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.

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.

An Altar I Didn't Know I Needed

The entryway to our home has never been an important space. A space in which I’ve wanted to linger. A space into which I’ve wanted to welcome guests. It’s simply been a space through which to pass, multiple times, as we go about our daily rounds.

I am a person to whom space matters, and yet somehow transforming this small but central space escaped my attention. Until it didn’t.

As with most things, its transformation began with one thing. A photo of the logging road that we have been hiking faithfully ever since the pandemic. It began simply as a way to build our endurance, but over the course of walking that same path, witnessed by those same trees, it has become a kind of pilgrimage. A holy trek upon ground that will faithfully bear whatever we carry, and somehow lighten, and enlighten us in the process. Next came a drawing of Mt. Adams, the mountain in whose shadow we sit, and upon whose slopes we’ve climbed with people we love. Finally, a picture capturing the partnership Tom and I have somehow managed to build, despite our many flaws and foibles, over our thirty years of loving each other. A trip to Pottery Barn for inspiration yielded just the narrow table needed, at a floor model price. Shopping our home resulted in a small lamp to shed soft light, a glass candle holder first purchased for the weddings of a couple of daughters, acorns gathered as symbols of new life to come, a tiny vial of holy oil as we are all in need of healing, and art pieces made by loving hands.

The space was completed on January 19th.

On January 20th, as we headed out to the porch for our morning coffee in the dark, I lit the candle to remind us of the light that will shine in any darkness, no matter how black. In that moment, that transformed space became an altar.

An altar I didn’t know I needed. Until I did.

The altar is now the place upon which to set my prayers. All of them. A space upon which to lay down the burdens of my sadness and grief and pain and fear, leaving them in hands much greater than mine. It is also the space upon which I place my thanks, my faith in the Love that is greater than any evil, and my gratitude for the privilege of being alive. Right now. At this exact moment in our shared history.

All left at the altar, my heart has the space to take in all the beauty, wonder, joy, and love found in the world around and within me.

All left at the altar, I can better encounter the world with a willing heart, an open mind, a ready laugh, the tears that need to be shed, and hands ready to do what is mine to do. To actively work to create a world, and a country, that I want to inhabit.

All left at the altar, I can be present to who and what are before me. To, in the words of Diana Butler Bass, go out and Love relentlessly.

I didn’t know I needed an altar.

Until I did.

Maybe you might need one too.

(Written with gratitude to Katie M for helping me bring the altar into being.)

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.