The Pushback

Well, just when you think you have it all figured out, you find out that you don’t.

If you read my last piece, Here’s My Card, you’ll know that I created a new business card. Not so much as a way to market myself, but to introduce myself. The me, myself, and I that is now 70 years old.

In that blog I make no bones about the fact that I’m not a fan of the camera. It’s the rare photo of myself that I like, which means that every time another photo op comes along, I’m already tense and pretty sure it’ll quickly become another deleted photo. Which it often does. It’s a vicious cycle that’s been hard to break.

In real life, not in front of the camera, I actually think I’m pretty cute. Beautiful, even. I walk through life, into a room, or up onto a stage with confidence. Confidence in who I am, what I bring, and, how I look. But bring in a camera, and all bets are off. It’s like, “Wait, that’s not how I look.”

The blog was waiting for subscribers to my newsletter when they woke up this morning. My eldest daughter texted me about what I had written. She wanted to push back against what she had read. Her text brought me to tears as she talked about how she sees me. In her eyes, I’m beautiful. Always have been, always will be. Even when my hair was permed. (That might be taking it a little too far. If I was meant to have curly hair I would have been born with it.)

After our text exchange, she followed up with a Marco Polo. I learned three things from her beautiful, honest, and insightful message:

Even though she no longer lives in my home, she’s still paying attention.

We are always modeling what it looks like to the generation behind us. More than anything I want them to see what it looks like to age with grace. To embrace the changing face in the mirror with love and respect, wrinkles and all. To fiercely tend to the needs of a body not meant to live forever. To laugh at ourselves because it’s good medicine for whatever ails us at any age. To look through the camera and connect to the people on the other side of the photo.

It’s time to make friends with the camera, because every photo captures an irreplaceable moment in a never-to-be-repeated life.

How we talk about ourself matters.

Our thoughts create our words. Our words create our stories. When we tell our stories, others are listening. What is the story I want others to hear? If, as I profess to believe, that we are all created in the image of God, then every single one of us is beautiful in our own unique way. And that includes me.

It’s time to talk to and about myself as one who reflects the beauty of the One who made her.

Deeply rooted stories require uprooting.

My daughter reminded me that my dad feared old age. He fought it. He denied it. He made some of us a little miserable in our efforts to love and support him well as his time on the planet grew shorter. I wonder if my apple doesn’t fall too far from his tree. There isn’t a ready answer to that question. Maybe yes, maybe no, probably a little bit of both. Regardless, there’s still plenty of time to do something about it.

It’s time to dig in, dig out, and cultivate a better story. A more accurate story. A story that I want my children to be able to tell their children about who I was, how I lived, and, how I left.

Like I said, just when you think you have it all figured out, you don’t. Which is why we need people in our lives who love us enough to push back.

Here's My Card

On a whim I decided to create new business cards. It was an exercise to clarify and communicate who I am and what I’m about. In business, and in life. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

I asked my husband to snap a few photos. The camera is rarely my friend, so I wasn’t overly optimistic that he’d capture an image that would capture me in an authentic and real way. But I’ll be go to hell, he did.

The photo became the front of the card. It makes a statement. Here I am. What you see here is what you’ll get there.

Underneath the card, my name. Because with all due respect to The Bard, our name matters. It contains our whole life story. Given to us when we’re born, we’ll be remembered by it after we’re gone.

Underneath my name, what I do. Because what we do matters too. Writing and speaking are two of the ways I connect life’s many dots, and share what I discover with others. My work is always about finding ways for us to more closely connect who we are with how we live. In business, and in life. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

The back of the card contains the usual contact information. Because connection matters too. As human beings we are hard wired for connection. But it’s hard to connect with someone if you don’t know how to get ahold of them.

There was still a lot of blank space on the back. Enough room for one statement that would sum it all up.

It all turned out to be a great exercise. It forced me to distill it all down to what would fit on a business card. Or maybe it’s a life card. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

What would your card say?

Please Hold

It is snowing like crazy. Roads are closed down. Cars are in the ditch. Businesses are closed due to the weather. Grocery stores are short on eggs. Flights are being cancelled. Schools are on snow days. Plans are being put on hold. Earlier this morning our neighbor came to plow our road, and in the process got his rig stuck in the ditch. A few minutes later my husband and two other neighbors rallied together with snow shovels, tow straps, and pickup trucks to pull him out.

