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.

Dancing In The Dark

We take a nightly walk down our road before crawling into bed, and the sky never disappoints.

Pitch black and heavy with clouds, it is a reminder that we rarely, if ever, see the whole picture. That our view is always obscured by our own experience.

A sky filled with stars lulls us into believing that we do see the whole picture. So captivated by their light, we forget that the stars we are looking at may no longer exist.

And occasionally we are treated to the biggest news of all. That it all belongs. The darkness and the light. Dance partners, both are necessary, and only made visible because of the other.

These are difficult times. Perhaps they have always been, but right now, these are our hard times. Darkness and fear loom over the future. In the world. In the news. In our hearts. And most of us have no idea what to do with all of that fear and all of that darkness.

A walk in the night might be a good start.

Photo: Tom Pierson-the light of my life

Delight

God looked over everything God had made;
    it was so good, so very good!
It was evening, it was morning—
Day Six.

Genesis 1:31

I’ve always loved the biblical story of creation. Not because it is literally true, but because of the much deeper truth contained in that story. It says, in no uncertain terms, that this is a good place. So good in fact, that gazing out over all that She had made, God declared it not just good, but very good.

In other words, God was delighted, and wants us to be too. Delight is woven into the fabric of the world as a reminder that we live in a very good place. Moments of delight await us if we but keep our wits about us.

Take this past Wednesday for example. On my way back from an appointment I heard my inner marching orders. Get thee to the Goodwill. Now, finding a parking place in Hood River, Oregon at the start of the tourist season can be a miracle in itself, and after a couple of laps around the block I was tempted to forget it and head back home.

Get thee to the Goodwill.

Alright already, I hear you.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My favorite hiking boots—ever—are my Lowa Renegades. They are nothing short of a match made in heaven, so shelling out the $250 for them at REI a few years ago wasn’t an act of faith, it was a no-brainer. Recently I’ve been thinking about purchasing another pair before they are discontinued. I want to be as well equipped for the trail for as long as I can before it’s time for me to exit stage left. However, seeing as how the stock market ain’t what it’s been the last few years, I decided that fiscal prudence was the better policy.

Back to the Goodwill.

Car finally parked, I headed up the block. Walking through the door I was on the lookout for whatever it was that I was there for. Rounding a corner, nestled on a rack, was a brand new pair of Lowa Renegades. A perfect pair. Of my favorite boots. In my size. It was also Elder Appreciation Day which meant that with my ten percent discount, I’m delighted to say, they were only $44.99.

Now I know that one girl’s delight can be another man’s dismay. Walking through the doors of a thrift shop might not ring your chimes, but something will. Be on the lookout for it. Watch for it. Listen for it.

If we keep our wits about us, moments of delight will appear on our path to remind us that despite any evidence to the contrary—and there’s plenty—we are part of a world that isn’t just good. It is very good.

Let’s delight in that.

For Such A Time As This

Sometimes, deep in my dark recesses, I secretly hope that I will shuffle off this mortal coil before things become even more unbearable. That I will be gone before the world goes to hell in an even bigger handbasket, which Wikipedia defines as describing a situation headed for disaster inescapably or precipitately. That about nails it these days. Makes it hard for a girl to get out of bed and greet the day with a smile on her face, much less a spring in her step and hope in her heart. It’s a view of the world that is grounded in scarcity, fear, and when it boils right down to it, entitlement. As if I deserve an easier go of things. Which I don’t.

The only way to think about the world and my place in it at this time in history is that I must have been born for these times. And so were you.

Life isn’t harder for us now than it has been for others in the past. It’s a different kind of hard. That was their hard. This is ours. This is my time. It’s yours too.

We were born for such a time as this. Yep. This broken, beautiful, messed up, and magical world is the one we’ve been given and the one we have to work with. I’ll work mightily to love, help, and heal the world within my reach, and you work to do the same within yours.

Together, we can leave the world better than we found it.

