On Fire

I’ve needed to work my way through this political moment in our country, and writing is what is helping me to do that. Going forward my focus will not zoom in on politics. I will return instead to what is always at the heart of my message, which is to connect who we are in our soul with how we live in the world—which when you think about it is about as political as it gets.

I hope you’ll stick with me. Thank you for helping me navigate this week by your presence here. I am deeply grateful.

The world is on fire.

As it always is.

The world is still beautiful.

As it always is.

~ Drew Jackson

We live in a small rural town where the risk of wildfire is high, which means that for several months of the year we are under a burn ban. Just recently after a few days of good, heavy rain, the burn ban was lifted. Fires have been burning throughout the valley as neighbors and logging operations have set off slash piles, but we hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

On Wednesday morning, November 6th, the day after the election, we weren’t quite sure what to do with ourselves having learned the outcome. Consuming more news, doom scrolling, and imagining the worst felt like adding fuel to our emotional fires. Time to set off the burn pile.

We’ve accumulated stuff all year and tossed it on a pile out in our field. Branches, brush that needed to be cleared, an old wooden dresser and a stool beyond repair, sensitive documents, and a little bit more of this and that. When we torched it off, fueled by a few dashes of gasoline, it burned fast and hot, quickly reducing the pile to a fraction of the size of the original. There was lots and lots and lots of smoke at first, obscuring the view on the other side of the pile. It felt a lot like the post-election world, obscured from view by the scorching hot flames that have been fanned in our country over the past decade. It was hard to imagine what lay on the other side of that political fire.

As the major flames burned themselves out, there was more smoke and less fire. As the pile continue to burn, the smoke became less dense making it is possible to see through it. Our flag, the one we fly every day, became visible although a bit distorted. It looked a lot like how America feels right now.

As the pile burned lower, we pushed any embers and still smoldering branches in towards the center, reducing the size of the pile a little bit at a time until it was nothing but a heap of glowing ashes that will take a few days to burn out.

The fire had burned hot and fast, consuming everything. The pile was gone and the air had cleared. It felt as if something had burned away for me too. Looking toward the house, our flag was still hanging there. No longer distorted but definitely tattered and a bit worse for the wear since we purchased it. The morning light was shining through her stars and stripes, and the sun a bright beacon in the distance. She reminded me that our country still stands, even if on different footing.

What is true of the burn pile is true of our lives. We’ve gotten ourselves to this moment in our shared history together. No one is exempt, which means that we all have things that are best taken to the burn pile, set aflame, and reduced to ashes.

America has always been an aspiration. A promise. Something to work toward, but never arrive at, because the work is never done.

Time to get to work.

Everything And Nothing

My first thought upon learning the results of the presidential election was that everything had changed. The outcome of this election will alter the course of our collective future, and will take us down a path different from the one if the outcome had gone the other way.

It was hard to know what to do this morning, but thankfully, as is our ritual every morning, we made our way to the front porch in the predawn darkness. We lit the candle, settled into our chairs, and pulled up the fleece blankets to ward off the chill of the morning and the one seeping into our hearts.

Sitting together in that familiar space, the one we return to morning after morning after morning, I felt a deep and profound sadness and I couldn’t stop crying.

Sitting together in that familiar space, the one we return to morning after morning after morning, I began to feel something else. An equally deep and inexplicable hope, and I couldn’t stop crying.

Sitting together in that familiar space, the one that we return to morning after morning after morning, as the sun hit the mountain it dawned on me that everything has changed, and nothing has changed.

As a result of this election everything has changed. What that will look like, try as I might, I can’t really know from where I sit, here on the porch.

As a result of this election I now have my part to play, which is doing all that I can to love, help, and heal the world within my reach. And in that, nothing has changed.