In short, it’s winter. The days are short, the nights long, and there is an otherworldly stillness that fills the air with the sound of silence.

Winter is a reminder that life is unpredictable. It can change in a heart murmur, a snowstorm, an icy patch of road, or a power outage. It’s a time to remember that we are meant to rely on one another. Check in with each other. Share a meal, lend a hand, and maybe a snow shovel.

Winter is a reminder of the importance of slowing down and allowing life to come to just short of a halt. We ignore these slower days at our own peril. Times of dormancy are necessary for life to spring forth in new ways. In nature, and, in our bodies, our work, and our souls.

Winter is a reminder to be present to the here and nowness of our lives. It invites us to set aside our to-do lists and settle in for a spell. Lord willing and the creek don’t freeze, there will be ample time to get back into the groove of doing. This short season offers the possibility of establishing a pace and a rhythm for the year before the year establishes one for us.

I’m writing this as I am on what might be a five-hour hold time to book reservations for a much anticipated trip to Scotland later this year. The snow continues to fall outside my window. There are good leftovers in the fridge for dinner, firewood is stacked on the porch, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are in the playoffs, and I’m at my desk writing.

Winter is life’s way of putting us on hold. Minus the elevator music.

When Why Gets In the Way of How

In a recent episode of the NEXT RIGHT THING podcast, Emily P. Freeman asked two simple yet powerful questions worth considering as we step over the threshold into a new year. What worked in 2023? and, What didn’t work? As I recall, in the podcast she speaks to the first question, and will be pondering the second in her end-of-the-month newsletter.

Both are great questions worthy of some serious consideration, and I plan on doing a deep dive into each of them. But the one that grabbed me first was actually what didn’t work in 2023. Easy answer: Not having a regular writing practice. I love writing. I’m better when I write. I’m more grounded when I write. I’m less reactive when I write. I’m happier when I write. In short, I’m a nicer human when I write.

These aren’t new insights, and I’ve known this about myself for a long time. So, why didn’t I establish a regular writing practice? Who knows? And furthermore, who cares?

Now, there are times when it is worth diving down the rabbit holes of our inner landscape. Truly. Self-inquiry matters, and I’m a big fan and typically a big practitioner. However, in this case, rather than dig in and figure it out, I’m just going to start writing again. Figuring out why, in this case, would simply be another distraction standing between me and my desk.

Sometimes trying to understand the why keeps us from getting to the how. And in this case, getting to the how is pretty simple. Start writing again.

Is there anything on your mind that doesn’t need an answer to why, but is waiting for you to jump into the how?

(With gratitude to Emily P. Freeman for her always good work!)

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.

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

A New Start To The Day

The news ain’t great these days.

Most mornings as I wait the recommended four minutes before I can press the coffee, I scan my email inbox. Along with the tantalizing smell of freshly ground coffee brewing, my senses are assaulted with the latest New York Times Breaking News Headlines. While there is the very occasional headline that to my heart constitutes good news—the swearing in of Judge Katanji Brown Jackson—most of the time what I read breaks my heart a little more—the past two weeks have almost put me under—and hope is hard to find.

It’s not a great way to start the day.

So, I changed it.

I unsubscribed to The NY Times newsletter.

I subscribed to Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s A Hundred Falling Veils: there’s a poem in every day

This morning I was greeted with my first poem from Rosemerry, about, of all things, hope. (You can find her poem, Longing to Be Seen here)

How we start the day matters. Along with coffee and time with my husband and our dog as the sunlight first hits the meadow, I’m choosing to start my day with poetry, and a little hope.

Maybe you will too.

---

(Now before you go jumping to any conclusions, it’s not that I don’t want to be informed about the goings on in the world. I am simply choosing not to start my day there. Being part of a well informed citizenry matters to me, and it should matter to you too. Our democracy depends on it. There are good sources of news, as in real information as opposed to opinion and rhetoric out there, and, spoiler alert, they are not found on social media.)

Of Our Own Making

We all do it.

