What A Trip

trip n. an act of going to a place, and returning.

A wise friend often said, “When God wants to teach you something, God takes you on a trip.”

Having just returned from a 6 week trip across the pond, his words ring as true as ever.

It’s not like God is a travel agent making all the arrangements, a tour guide explaining all about the sights out the bus window, or the flight attendant making sure we can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. No, I think God just loves to travel, and knows that anytime we go from here to there and back again, there is the possibility for transformation. That we will come back changed by our experience. That we will see through new eyes in some small or big ways. That our hearts will open a bit more to the wonder and mystery that is always ours for the noticing.

Iceland was stunningly beautiful. Wild, dramatic, and mystical, one has to be made of sturdy stuff to live there. Sometimes called the land of fire and ice, life seems to hang a bit more precariously in the balance in Iceland. It was there that we learned that my husband’s brother had just been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Close to complete kidney failure, it was nip and tuck as to his future. Thanks to excellent medical care, groundbreaking research, and lots, and lots, and lots of prayer, the future is brighter. But what is true is that in the blink of an eye, everything changed. Yesterday life looked one way, the next, completely different. Except for one small but mighty truth. There has never been a guarantee of anything beyond the present moment, which means that the present moment is everything. It means that we need to be exactly where our feet are, without knowing if that footing will hold.

England was the location of the “Farewell Tour” for my right knee. I’m giving myself a new one for my birthday this fall, and wanted to give the old girl one final adventure by hiking 100 miles around the Lake District. Green, vast, and pastoral, every day was different as we walked along roads dating back to the Bronze Age, wandered past Beatrix Potter’s farm, and hiked across fields with stone walls built by the Romans. As one friend put it, old paths made new again by our footsteps. Every day there were multiple trails to reach our next destination, and the guidebook was less than clear. Ours (well, Tom’s) was the job of finding the right route for us. Given my knee, the number of trips we’ve both taken around the sun, and the risk of getting lost, it was a somewhat daunting task that couldn’t be left to chance. One day in particular gave us the most pause. Lots of elevation gain, tricky descents, clouds that roll in on a moment’s notice, and the possibility of finding ourselves on the wrong ridge too late in the day. Because of his attention to all of the factors, his experience in the wilderness, his map reading and way-finding skills, and his ridiculous love for me, the day that was the most daunting turned out to be the most dazzling. Our bodies were up to the task, the views spectacular, and the satisfaction that comes when we accomplish something challenging together was worth every one of those 24,199 steps.

It’s not that going off trail is a bad idea. In fact, some of the most magical things happen when we head out on the way less traveled. This just wasn’t one of those times. The consequences and risks were too big. Good to know when to do which.

Scotland was our final and most important destination. It was our chance to once again jump into life with our daughter and her family as she completes her Ph.D program. Her husband (who loves all things golf) works on a golf course in St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf, and their three wee-ish boys ages 8,6, and 4 are getting an education that goes far beyond the classroom. For two and a half weeks we did life together in all its messy wonderment. Forest walks, endless stories, family meals, bath times, bed times, snuggles, home improvement projects, and all the big feelings that life elicits inside the walls of a home.

It’s a long way from home and family. 4,536 miles to be exact. Family matters. Home matters. Their family is there. Their family is here. Their home is there. Their home is here. If they didn’t feel so certain that they are smack dab in the middle of where life is calling them, it would be almost unbearable. But they are certain, and so are we, which not only makes it bearable, but beautiful. This chapter is writing the story that is, and will be, their life. On an afternoon walk, my daughter and I talked about the pain of distance, the passing of time, and the promise of loss and grief that are sure to come. Great love and great pain go together. There is no other way. It is the price of admission to a rich and full-hearted life, and costly as that may be, we will all gladly pay the price.

When God wants to teach you something, God takes you on a trip.

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.

Story Time

“You have to understand, my dears, that the shortest distance between truth and a human being is a story.”

~ Anthony De Mello

“The shortest distance between two people is a story.”

~ Patti Digh

Finding our way to the truth can be tricky.

A story can help.

Finding our way to one another can be tricky.

