We Are Not Alone

On a rainy Thursday morning I unexpectedly found myself alone in a coffee shop. There to meet a new friend, we’d gotten our wires crossed on the time we were to meet. I had at least an hour before an upcoming appointment. Ordering an Americano—with an extra shot of course—I sat down at a table, my journal sitting next to me. It was then that I wondered if the morning wasn’t a mistake after all. If, in fact, I was there to have a date with God. An hour of quiet to sit together, to listen, and to be heard.

Earlier that morning I’d had one of those powerful, messy, raw, and ultimately beautiful FaceTime conversations with one of my daughters. Our conversation wandered through home decorating ideas, upcoming pre-school schedules, parenting challenges, and grocery shopping lists. And then suddenly we found ourselves at the crossroads of her past, the challenges of the present, and her hopes for the future. Which landed us on the painful topic of past trauma and wounding, which then led us to the possibility of generational healing.

Looking through my own lens, and speaking only for myself, ours is a family that has struggled with anger and rage, impacting multiple people on multiple fronts. It was true of the generations before me, and it was a part of my own experience growing up. Add to that the fact that the first time around I chose to marry someone who had his own issues with anger and rage. With good help, I’ve worked to understand those rageful roots, and undo their patterns. My daughter and I talked about how those roots and patterns were part of the soil in which she grew up, and in which her own family is now growing. None of us wants to pass on those parts of ourselves that are unhealed, but left untended, we do. Her pain around anger and its impact on her and now her own family was tangible as we sat together screen to screen. I expressed my deep sadness that she had to experience that in her past, and now has to encounter this same family tendency in her present. I apologized for the part I played in passing that tendency on. Our conversation mattered. My apology mattered. Her need to hear that apology mattered. We ended the time grateful for the safe space we’ve created to talk about scary things.

Sitting in the coffee shop with my Americano, my journal, and God, I picked up a pen and started writing. What does it take to do the hard work to heal from our past? To mend from the uninvited, and perhaps unintended, pain and trauma that make up part of our history? Unintended or not, generational wounding and trauma are inconvenient truths that come with being human. Generational healing is only possible when we encounter and engage with our wounds.

Our unhealed pain always reveals itself, and when it does, that is the moment of invitation…

“Will you meet me head on?” it asks. “ Will you confront me? Will you look me in the eye? Will you put your forehead to mine so that together we can find our way out of this cage of your past that imprisons us both? I want out of here as much as you do, because our freedom, and the freedom of the generations to come are inextricably linked. Know that you are not alone in this quest for wholeness. It is the path all are called to walk if they have the courage to do so. You are not meant to navigate such difficult terrain alone, so seek wise traveling companions, and ask for their help. ”

Closing my journal and heading for the car, I was reminded that we are not alone in our brokenness. None of us make it through unscathed. Our pasts are some combination of the good, the bad, and sometimes, the seriously ugly. Our healing begins when we are courageous enough to look that truth in the eye, and discover what it has to tell us. Because only the truth can set us free. Us, and the generations to come.

Amen.

May it be so.

The Sliver

As soon as my feet hit the floor this morning I could feel it. There was a sliver in my left foot. But it was so tiny—as in the size of a grain of pepper— that my husband could hardly see it even with the help of a headlamp and a magnifying glass. After he made a few gnarly attempts to get it out we decided that a trip to the doctor was in order. To get the sliver out, and to protect our marriage.

Hobbling into the doctor’s office, I felt a little silly. How could something so small hurt that much? Who knows why, and for that matter, who cares. It hurt, and it was going to continue to hurt until it was gone. It took the doctor less than 10 minutes to get it out, and the second I put weight on that foot, the pain was gone. As in gone-gone.

Left to its own devices, that little pepper-sized spec would have burrowed a little deeper, gotten infected, and made my situation a whole lot worse . It wasn’t fun getting it removed, but the relief was worth the price of admission.

What was true of my foot is true in life.