Climbing A Mountain Part 4: Courage Under Fire

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

Back at the trailhead we had each shared our biggest fear about the climb. His was a fear of heights. Not an insignificant thing on or off a mountain. A few hours into it, he hadn’t had to stare that fear in the face. Now he did, as our next steps would include a short but steep climb, a traverse across a narrow trail with steep slopes on either side, and finally, another steep pitch bordered by a crevasse.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

We had stopped at an outcrop to put on our crampons. He turned his face away from the slope and gripped the sides of a boulder. We all silently went about gearing up, sensing that for the moment, all we could do was give him a safe space in which to be afraid. Not try to talk him out of it, or tell him what to do or how to do it. Fear doesn’t need fixing.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

Looking up from my boots, he was sitting on a rock, his wife kneeling at his feet, carefully attaching his crampons to his boots. It was like watching Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, showing them what love does in the face of fear.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

And then he did. He stepped out onto the slope and headed straight up. Like climbing a ladder that is leaning up against the side of a house, but with nothing to hold on to. One step ahead of him, his cousin told him to fix his focus on her feet rather than the steep slope on either side. Behind him another cousin told him to simply take five more steps. The one in front was terrified too, but by focusing on him she momentarily forgot that she was afraid too. The one behind him called upon her experience as a Cross-fit coach to help him simply take the next right step. Step-by-terrifying-step, he made his way to the other side of the thing he thought he couldn’t do. He did it himself, but he didn’t have to do it alone.

When did we decide that being vulnerable is an act of weakness? From what I saw up on that mountain, it is one of the most courageous things we can ever do.

Two days later, we passed that same steep stretch on our way back down.

“I can do that,” he said.

Climbing A Mountain

Do you think you two have another climb up Mt. Adams in you?

Because if you do, we want to do it with you.

Translation: We want to get up there with you while you still can.

That conversation last year with our niece and her husband started it all. Tom and I had to think about it, given that we’re not spring chickens anymore. On our morning walk the next day we decided that while we might not have multiple more climbs in us, we probably had at least one. With that in mind we opened the idea up to the rest of the generation behind us, and in the end, three couples threw their hats and hiking boots into the Mt. Adams 2022 ring.

We’ve been training for it for a year, readying ourselves to be strong enough to make the 12.2 mile trek to the 12,281’ summit. Over the course of that climb we would gain 6600 ft of elevation.

However.

You can train all you want and still not make it to the top.

Different obstacles got in the way for different people. Some of the hardest work we did was internal. Can I do this? What if I can’t. How can it be this hard? What if I slow everyone else down? Will I be able to overcome my fear of heights? What if I get altitude sickness? What if my old injury flairs up? What if I’m the weakest link?

In the end we had to come up against those fears, which is what happens in life on and off the mountain. Eventually we have to face them in order to be free of them.

The first day we hiked for eight hours, most of it on soft snow, with 40+ pound packs on our backs. It was a harder, longer day than any of us had anticipated, and as the sun dropped lower in the sky we began to give out. The altitude was having its way with some of us, and it was clear we needed to make camp soon. Apparently my speech was getting very slow, nausea and serious dehydration arrived on our scene, and I knew we were in trouble when Tom couldn’t seem to figure out how to put up our tent.

We found ourselves on a rocky outcrop with just enough room for four tents. Except for the ground beneath our tents, we had to maneuver over uneven boulders and rocks that were just a sprained ankle, broken leg, or worse waiting to happen. The temperature dropped, the light grew dim, and the wind came up. I was reminded, in the way that only nature can illuminate, that we are always hovering between life and death. We are so much smaller than we like to think in the big scheme of things. It’s good to be reminded of that now and then, lest I take myself and my brief presence on the planet too seriously.

At times like these, the best of who we are shows up. Those of us who could, took over for those of us who couldn’t, because that is what love does. While we had worked to get our bodies strong, in the end it was our hearts and our love and commitment to one another that got us up there.

The summit awaited us in the morning.

