The Cap Cloud

This morning as I was snowshoeing out in our field—Gracie-the chocolate-labradoodle racing and romping with the kind of unabashed joy coveted by humans—cap clouds were beginning to form over Mt. Adams. Cap clouds (also referred to as lenticular clouds) form as strong winds flow over the mountain, pushing moist air upward where it cools and condenses into clouds.

Good weather forecasters, cap clouds often indicate a weather change is on the way. Knowing that a storm is brewing helps us prepare for what is to come, whether that be stocking up on food supplies, battening down the hatches, checking up on an elderly neighbor, or throwing in extra layers before heading down the road. Cap clouds alert mountain climbers of potentially, dangerous and possibly life threatening conditions, much like our National Weather Service* serves as an early warning system for us and our neighbors near and far.

This morning with Mt Adams looming in the near distance, if a storm was on the way, it wasn’t here yet. Just the clouds that suggested one might be coming. But for now, the sun was shining, the snow sparkling, and the field in perfect condition for snowshoeing. Gracie noticed none of the warning signs, intent only on the smells of the critters burrowed beneath the snow, the open spaces in which to cavort, and the ball I pulled out of my pocket for her to retrieve. Come what may in the hours ahead, she was hellbent on enjoying what was right here, right now.

Not a bad way to go through life as a human either. Not that we should live with our head in the clouds of denial or buried in the sands of despair, but rather that we heed the warnings of stormy weather ahead, and care well for ourselves and our fellow human beings. Whatever the storms, we will weather them together in the world that we inhabit together. And while we’re at it, let’s choose to live with as much unabashed joy as our human hearts can muster. Like Gracie-the-chocolate labradoodle.

This is an unpaid political announcement. Call your elected officials and tell them to protect and support the important, life-saving, and non-partisan work of NOAA, which includes the National Weather Service.

The Power Of The Summit

It all started when Tom was getting ready to retire from a 40 year civil service career as a research scientist for the United States Geological Survey.* It was going to mean a drastic change for our lives in almost every imaginable way, and rather than let this new way of life have its way with us, we decided to find our own way with it.

We booked a cabin at the beach for what we were calling our Pre-Retirment Summit, and came up with the following three questions:

1. What did we want retirement life to look like?

2. What were we excited about?

3. What were we anxious about?

There weren’t a lot of rules to the whole thing other than to show up with open hearts, open minds, lots of Sleepy Monk Coffee, daily walks on the beach, and of course, good food and wine. It was good work, hard work, fun work, and sometimes painful work, as we engaged in the kind of honest, sometimes raw, and always vulnerable conversation that partnership requires. What emerged out of that first summit was a blueprint for post-retirement life. More than simply a strategic planning session, it was another layer of our initial until-death-do-us-part vow. This is who and how we want to be in the world, separately and together, and this is how we will endeavor to do that.

The work done over morning coffee, afternoon walks, and evening wine served as a filter for our choices in the days and years ahead. It helped us get a handle on how we wanted to spend our time and be good stewards of our lives It also gave us a better shot at living with and loving each other well— however imperfectly at times.

The power of that summit was heading home having landed on lots of the same pages. Not all the pages, but the ones where we weren’t were fodder for the never ending work of becoming better humans together. It equipped us to better handle all that retirement from a long and meaningful career of doing really good work, would throw our way. Tom’s way, as he began to experience the silence and invisibility that comes with no longer being in the room, and the unoccupied hours waiting to be filled with new endeavors. My way, as I suddenly had a partner who was home. All. The. Time. And the new practice of making decisions together rather than running my own show. Our way, as we began to encounter rough edges, identify smooth ones, and discover new growing edges. And, it was that summit that helped us begin to establish the rhythms and rituals that would stitch our new life together, together.

We’ve held a summit every year since. The questions shift and evolve, but the process remains. So much of our time, focus, and energy is spent in the weeds of our daily. The summit is a chance to both get a bird’s eye view of it all, and to get down into the weeds of it all. To get a glimpse of life as it’s been, how it is right now, and how it might be. And, how it got to be how it’s been, how it is right now, and how to best make it what we hope it to be.

I wish we’d discovered it sooner. As I wander back over our 30 year of life together, I wonder what we might have done differently if we’d held more summits. Taken time to take stock, get on as many same pages as possible, and even more intentionally chart our course. None of our runways to whatever comes after this life are getting shorter, and while it’s never too late to start the practice of the summit, it’s also never too soon.

The power of the summit is in the dedicated time to reflect on what matters, and figure out how to even better connect who we are with how we live.

The power of the summit is in the conversations as much as what comes out of those conversations.

The power of the summit is in the freedom that is found when we don’t simply let life have its way with us, but rather find our way with it.

The power of the summit isn’t in the plans and to-do lists that emerge, but in knowing what those plans and to-do lists serve.

The power of the summit is…well… you tell me after you’ve tried one.

---

Side note: A summit doesn’t require a plus-one. Nothing wrong and plenty right with a summit for one.

Pre-Retirement Summit - 2018

This is an unpaid political announcement: Civil servants do important, non-partisan work on behalf of all of our citizens, often working long hours and at lower pay than they would in the private sector. Call your elected officials and tell them to value, support, and protect our civil servants.