Waiting For America

As I write this it is 8:34am on Election Day, Tuesday, November 5, 2024. I needed to write something today that would help me tomorrow morning, and maybe help you too. At this point I’ve done all I can in support of the candidates I hope to elect, and of the issues I care deeply about. I’ve voted. I’ve encouraged others— friends, family, neighbors, and strangers—to vote. I’ve donated money and shared words and resources that have helped me along the way. I’ve prayed fiercely, not because I believe that God is in control of the outcome of this election, but because I believe that we are.

And now, we wait.

Waiting is active, not passive. It is a choice to stay in the here and now. To be present to what is true, even as what is true in this moment may be different from what is true just moments from now, until eventually the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth prevails.

Waiting is hard work. It’s not doing nothing. It’s doing everything to stay right here rather than jumping to what might be out there.

Waiting is trusting that the outcome will make itself known, and when it does that we will have our part to play.

Waiting is threshold work. It is the space between what has been and what will be, and is an integral part of bringing anything new into being. Such waiting is found in the rhythm of childbirth, the changing of the seasons, the cycles of the harvest, and the stillness before the sun rises to usher in a new day.

And, it is found in the continued creation of America, this fierce and fragile and fraught country that we love.

May we wait together in hope, in grace, in peace, and in love.

And when the waiting is over, may we the people turn toward one another and get to work.

Election Day Angels

At my first wellness visit after the 2016 election the intake nurse was going through that list of questions that are meant to uncover any red flags. One such question was “Have you ever had more than 6 alcoholic drinks in one day?” Yes, I replied without hesitation. She was instantly suspicious, ready to register her concern in my chart notes. It was the night of the 2016 election, I explained. She heaved a sigh of relief and laughed. That doesn’t count, she said.

Today is Election Day 2024.

It can be hard to know what to do on a day like this. There are lots of options for sure. Doom scroll. Throw shade on “all those idiots” on the other side. Ghost friends and family who see it differently than you do. Pretend it’s a day just like any other. Binge watch your go-to escape series. Pray fervently for “our” side to win. Drink yourself under the table. Research property in Costa Rica in case things don’t go your way.

Like I said, it can be hard to know what to do on a day like today.

Let me tell you about something happening in our neck of the woods that has implications far beyond today, this election, and the next four years. My husband Tom (a progressive) and our brother-in-law Bob (a conservative) are both members of Braver Angels.

If you aren’t familiar with them, there couldn’t be a better day to learn about this organization and their mission. As stated on their website:

Braver Angels is leading the nation’s largest cross-partisan, volunteer-led movement to bridge the partisan divide for the good of our democratic republic. As we head into the election, we’re bringing together “We the People” to find a hopeful alternative to toxic politics. The American Hope campaign is equipping Americans across the political spectrum to work together and demand the same of politicians from both parties.

Today, on Election Day 2024, Bob and Tom are meeting at the local drop box in town around lunchtime. Bob will be wearing his red Braver Angels hat, and Tom donning his blue one. They will be there, together, side-by-side, to thank their fellow citizens for voting, and to share with anyone interested why they believe in the mission of this organization. One issue upon which they both strongly agree is that civil political discourse is not only possible, but imperative for the good of this country we all hold dear.

Maybe it’s not so hard to know what to do on a day like this if we each call upon not only the better angels of our nature, but the braver ones as well.

Written with gratitude for Bob and Tom and all the Braver Angels who are shining a light on a better path forward.

How We Got Here

Tomorrow is election day.

I’ve filled out and mailed my ballot, and like most of my fellow Americans, I am anxiously awaiting the outcome, knowing that it might get even uglier than it’s been before it’s all over. And like most of my fellow Americans, I can see that the divisions in our country run deep and wide, and seem to only be getting deeper and wider.

How did we get here?

However it happened, we got here together.

Whether through blaming the other side, fighting against what we don’t want rather than working for what we do, listening to and reading only that which will confirm our own views rather than listening to and reading about the views of those who see it differently, or allowing fear to hold us back rather than letting courage urge us forward, we’ve arrived here together.

How did we get here?

However it happened, we got here together.

