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.

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??!

A Space of Belonging

Saturday evening we held a gathering at our home for an Evening Fireside Conversation. This experience had been an auction item at a fundraising event for Mt. Adams Resource Stewards, an incredible non-profit organization committed to promoting sustainable connections between the land, local economies, and rural communities in the Mt. Adams Region. In slightly more soulful language, MARS works diligently to preserve, honor, nurture, and celebrate its glorious corner of the world. Which, come to think about it, is not a bad way to go through life. Every nook and cranny of this spinning planet, and of each and every human heart, longs to be preserved, honored, nurtured, and celebrated.

My dear friend Caley, a licensed mental health therapist with deep roots in the academic community, came up with the idea for the evening, and invited me to join her in envisioning, creating, and leading the event. As we saw it, the evening would be a gathering together to enjoy good food, good wine, a gorgeous view, good connection, and some thoughtful conversation. Inspired by MARS, we imagined a time to consider how each of us could serve as stewards to care for and nurture our own little necks of the woods.

The group consisted of what we imagined to be kindred spirits in such an endeavor, as admittedly, this kind of evening is not everyone’s cup of tea, or in this case, glass of really, really good wine.To plan the evening, Caley and I approached it in a way that we both consider important for an event like this or for almost any aspect of life. We began with the end in mind. At the end of that evening, what did we want to be true? How did we want people to feel? What did we want them to have experienced? Well, we wanted them to have had a chance to reflect on and share what they might be feeling called to do in order to care for themselves, others, and the world within their reach. We hoped that they would feel seen and heard. And, the one word that continued to emerge was belonging. We wanted people to be filled with a sense of belonging as a result of our time together.

If that is what we wanted to have happen, what did we need to do to bring that about? We would need good questions that would invite good reflection that would result in good conversation. To that end, we identified multiple questions to guide our evening. However, as any good facilitator knows, you gotta start with finding out who’s in the room. To that end, we came up with four questions. Who are you? Where do you call home? What is a word that you would use to describe you, and why? Why did you want to be here tonight?

As we saw it, going around the room with some quick-ish introductions would get the evening started so that we could dive into deeper conversational waters.

Boy, did we get it wrong. Except not really.

Simply introducing ourselves took about an hour and a half. At times you could have heard a pin drop as we hung on one another’s words. There was laughter, a few tears, moments of silence, and lots and lots and lots of gratitude for being together in that space. It was, as we had hoped, a space where each person was filled with a sense of belonging.

We never got around to those other questions. You know, the ones that were supposed to take us deeper. That must be because to show up, introduce ourselves to one another, and to then feel like we belong, is about as deep as it gets.

Written with gratitude to Caley M, Jay McLaughlin, Mt. Adams Resource Stewards, and everyone present in that collective space of belonging.



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.

Two Humans And A Dog

Early Friday morning, as my husband left for a long day in town, it felt good to hug him just a little bit longer.To linger in that familiar connection, and to remind him to be careful, to drive safely, and to come back home to me. Watching him drive down our road, we waved as he rounded the bend, and then Gracie-the-chocolate labradoodle and I headed out for our morning walk. The one that the three of us, two humans and a dog, usually do together.

On the way out, the sun is always at our backs, casting our shadows down the road ahead of us. That morning, was no different. Except that there were only two shadows. One human and a dog.

Some day it might be like that.

But not yet.

And that is something worth noticing.

Every.

Single.

Day.

All In Good Time

For as long as the weather holds, coffee happens in the field in front of our home. This morning the mountain was out in all of her glory. It was 37 degrees, which meant an extra layer, a wool beanie, and a buffalo plaid, wool, fleece lined blanket. I was taking notes to get ready for my upcoming conversation with my spiritual director, Dane, which meant capturing the various wonderings going on in my head and heart. It’s always a meandering list, often times so random that I can’t imagine how one thing connects to another. Yet somehow, in conversation with him, the seemingly disparate threads begin to weave together, connecting this part of my life to that one, this question to that answer, this seeming ending to that possible beginning, this lingering fear to that little swatch of bravery. It is a beautiful and rare gift that he brings to our conversations, helping me stitch my life into the tapestry that is uniquely mine.

Looking at my list, it was indeed a bit of a hodgepodge, made up of a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and it was hard to see if and how it all tied together. But somehow I trusted that it did. Or it would, all in good time.

As I closed my journal, a text came through. A storm from Hurricane Francine had knocked out his internet and we would have to reschedule. While disappointed to miss our conversation today, I knew we would have it eventually, all in good time.

In large part thanks to our work together, I’m learning to hold it all a little more lightly. All, as in all of it. Time, schedules, plans, perspectives, beliefs, and even life itself. Grasping and gripping rarely make things better, and usually worse.

The day I had anticipated became something else. It was bit of a hodgepodge, made up of a little bit of this and a little bit of that. No big progress made in any direction, and it’s hard to see if and how it all ties together. But somehow I trust that it does. Or it will, all in good time.

In gratitude for Dane Anthony, and the gift of working together.

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


Like That

I just knew I needed her this morning. The logging road can always be counted on to provide whatever is needed for the day and my heart.

Yesterday was just one of those days. A tough loss for my team. Knowing someone’s heart was hurting. Technical difficulties…All Day. Long. A knee replacement surgery looming. Concern for our country and the rocky-no-matter-what road ahead for all of us who love her. And spirits that felt like the smokey haze obscuring the mountain from view. Bed sounded good long before it was time to crawl in.

Despite all of that, one thing, well two, that I knew for sure. A new day would dawn, and a trip up the logging road would help.

A new day dawned, and before the sun crested the hills above the logging road we set out, side-by-side to make our way to the top, our steps falling together on the steep incline that will continue for almost two miles. It’s never easy, but today it’s a little harder than usual. Over the past four years of hiking this same path time and again, I’ve come to know that hard isn’t a bad thing, simply a thing. On or off the trail, hard is part of the bargain.

Today, like every day, the logging road is able to take whatever burdens we carry, always providing solid ground beneath our feet. She’s steady. Sure. Reliable. I want to be like that.

The trees on either side of the road bear witness as we pass by. Douglas and grand fir, ponderosa pine, and Oregon white oak. Rooted in the ground and stretching to the sky, they don’t question or try to fix. They simply stand strong, inviting us to come as we are. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just real. I want to be like that.

Sitting on the side of the hill, looking out over the woods, open grassy slopes, and surrounding ridges, the breeze moves around us, rustling the leaves and causing wheat colored grasses to sway ever so slightly. The air ia soft, warm, and gentle It feels like mercy, grace, kindness, and forgiveness. Freely given, asking nothing in return. I want to be like that.

Making our way down, my heart is lighter, my head more clear, and my spirit more at ease. The road hasn’t done anything to me, she’s simply been there for me, and that is what makes all the difference.

I want to be like that.



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.