Message In A Bottle

I’m a crier. Always have been. Always will be. But lately I’v even been outdoing myself. It is as if the waterproofing of my heart and soul have worn out, and the tears just keep leaking through. Sad ones, fearful ones, joyful ones, grateful ones, and WTF ones. Rather than holding them back, I’m choosing to simply allow the tears to fall as they wish. And boy do they wish.

I started to notice it when my husband and I had a conversation about the long-promised-but-yet-to-be-built dining room table. The table is a subject for another day, but suffice it to say that his suggestions about how we might tweak the agreed upon design, or re-arrange our great room opened the floodgates. At first the tears were ones of anger, even rage. But over time, as we sat at the hopefully-someday-to-be-replaced table, they turned into tears of sadness, pain, fear, and loss. I simply couldn’t stop crying, and probably shed more tears at that table than Tom has in his entire life. At one point he quietly asked—probably holding his hands up to shield himself in case I threw something at him—“Mol, do you think this might be about more than the table?” Ya think?

Of course it was. It’s almost always about more than the whatever it is. The table was simply the dam that broke and let everything else out. Everything else included all the things I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. Pain for important and necessary struggles in the lives of those I love. Fear for our country, our world, and our planet. Sadness for the responsibility I bear (and you do to) for the state in which we collectively find ourselves. Grief for the losses that are sure to come.

And.

Tears of joy found in the gathering together with family and friends, the celebrating of milestones and moments, and the surprises that fill our cups. Tears of happiness that arrive with shared cups of coffee, home cooked meals, good news of any sort (it’s there if we look for it), laughter, help that arrives unbidden, and answered prayers. Tears of gratitude for the raising of good humans, the loving of one anther, and the agency to live and work for a world, and a country, in which all are seen, represented, and welcomed.

There are plenty of reasons for even the non-crieriest among us to shed a tear or two. The world is a mess. Our country is a mess. And if we’re honest, most (ok, all) of us are a mess in one way or another. I’m not saying everyone has to turn into a weeper like me. But every tear holds a message. They signal the things that matter to us, clear our vision, and spur us to action. They connect us to one another, pave the way for deeper understanding, and communicate what words sometimes can’t.

Tears open our hearts in a way that holding them in never will.

It is said that God saves all of our tears in a bottle. I sure hope She has a huge one for mine.

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.

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.

Getting Our Act Together

I don’t write about politics, and I’m not about to start.

Except to say this…

We the people have got to get our act together.

I live in a small rural town, and I’ve come to see political yard signs as one more way to divide us rather than inspire us to become curious about our neighbor’s perspective. If I actually did put one up for this upcoming election, I suspect mine would be in the minority of those displayed in the beautiful valley that I share with my goodhearted, and like me, patriotic neighbors. Rather than sparking curiosity, I worry that it would only further fan the flames of division that are threatening the country that we the people all love.

The truth is, it has become scary as hell to bring up anything political (with anyone other than those who “agree” with us). With family who lean in a different direction than we do. With friends who cast their sacred votes differently than we do for reasons that make good sense to them just as ours do to us. With our neighbors who identify with a different political party than we do. With colleagues upon whom we depend for a job well done, but don’t dare broach certain subjects around the metaphorical water cooler. With the stranger in line at the grocery store who, nevertheless, is a fellow citizen of this country that we the people all love.

But if we the people are going to get our act together, then it’s time that we the people put on our big boy/girl/however-you-identify pants, and start talking with each other. But because it’s scary, because it feels like a bridge too far, we don’t do it.

But what if we did, and where could we start?

How about with one simple question…

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand to know what party we identify with.

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand to know who we are going to vote for and why.

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand to know who we blame for the mess we’re in, or to whom we attribute the progress we have or haven’t made.

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that invites us to get out of our ideological heads and into our human hearts. It’s a question to which there is no wrong answer, just my answer, your answer, their answer, all of which are true, and many of which I suspect are the same, even if for different reasons.

Almost all fruitful endeavors, conversations, inventions, solutions, and relationships begin with and are sustained by good questions. Which, when asked and received with a sense of curiosity and grace, can lead to the next question. And the next and the next, and the next, until before we know it, we’ve found ourselves on some common ground, even if only a sliver. And a sliver is a place to start.

For any of us who watched one of the conventions, we were challenged to stop complaining and “do something”. If we the people are going to get our act together, maybe it starts with each of us doing something that connects us rather than divides us. Like talking with each other.

So, how are you feeling about this election?

I’m so terrified that you asked, but here goes.

I’m feeling hopeful, optimistic, scared, and yes, joyful.

Hmm. Tell me more about that. and why you’re feeling that way.

I’m a little less scared and a tiny bit more glad that you asked.

I’m hopeful that it will lead us forward. That it might pave the way for us to address the very real challenges that we the people face, and that our children and grandchildren will face after we’re gone.

I’m optimistic that it will embolden anyone who feels that their party has been stolen from them to take ownership of it again, because everyone is needed for we the people to get our collective act together.

I’m scared that too many of us will choose party over country, vote against someone rather than for something, do nothing out of despair that their vote doesn’t matter or in protest against an imperfect system, rather than exercising their right to vote in order to perfect our union just a little bit more.

And, yes, I’m feeling joyful that we might actually have a chance to bring a lot of us, from both sides of the aisle, a bit closer together, which is where the shit we all care about actually gets done.

So, how are you feeling about this election?