Whether by tuning out, turning it over to others to figure out, or not exercising our sacred right to vote because the choices feel too complicated or we don’t like the options, we’ve arrived here together.

How did we get here?

However it happened, we got here together

We are, each and every one of us, responsible in some way for the state of our union. I am, you are, we are, they are.

How did we get here?

That’s the question, and one we all need to take seriously. Let’s look in the mirror and deep into our own souls, and tell ourselves the truth about what we’ve done to create such a deeply divided country when the great majority of us want it to be anything but.

If I want the state of our union to be different, to be one that brings us together and works for the good of the many and not the few, if I want a government that is of, by, and for the people, then I have to choose and speak and act accordingly. And so do you, and so do we, and so do they.

How will we get there?

However it happens, we’ll get there together.

.

What Got You Here

In the pre-dawn darkness of Wednesday morning we loaded up our trusty 4-wheel drive with a thermos of Sleepy Monk coffee, a package of Walkers Shortbread, folding chairs, fleece blankets, and Gracie-the chocolate labradoodle. We wanted one more trip up the logging road while the beautiful fall weather still held.

For the past four and a half years we’ve been hiking up this same road, pausing at the top for coffee and some quiet time to connect, reflect, navigate tough issues, laugh, cry, argue, and simply be together in the beauty of that space.

This time, however, we drove to the top, my only steps the slow and careful ones across the uneven road to our chairs. It will be a while before I’m able to hike that road again as I recover from my knee replacement surgery less than four weeks ago.

The recovery process has been kinda remarkable, in large part because of all of those previous trips up and down that logging road. While always grateful to have discovered what many would see simply as a dusty gravel road, there was a new understanding of all she has done for me, and for us. Hiking that same route over and over, side-by-side, regardless of the weather, has prepared me, and us for this time of recovery together. Because of all of those trips to the top and back, my body was strong at the time of surgery, paving the way for a good recovery. Because of all of those trips to the top and back, we know how to accomplish hard things together. Because of all of those trips to the top and back, the emotional weather conditions of each day don’t keep us from keeping on keeping on.

It isn’t that it’s all been easy. Nerves wear thin and blow things out of proportion. Our first fight post surgery was arguing about the best way to make oatmeal. Everything takes longer than expected, especially when one person is doing the work of two, in addition to taking on the role of in-home concierge nurse. Sleep can be illusive when you have to get up in the middle of the night to take some more pain meds, and have to choke down a few saltines and a couple of prunes so as not to take them on an empty stomach. It’s an all-consuming process in the beginning, and will continue to be a major focus if I want to get back up the logging road in the not-too-distant-as-in-several-months future.

What hit me as we sat with our coffee that morning is that it’s important to remember what got us to where we are. To acknowledge what, and who, have made today what it is, and to remember it in preparation for what life has in store for us down the road.

Like most coins, this one has two sides. The positive side of that coin is that our growth and successes are built upon the back of our efforts, and often the support and efforts of others. The flip side is that we sometimes find ourselves at a place we didn’t intend or realize isn’t in our best interest, or the best interest of those we love. This too is built upon the back of our less-than-healthy actions, and perhaps that of others as well.

Recognizing, and remembering, what got us here is the key. It is what will help us choose whether to stay the course, or shift in a new and better direction.

The logging road is part of what got me here, and she is waiting patiently for our return. I can’t wait.

Sub-Mission

I’ve never liked the word submission. I know. Weird, right??!!

In my experience, the idea of submission has often been used (directly or indirectly) in reference to a woman submitting to a man. Of placing herself under the authority of someone else, most likely her husband, the leaders of a church, or some other male authority figure. Like I said, not my favorite word.

However, recently I’ve come up against that word in a different context from the one I’m used to, challenging me to consider if submission doesn’t have its time and place for a girl like me.

Submission is a combination of 2 words. Sub, which can, among other things, mean lower than, beneath, or under, and mission, which is an important assignment with an intended outcome, an expedition, or a calling. Submission, then, is getting beneath something that matters. It’s placing the strength of my will under the mission in order to achieve it.