For the last year we have imagined ourselves at the top, each of us believing that we could do this hard thing. Together, eight of us were going to summit Mt. Adams on Friday, July 15th, 2022.

In the end four did.

I wasn’t one of them.

Stay tuned.

I’m dedicating the next few posts to what I learned by not summiting a mountain.

Let There Be Light

This morning as I settled into one of the Adirondack chairs out in front of our house, the sun hadn’t crested the horizon.

Cup of coffee in hand, I waited.

The meadow stretching out in front of me waited too.

Restless, I reached for my phone, and then thought better of it.

The meadow wasn’t restless. It just waited.

And then it happened, as it does every morning. The sun rose above the pine trees behind the house flooding the air with light and spilling across the meadow grasses and wildflowers. And, me.

In dark times we are called to be light in our little corners of the world. To rise above the horizon of another night and spill light across whomever and whatever crosses our path.

Like A Begonia

My sister is the gardener, not me. Whether planting a pot, planter, raised bed, or perimeter border, she has a vision to cultivate a beautiful space and create a sanctuary where living things can flourish together.

Not long ago she found a begonia at The Home Depot. It was in a small pot, priced to sell, and clearly on its way out. That sad little begonia in the small plastic pot filled with dried out and depleted soil was probably doomed for the dumpster, had someone, like say, my sister, not spotted it and taken it home.

She planted it in a large pot that sits by the back door, along with a variegated fuchsia, a fern, and some coleus. It had room to grow, good soil, fresh air, sunlight, water, the company of other plants, and a gardener determined to help it thrive. And it did.

The world right now feels much like that last chance rack at The Home Depot. If you are anything like me, it often feels like the pot in which I am planted is too small, the soil dried out and depleted. Looking around, in many ways, it is a sad state of affairs.

And yet.

I can’t help but believe that we are a lot like that little begonia. Individually and collectively we are meant to thrive.

We are the plant, and, we are the gardener.

It starts with our own garden and grows out from there.

Let’s be gardeners determined to help one another thrive.

The Voice Not To Be Listened To

It’s hard to know how to be in the world right now. How to stay in it, work in it, and remain connected to what matters. My middle of the night thoughts cast doubt in every direction. How did it all come to this? How much more can we all take? Is the world really a lost cause? I’ll be honest with you. There are times when I think it is. And if I stop there, I might as well call it quits and just stay in bed.

But I can’t quit. And neither can you. Each one of us adds to the world what no one else can. We aren’t called to love, help, and heal the whole world. Just the one that is within our reach.

I’m not sure who or what force is behind evil, but I do believe it exists. And one of the things evil would want me to accept is that individual effort doesn’t matter. It does. My contribution matters, regardless of the outcome, and so does yours. Any voice that would tell us otherwise is not to be listened to.

Like I said, it’s hard to know how to be in the world right now. With problems so big, divides so deep, and fear so rampant, who am I to think that I can make one whit of difference?

Actually, I’m the only one who can. And so are you.

Turning In Circles

Do you have a dog?

Do you know how sometimes they turn around, and around, and around, and then around some more, before finally plopping themselves down to settle in to just the right spot?

Do you ever feel like that dog?

Me too.

In fact, lately, I’ve felt a lot like that dog. Maybe you have too. We’ve been turning around, and around, and around, and then around some more, all in an effort to plop ourselves down and settle in to just the right spot. It can feel like we’re wasting time, not getting anywhere or making any progress. But the good news, for that dog, and for us, is that when we are turning in those circles, we’ve found the right spot. We’re just not quite ready to plop ourselves down and settle in there yet. There are a few more circles to turn before we settle down to write that book, start that new painting, or sign up for that class. With a few more spins under our belt, we’ll be ready to find a therapist, get serious about our health, or make a long-awaited change. A couple more circles, and we’ll finally find the courage to ask the question, have the conversation, or face the issue head-on.

Take it from that dog. With every circle, we are a little bit closer to plopping ourselves down to settle in to just the right spot.