Left untended, a sliver of resentment can splinter a relationship, a scrap of fear can shatter a dream, and a fragment of shame can fracture a soul. That tiny sliver reminded me that noticing and tending to painful things early is the quickest way to the other side. The side where healing happens, wholeness returns, and the ground is firm beneath our feet.

I once had a friend tell mm that I’m always looking for a lesson to write about. And I think that friend was right. Not because I have so many things to teach, but because I still have so many things to learn.

Climbing A Mountain Part 6: Leave No Trace

Leave No Trace

A wilderness mantra, it means pack out what you pack in. Including your own waste.

Fun stuff.

The Forest Service provides human waste pack-out bags. One large ziplock bag contains a paper target (think X marks the spot), a brown paper lunch bag containing a small scoop of kitty litter, another brown paper bag, and two (seriously?) squares of toilet paper. The directions are pretty straight forward. Find as much privacy as you can, lay the target on the ground, take aim, and hope you are a good shot. Drop your business into kitty litter bag. Insert kitty litter bag into paper bag. Tuck everything inside the zip lock bag. Take it with you.

Like I said. Fun stuff.

Now multiply that by 8 people and 2 1/2 days.

Everyone’s used bags went into a kitchen size garbage bag. If we’d thought better of it, we would have stowed our own stash somewhere and schlepped it out ourselves. But we didn’t, and digging into that ripening garbage bag to separate out a few for everyone to carry seemed like a very, very, very bad idea. One of our gang offered to take one for the team and carry the bag out.

He deserves a special place in heaven.

We tied the very heavy garbage bag to the outside of his pack, and prayed to the mountain gods that the bag wouldn’t split. A few steps down the trail I remembered the cotton pillow case in my pack. We put the garbage bag inside the pillow case, increasing the chances of the contents staying put.

There was an additional bag of garbage containing the rest of the trash accumulated over the course of our time on the mountain to be dealt with. Someone else volunteered to carry that bag out.

He deserves an almost-as-special place in heaven too.

Heading down the hill, every step the two guys who deserve special places in heaven took was made harder because of the additional weight. Because they were carrying what was not really theirs to carry. It was a visual reminder of something I already think about a lot. We are responsible for dealing with our own shit. For taking care of our own garbage. When we don’t, other people have to deal with it, like it or not.

We are born into the families and circumstances we are, shaping us into the humans we become. No one is exempt from the impacts—good, bad, and sometimes ugly—of those who raise us. We may not be responsible for all that happened to us. However, as we grow up and mature, we are accountable for what we do with what we’ve experienced and who we have become as a result.

This work of becoming healthy, whole-hearted humans isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s hard work, but it’s also good work. Some of the most important we will ever do. I know that because I’m still at it, and hopefully will be until I take my leave. The more work I do, the less I leave behind for others to have to carry.

It wasn’t lost on me that the pillow case carrying that garbage bag wasn’t just any pillow case. It was a gift from my daughters when they were little, with pictures of them on both sides. Whatever we leave unaddressed has a lasting impact. It becomes a burden carried by those around us. Usually those we love the most.

Leave No Trace

Hypothetically Of Course

It’s been a rough couple of years. People are talking about it, posting about it, writing, speaking, and ruminating about it. We may be beginning to emerge from the pandemic, but there is no getting back to the way things were. Those days are gone, which probably isn’t such a bad thing. It’s just that we’re not quite sure who we are anymore. It’s like we’ve been tossed out of the spin cycle without getting rinsed off. All of the residue from these last two years is still on us, and we don’t know what to do with it. So rather than taking the time to clean up our own acts, sometimes we take out our pent up frustrations and persistent fears on others. The chatbot who can’t seem to understand our question, the CS representative who finally answers the phone after we’ve been waiting on hold for two hours, the service provider who informs us that the supplies we need are on backorder, the driver who won’t move out of the fast lane, those holding differing political views than we do, and the person on the other end of the line who, through no fault of their own, cannot, as much as they would like to, give us the answer we want. And then of course, there are always those closer at hand, like, say, the people we love and maybe live with, that get in the line of our not-so-friendly fire.