Three weeks on the other side of a total knee replacement surgery, I am finding that in order to recover, heal, and rebuild, I have to embrace the reality of what will be required of me to achieve the outcome I want. Doing so is an act of submission to what is true now in order for it to become what I want to be true in the future, which is a strong knee ready to take me wherever life leads.

I’m having to submit to the facts that this is a marathon and not a sprint, that pain is part of the process, that I can’t do it alone and need help, and that doing the hard work, which sometimes means doing less rather than more, is the only way. Or as my daughter’s coffee mug says, “There is no secret. Keep going.” That’s how it is with any worthwhile endeavor, whether writing that next book, healing from past trauma, getting an advanced degree, raising good humans, building an NFL team, or recovering from knee replacement surgery. It’s hard to admit, but submission is required.

Submission to the process required by this new knee is me getting under the mission, and supporting that mission with everything I’ve got.

Submission is a choice requiring no one’s authority but mine. And I like that. I know. Weird, right??!

Fear-Less

Sitting with our coffee the other morning, looking out over the hillside below, I finally said it out loud. “I’m scared about my knee replacement surgery.”

From what I’ve learned, there’s good reason to be at least a little scared. Of the surgery itself, (think saws cutting through bones) not to mention the sometimes rough road to recovery. The work required to rehab even though it’s painful, to regain mobility, range of motion, strength and stamina are nothing to sneeze at.

Up until now however, I’ve banked on all the other things I’m feeling about it: That while not looking forward to it, I’m glad I’m getting it done while I’m still “young”. That I’m grateful for the clarity about my decision to proceed, and for a loving guy to walk me through it, literally and figuratively. That I’m committed to taking the pain meds until I don’t need them, and confident that I’ll be better off for having it done.

Heck yeah. Let’s do this thing.

But afraid? Scared? I haven’t wanted to think about my fear, face it, or feel it. Until that morning on the hillside with the sun cresting the ridge. “I’m scared about my knee replacement surgery.” I couldn’t believe how good it felt to finally say those words out loud. To myself, and to the man I trust with my whole heart, and now with my soon-to-be new knee. Come to find out that naming it out loud actually took some of the fear out of it.

There’s a children’s book that our daughter reads to our grandson. It’s about courage and being brave and how we can’t be those things without first being scared. Fear, it turns out, is the doorway to courage. Being scared is the first step to bravery.

Deciding to get a new knee feels like a brave choice. And being scared is part of the bargain.

My fear had been there all along, quietly waiting for me to finally look her in the face and call her by name, knowing that once I did, I could get on with being brave. I won’t be surprised if she rides shotgun with me for a while, as I suspect that I’ll need to continue to be courageous even when I’d rather not. Thankfully, fear will be there to help me out.

Return The Phone Call

Today as I write this, it is 9/11, and 23 years later I still remember exactly where I was when I learned the news. Driving to the high school, I noticed that every single driver I passed had the same stunned, shocked, and horrified look on their face. I called my husband and told him to turn on the TV because “something” was obviously happening somewhere. None of us will ever forget what that something was.

Today is a day to remember what occurred then, and perhaps to reflect on where we find ourselves now. As a nation. As individuals. As communities, neighbors, friends, and families.

Today as I write this, it is 9/11, and I am missing my oldest brother, Peter.

He loved hunting, bacon, and feeding the birds. So do I. He loved animals even more than people. There are days that I can see his point. He lost himself in books. So do I. He was a patriot. So am I. He leaned right of right. I don’t, and never did. When he needed to chill-out, he listened to Rush Limbaugh. I, well, I didn’t. As close as we had been over the years, later in his life our political differences kept the two of us apart. I seemed to be the place where he could take out his frustration and anger at what and who he believed were taking our country down the wrong path. I guess I was a safe place for him to do that because he knew we loved each other. And we really, really, really did. But I increasingly found myself feeling unsafe with him. Less willing to connect with him. Less willing to return his phone calls. I know that hurt him, and it was painful for me too, but I didn’t seem to be able to find my way back to him. Until he found his way back to me.

