my cat Chocolate and I were constant companions. Our evening ritual included Chocolate climbing into bed with me, lying on my chest for a while, purring resonantly, head butting my hand or arm to bring my attention to her rather than the book I was reading, then retiring to sleep by my side throughout the night.

Since I’d begun earning my living as a writer and was communicating with clients via email (using a very sluggish dial-up modem) or phone most of the time, Chocolate and I would go days without seeing another living animal, except maybe an occasional bird or lizard. This was the first extended period in decades that I’d been without full-time human female companionship. This, coupled with the challenging transition from who I thought I was to who I really am, might have been overwhelmingly lonely but for my sweet, fuzzy Chocolate.

Chocolate and I watched Twin Peaks and Seinfeld on my tiny TV and read books, including Waking Up by Charles Tart, The Aquarian Conspiracy by Marilyn Ferguson, and The Art of Intimacy by the father-and-son team of Malone and Malone. When I did have the rare overnight female guest, Chocolate refused to relinquish her usual place in the bed and insisted on being there even when things got a little rambunctious.

So, while the occasional female companion came and went, Chocolate was at my side almost every night. I miss you still, sweet girl.

We are the ones we’ve been waiting for

Fifty-seven years ago, I traveled from Tennessee to Washington, D.C. to join a protest against the war in Vietnam. My housing had been prearranged; the group I was traveling with would be staying with a family of Quakers. The weather that weekend in November tested our resolve: bone-chilling temperatures and a strong wind out of the north. Nonetheless, we marched, we sang, half a million strong we came together confidently in common cause.

Late on the final day of that weekend, my brother-in-law, Johnny, and I found ourselves with a group of militant activists at the Justice Department. I was caught up in the excitement of the moment—that is until the D.C. police started discharging tear gas canisters into the crowd. We beat a hasty retreat, doing our best, but failing, to avoid the asphyxiating gases around us. Later, as I sat excitedly recounting the tale of the confrontation, I noticed a troubled glance from the elderly man whose hospitality we were enjoying, not disapproving, but gravely concerned. Years later I would remember that expression as I read the words of Marianne Williamson:

I am of a generation which thought that we could bring peace to the world, and we didn’t think it mattered if we ourselves were angry. What we learned is that an angry generation cannot bring peace.

Sometimes I’m certain that the apocalypse is upon us. Our narcissistic president lurks behind a façade of hyper-masculinity, tweeting threats and blatant falsehoods to further the advance toward oligarchy. The airwaves are awash with professional politicians who claim they care about you and me, yet primarily serve the interests of the economic elite who fund their re-election campaigns. Our so-called leaders refuse to come to grips with inequality, lack of a living wage, a two-tiered justice system, institutional racism, encroaching authoritarianism, and spending more two billion dollars a day on our military while almost fourteen percent of children in the U.S. live in poverty. Perhaps most frightening, our planet is rapidly approaching its physical limits to growth, yet many in power seem to ignore the signals–record-breaking heat waves, extreme weather events like wildfires and floods, melting glaciers and ice sheets, and rising sea levels.

In the midst of all this madness, it would be easy to turn away, to withdraw into our own little cocoon, to claim there is nothing one person can do, to hope that someone else will deal with our current challenges. Denial, obliviousness, cynicism, somnolence and resentment can each be an easy way out. But once we’ve awakened to the menace we’re confronting, are any of these really an option?

It is essential, now more than ever, to pay attention to what’s going on in our communities, in our nation, and in the world. Do not try to hide from or close yourself off to the horrors taking place. Let yourself feel the hurt, feel the sadness, feel the anguish. Then use those feelings as a springboard to action.

We do make a difference—individually and as a group. In fact, every loving thought, every prayer, every compassionate action has a significant effect on the world in which we live and the fabric of our existence. We might be moved to listen to and hold a friend who is hurting. We might be moved to serve a meal at the local homeless shelter or help build a house with Habitat for Humanity. We might be moved to put our freedom on the line by participating in civil disobedience. We might be moved to stand together in thousands, millions to proclaim, “No more!”

We were made for these times. And it’s up to each of us to do our part. Right here! Right now!

We are the ones we’ve been waiting for!

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