In one way, shape, or form, at one time or another, we get in our own way, are our own worst enemy, and step on our own hose. Life is hard enough as it is without adding unnecessary anguish and pain. The world is in enough trouble as it is with without adding avoidable difficulty and distress. And yet, that’s just what we do. We live in misery of our own making.

These were my thoughts as I drove into town. The idea had merit and seemed worth writing about. And then it happened. Going around a curve, my very-cool-looking-but-not-very-practical travel mug filled with bulletproof coffee tipped over, spilling the contents into another cupholder where my cell phone rested. After a short guttural scream of a word starting with the letter ‘F’, I burst out laughing.

Talk about a silly case in point.

I knew that the travel mug had a lid that didn’t close, was perched precariously in a cup holder that was too small, and could easily tip over. And yet I did it anyway. Created a little misery of my own making, which of course would require extra time, attention and energy to clean up.

Spilled coffee is one thing. Making choices that keep us stuck in old patterns, stories, and ways of thinking and being is quite another. The inconvenient truth is that whatever we ignore, leave untended, or are unwilling to face spills over onto others. Starting with those that we care about the most, and then splashing out from there. Whatever hardship we create for ourselves requires extra time, attention, and energy to clean up. All things that for most of us are in short supply these days.

So it seems like a question worth asking:

What is misery of my own making?

And.

Most importantly.

What am I willing to do about it?

No Strings Attached

The other morning I woke up decidedly on the wrong side of the bed, and it went downhill from there. My feelings became the filter through which I saw, heard, and interpreted everything and everyone, and it wasn’t pretty. I felt like a marionette. You know. One of those puppets with strings attached to different parts of the body, including, at least in my case, my mouth. Like The Lonely Goatherd in The Sound of Music, I was at the mercy of the circumstances and emotions pulling on my strings.

Control, it seemed, was out of my hands. Or was it?

What if instead of a marionette I could be more like a hand puppet? Like Daniel Tiger, X the Owl, or Lady Elaine Fairchilde in Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, it could be my hand in charge. A hand puppet isn’t pulled about by external forces. Guidance comes from within.

As a 4 on the Enneagram, emotions are my thing. There isn’t an emotion I haven’t experienced, and the ones that a lot of people work hard to avoid come easily to me. Because big emotions don’t scare me, I can be the calm in the midst of your storm. A quiet, safe place to show up with your grief and sadness, anger and fear, I won’t try to talk you out of how you feel.

As it turns out, being a feeling kind of girl is my gift.

It’s also my curse

Because I tend to lead with my heart, I can easily turn over the controls to my feelings and react accordingly. With, as you might imagine, very mixed results. I’ve been practicing not letting my feelings run the show. Catching myself before losing myself to the emotions of the moment, and that practice is paying off. But this puppet metaphor feels next level. There are no strings attached to those emotions, other than the ones I attach myself.

What A Mess

We’re all a mess. Some of us may be better at hiding it than others, but trust me on this one, even the most buttoned up of us is a mess. Some days we’re a little less of a mess, and on others, a full-blown, all out, will-I-ever-get-my-shit-together mess.

So let’s get over it. We’re a mess. So be it.

Being a mess is hard enough as it is without making things even worse by wishing I was, it/we/they/life/things were different.

So let’s get over it. We’re a mess. So be it.

What we need, more than anything, is to be able to be a mess without someone try to fix us, coax us out of it, convince us that we’re not, or point out the silver lining.

So let’s get over it. We’re a mess. So be it.

I’m not saying that we should wallow in it, hang on to it, or blame someone else for it. But let’s not pretend that we’re not a mess when we actually are. Come to think of it, we shouldn’t be too surprised at the messiness of it all. I mean, it started out that way when we were born, what with the labor pains, pushing, gushing, bloody, gooey mess and all. We forget that before the doctor or midwife or nurse or whoever wrapped us up in a clean blanket and put a cute little beanie on our pointy little head, we were a slippery little mess. A miraculous one to be sure, but a mess nonetheless. In other words, life is messy. Always has been, always will be. So maybe, just maybe, to be a mess is simply another way of saying that we are alive.

So let’s get over it. We’re a mess. So be it.

Day 5 without a shower in the Wallowa Mountains