At least I can, hypothetically of course, find myself in at least one of those scenarios. Can’t you?

But the more I think about it, this doesn’t seem like a new thing. It’s just that the last couple of years have put a finer point on a blunt fact. Whatever we don’t clean up in our own life spills out onto the lives of others. From complete strangers to those nearest and dearest, our unhealed wounds, old stories, undealt with stuff, and unhealthy patterns make their marks on the world around us.

At least I can, hypothetically of course, find myself in at least one of those scenarios. Can’t you?

Now, if we could be our best selves on own, we would. If we could heal our own wounds, we would. If we could write new stories, unravel the tangled webs of our past, or develop healthy patterns on our own, we would. I just know that I’ve never been able to do it without help. I’ve needed the support of trained professionals, as well as those trusted few who allow me to show up as my messiest, messed up self, and who love me enough to listen, and listen, and listen some more. And then to tell me the truth, no matter how inconvenient.

It’s a lifelong process, this becoming our best self. The sooner we begin the better, and, it’s never too late to start. Imagine being able to chuckle at our “conversation” with the chatbot, be grateful when our call is finally the next in line, recognize that getting supply and demand back on track will take awhile, take a deep breath and go around the slow car in the fast lane, become curious rather than critical about the political views of others, understand that the person who can’t give us the answer we want probably wishes that they could, and, treat the people we love and live with from the very best of ourselves.

At least I can, hypothetically of course, imagine myself in at least one of those scenarios. Can’t you?

Minus The Nitrous Oxide

Between many years that have included many hours of writing, and plenty of trips around the sun, my hands have developed enough arthritis to make it more difficult, and painful, to do many of the things I love. Rather than ignore the pain, mask it with drugs, or wait for it to get unbearable, I decided to take matters into my own hands by turning them over to someone skilled at treating them.

In my initial appointment with the doctor, who specializes in non-surgical treatments for pain management, we reviewed my X-rays and discussed options, landing on Platelet Rich Plasma Therapy— PRP—as a good approach. It uses healing growth components from my own blood to stimulate healing and repair.

Here is my laywoman’s description of the treatment.

Monday morning at 8:30 I arrived at the clinic and checked in for the first of two appointments. During the first appointment a wonderful nurse—who has clearly mastered the art of painless blood draws—withdrew a dozen, yes that’s right, 12 vials of blood, and then sent me on my way for a few hours. At the second appointment, as I happily inhaled nitrous oxide, the doctor, guided by ultrasound imaging, injected my own platelets back into the injured thumb joints. In our post-procedure conversation he reminded me that my pain level would be greater than normal for awhile, and that I wouldn’t be thrilled to have had this done for about 12 weeks. “Will I be pissed off for that entire 12 weeks until I’m thrilled?”, I asked. “No”, he replied. “You’ll probably be pissed off for a few days, and then things will slowly begin to improve.”

The pain was definitely worse the rest of the day, and I was ready for a nap when I got home. Over the course of the next three months I am to avoid taking any anti-inflammatory drugs or the use of ice, both of which would interfere with my body’s natural ability to heal and repair itself. In other words, for healing to take place takes time, and some pain and discomfort is to be expected. Which, in the overall scheme of things, seems like a worthwhile tradeoff.

The reason I both love and need to write, is that it is how I process life. Writing helps me make sense of things, and sometimes, my writing helps other people make sense of things too. Putting words on the page connects the dots of life out in the world. Writing helps me see big implications found in small everyday things:

• Some of the essential matter required for healing is found within.

• Healing usually requires the help of a skilled professional.

• Temporarily masking the pain gets in the way of lasting repair.

• It might very well hurt worse before it gets better.

• Healing takes time, and doesn’t happen without some level of pain and discomfort.

• The healing process will probably piss us off in the short-term.

• And, enduring temporary discomfort for the sake of long-term healing is a worthwhile tradeoff.

What is true for the healing of my hands is true for the healing of our hearts—minus the nitrous oxide.

Forging A New Path

Our bodies can teach us so much.