On January 6, 2021, another tragic day in our collective history, the phone rang. It was Peter. As deadly chaos reigned in and around the U.S. Capitol, we talked for the first time in a long time. What was playing out in front of our eyes wasn’t the America we both loved. What was happening grieved and terrified us both, and when you are sad and scared, you want to hear the voices of those you love. Which is why, he said, he was calling me. A half an hour later we hung up the phone, two Americans on vastly different sides of the political aisle, but re-connected through our love for one another, for family, and for our country.

I will never forget that conversation. It was the last one we had. He died suddenly, eight days later, and I’ll never get to hear that deep, gravelly voice again, except for the one voicemail I’ve managed to save since he’s been gone. It’s a message he left me on May 29, 2020 from a phone call that I didn’t answer, and probably didn’t return. Oh how I wish that I had.

Today as I write this, it is 9/11, and the political divide in our country is tearing people apart. Families are estranged. People are losing real friends and finding virtual ones instead. Colleagues no longer meet for a beer. Neighbors look the other way. The loss of relationships and lack of connection with our fellow citizens is nothing less than a national tragedy. One not necessarily of our own making. But kinda.

No one can save us but us. It’s not up to our elected officials, the media, the influencers, or the trolls, bots, and algorithms. Do they play a part? Sure, and we need to hold them accountable to knock off the nonsense and get back to work on our behalf. But they can’t fix what ails us. Only we can do that. One relationship at a time. One conversation at a time. One handshake, wave, hug, meal, cup of coffee, beer, apology, reconciliation, and yes, one returned phone call at a time.

If Peter and I could do that, anyone can.

Written with gratitude for my brother, Peter.

Peter Davis 1940-2021

The Farewell Tour

“Well…you need a new knee.”

Not the words I’d hoped to hear from the orthopedic surgeon recommended by my physical therapist who I trust almost as much as Jesus. He continued, “You are young, strong, and you want to keep doing these things that you love for a long time, so there couldn’t be a better time to do this. Go take that 100 mile trek in England, and then let’s get this thing done.”

That he called me young and strong made me want to kiss him on the spot, but orthopedic surgeons aren’t known for being the touchy-feely type. I was trusting him with my knee, not my heart, and his words rang true. I’d gone in to his office with the intention of walking out with clarity, and I had it. We took that 100 mile trek through the Lake District in England, dubbing it the “Farewell Tour” for my right knee.

I’m not looking forward to the surgery, or the early days to follow, (Hello, Oxy. Nice to meet you.) but I am grateful for the chance to get a new knee. A bionic knee. One that will help me continue logging as many miles as are mine to hike on the trail that is my life.

A farewell tour signals the end of a thing. It’s a chance to showcase something one final time. In this case, the right knee I was born with, but for musicians, it usually means performing the best of their best. The fan favorites. The songs people know by heart and that that particular band or performer are known for. For those who love the band, the musician, and the music, attending that farewell performance can be a spiritual experience, connecting them to one another and the music they collectively love. It is an experience where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Maybe life is like that. As our years accumulate, we have the chance to offer the best of our best. The music written in the key of our life. The songs we’re known for. Our fan favorites. The ones they will continue to hum long after we’re gone. We get to offer what we have to give. Not for the applause or the standing ovation, but for the chance to give away what we have gathered up from the life we have lived, starting with those we love the most. It too is an experience where the whole is greater than the sum of our parts.

Every gig worth the usually exorbitant price of admission includes an encore performance. The audience calling for one more song, and another, and another, and another, until the performers have nothing left to give, and it’s time to exit stage left. To leave the scene without a fuss, because they know their time, on that stage, is done.

Maybe life is like that too, with calls for one more song, and another, and another, and another, until we have nothing left to give and it’s our time to exit stage left. To leave the scene without a fuss, because we know that our time, and this stage, is done.