For the past few months I’ve been experiencing some bothersome pain in my hip that radiates down to my knee. Nightime is the worst, the pain often waking me up in the middle of the night. It isn’t excruciating, but noticeable enough to interrupt an otherwise good night of sleep, and make itself known throughout the day. I have been wondering if I’ll just have to learn to live with it.

Enter Dr. Erica Figge.

Erica is a dear friend who also just happens to be a world-class athlete, strength and conditioning coach, and chiropractor. This morning as we caught up over a virtual cup of coffee I was lamenting about this low-grade but constant pain. “Tell me more” she said.

Before long we were both down on our yoga mats, practicing a movement that might alleviate the pain. Mine has a typical pain referral pattern, and the longer I allow it to go on, the deeper the pain-message pathway in my brain. Thankfully, it is possible to create a new pathway by engaging my body in a way meant to address the source of the pain. The possibility of an uninterrupted night of sleep and a more pain-free experience was all the incentive I needed to commit to getting down on my yoga mat several times a day and see what my body, brain, and I could accomplish together.

What is true of the body is true of the heart and soul. The longer we live with the pain of past injuries and wounds, the more deeply etched those painful message pathways in our brain become. Unaddressed, we grow so accustomed to the pain that we begin to believe we have no choice but to live with it. Today, my body, along with the help of a good and knowledgeable friend, reminded me that we don’t. We are blessed with a brain that can rewire itself. It is willing to develop new, better, and more life affirming pathways, if we are willing to take the time, put in the work, and engage good help.

During this current life-altering time, we have been forced to come face-to-face with ourselves and those we share life with. Old injuries are more evident. We’ve nowhere to run, and it becomes increasingly hard to hide from what hurts. The pain of one injury can begin to refer far beyond the source, inflicting further harm to ourselves and those around us.

In the strange ways in which only struggle and hardship can, this time of being held captive offers us a chance to take ourselves and our own hurts on. Once this time of isolation and quarantine is over there will be more to distract us from ourselves, and the inner work that is ours to do could easily get lost in the shuffle of life on the other side.

The longer we wait the harder it becomes to overcome our old stories of pain and suffering.

But.

If we are willing to take the time, put in the work, and engage good help, our brains are ready and willing to create new pathways. Ones that lead to lives of greater authenticity, wholeness, and wellbeing.

Let’s get to work.

(Note: If you live in California and are ready to take the next step in your health and wellness journey, contact Figge Chiropractic)

The Road Less Traveled

There is nothing quite as inspiring to me as watching someone choose to take the road less traveled.

The road less traveled is the one that when facing the difficult and painful challenges that life throws in every one of our paths at one time or another, leads them through the difficulty rather than skirting around it.

The road less traveled is the one that while every step may be painful, is the only one that leads to healing and transformation.

The road less traveled is the one that calls upon our courage to keep going in spite of our fear.

Tempting thought it may be to take the well-worn easier route, the road less traveled is always worth the trip.

Always.

Pixabay

A Collective Prayer

The unexamined life is not worth living.

Socrates

Yesterday in church during a time when anyone in the congregation can share a prayer of concern or gratitude, I found my hand going up in the air almost without my consent. I hadn’t planned on sharing anything, but it seemed that something wanted to be shared and I was the one to share it. Taking the microphone that was passed down the pew to me, here was what wanted to be shared...

If our daughters were here today they would tell you that I was (still am) fond of saying that we all have our “stuff” (only I usually use a better and more descriptive word when not in church). It’s the stuff that we need to work out, usually with the help of a therapist, so that we can become our most authentic, healed, and wholehearted selves. When we don’t take our stuff on, we take it out on other people. The wounds and hurts that go untended go on to wound and hurt other people. Especially those we care the most about.

May we all have the courage to do our work.

There was a collective resonance in the sanctuary, the nodding of heads, and quiet murmurs of acknowledgement and understanding. I seem to be thinking, talking, and writing about this a lot right now, and if you are tired of reading about it here, I understand, but somehow it feels that if we don’t get this right, we don’t get anything right. Inner work is hard and uncomfortable. It requires courage and vulnerability. But it is the only way to an authentic, healed, and wholehearted life, which is why we arrived on the planet in the first place.

May we all have the courage to do our work.

Amen.

Scar Tissue

“I have this thing about being a preacher who reveals things about herself, and it’s that I always try to preach from my scars and not my wounds.”

~ Nadia Bolz-Weber

There isn’t one of us who hasn’t been physically wounded. Thankfully, our bodies are designed to heal.

There isn’t one of us who hasn’t been emotionally wounded. Thankfully, our hearts are designed to heal too.

Healing of any sort however, requires time, attention, and sometimes professional help, but if healing is what we want, we have to do what it takes. When we ignore the injury, it can fester, infecting other tissue, or, other people, and everything is fair game. Our work, our interactions with everyone from loved ones to complete strangers, our mindset, outlook on the world, and opportunities, our finances, our pets, and our physical, emotional, and spiritual health. It may take energy to heal, but it is nothing compared to the energy required to ignore the pain and try to keep it under wraps. Trust me on this one.

Reflecting on Nadia Bolz-Weber’s words above I am convinced that every one of us can switch out the word ‘pastor’ for any word that applies to us, our work in the world, and our relationships with others. For me, it might look like this… “I have this thing about being a - wife, mother, grandmother, friend, sister, coach, writer, speaker, facilitator - who reveals things about herself, and it’s that I always try to - love, communicate, support, relate, speak, write, lead - from my scars and not my wounds.”

Recently, I’ve uncovered a wound that is calling for my attention, and as a new year approaches, I am determined to do the work it will take to transform that wound into a scar. It will take time and attention, but since healing is what I want, I will do what it takes.

In the words of Richard Rohr, If we do not transform our pain, we will most assuredly transmit it."

Broken Records

Sometimes I know that I sound like a broken record, but then I guess there are some things that are worth repeating. My dad was a broken record.

Remember who you are and what you stand for.

If I heard that once, I heard it several thousand times. And so did everyone else who knew and loved him, and some who didn’t know him and if they did, they probably wouldn’t have loved him. I got tired of hearing it, and there were times I wanted to throw the nearest sharp object at him for saying it. But you know what? It stuck, and those words spoken to me, over me, and around me, have gone a long way toward helping me to become a better version of myself. There are things for which I’ve thrown my dad under the bus, but these words are not one of them. I will alway be on board the bus with him on this one. 

Recently I’ve begun to hear my own broken record. Like my dad’s words, mine are short, not-so-sweet, and to the point.

Do the work.

Simply stated, it means choosing over and over and over again, to do the hard work of becoming your best, most authentic and wholehearted self.

Do the work. 

It means uncovering our wounds (we all have them) and doing what it takes to heal them, and turn them into scars. It means sitting with our pain, anger, grief, and all of the other shadow emotions, and learning from them rather than running from them. It means asking ourselves what we are currently carrying with us that needs to be dealt with and left behind, so as to move into whatever is next with more love, compassion, freedom, and peace. It means admitting when we are wrong, and making amends. It means learning how to apologize and mean it not justify it. It means having the hard conversations and doing the deep listening. Again, and again, and again.

Do the work. 

It means figuring out what makes us tick, and what triggers us. It means taking ownership for everything in our lives. Every. Single. Thing. Not that we are responsible for everything that has happened to us, or for the wrongs committed to us by others, but that we are responsible for what we do with what we’ve got.  

Do the work.

It means finding the professional help to support our efforts. At the risk of sounding like another broken record, we all need professional help to become our best selves. Every. Single. One. Of. Us. Depending on the circumstances, that might mean a therapist, psychiatrist, coach or spiritual director, or some combination thereof.  

I’ve been heartened recently by examples of those doing their work, and heartbroken by examples of others who are not. When we do the work every one around us benefits, and when we don’t, everyone around us pays. Which is why, later today, I am grateful to be meeting with my spiritual director. I know I’m better when I do, and it’s better for everyone around me too. 

Some things are worth repeating. 

Let’s do the work.