A story can help.

If ever we needed to live in the truth, and in connection to one another, it is now. Sharing our stories is a good place to start.

Photo by Maël BALLAND from Pexels

The Rest Of The Story

(In case you didn’t read The Horse We Rode In On yesterday you might want to do so before reading this one.)

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Yesterday I wrote about a difficult experience that changed the trajectory of my life, and the other person at the center of it all  was my dad. It was a hard and painful thing that happened with consequences that lasted for years, and the choices I made at that time as a result of trying to please him rather than trust myself will always be a part of my story.

But, thankfully it isn’t the whole story, nor is it the one that defines me.

In the same way, it isn’t the whole story of my dad either, nor the one that defines him. Like most of us, he was a mixture of the good, the bad, and the occasionally ugly. If we are only defined by the times we fall short, get it wrong, or miss the mark, that is only part of the story.  It’s important to get the rest.

From the time I was a little girl, all I wanted was a horse. I read every book in the Black Stallion series, longed to go to Chincoteague Island to see if I could spot the real Misty from  Marguerite Henry's book Misty of Chincoteague, and counted the days and saved my pennies until our annual summer vacation on the Oregon Coast, where I would ride bareback on the beach on my favorite horse from the Cannon Beach Stables. I drew pictures of horses, dreamed about horses, devoured stories about horses, and drove my dad crazy asking if I could get a horse. Finally, one day when I was about 8, he said “When you are 12, if you still want a horse, you can get one. You’ll have to earn the money yourself, but if a horse is what you still want, then a horse is what you’ll get.”

It’s hard for an 8 year old girl to earn much money. I was too young to babysit, no money was given out for chores, and the houses too few and far between for a paper route, but for the next four years, my dad had the cleanest car in the neighborhood, and the shiniest one as well. I washed his car every week, and twice a year it got a thorough wax. Having never waxed a car before, I asked him what I would need to do a good job. He replied “lots of elbow grease”, which is exactly what I asked to buy he took me to the hardware store. 

Dad was in the insurance business, and one of his clients was the owner of Indian Ford Guest Ranch in Sister’s Oregon. Our summer vacations had moved east of the mountains, and we would spend a couple of weeks at the guest ranch, where I was the kid who drove all the wranglers crazy. Down at the stables in my turquoise jeans, turquoise fringed shirt, turquoise cowgirl hat, and of course, turquoise boots, hanging over the fence  and, peppering them with questions, I came early and stayed late, until they shooed me back to our cabin. . 

The head wrangler, Dale, owned the horse of my dreams. Her name was Missy, and no one rode her but him. Revered by everyone on the ranch, her disposition was sweet, her gait smooth, and her coat sleek. If I could have had any horse in the world, she would be the one I’d choose, but she belonged to someone else, and that was that.

By the time my 12th birthday rolled around I had saved exactly $350, and yes, I still wanted a horse.

My parents planned a visit to the guest ranch for my birthday. It was closed for the season, but Dale walked out of the barn to meet us. We chatted for a bit, and then he stood up on the fence, whistled long and loud out over the pasture, and just like in the movies, in the distance a lone horse appeared, head held high, galloping toward us. It was Missy. Dale brought her into one of the paddocks, threw her bridle on, and asked if I wanted to take her for a spin around the arena.

Me?

Missy?

Fifty-three years later, I can still feel the sensation of that first ride. Dale walked over, put his hand on Missy’s neck and said “Well, it’s time for me to sell her, and if you want her, she’s yours.”

His asking price? $350.

Because of my dad, I learned to work hard toward something that mattered. Because of my dad, I wasn’t just a little girl who dreamed about horses. I learned to ride, care for, and train them, and have one to call my own.  Because of my dad, I went from a kid who drove the wranglers crazy to becoming a wrangler myself. Because of my dad, I experienced the magnificent freedom that can only be found on the back of a horse. Because of my dad I love horses to this day, and in a few short weeks, the love of my life and I will celebrate our 25th anniversary on a 5 day horse pack trip east of the mountains.

Some of my best memories of my dad are of him, wearing his old perfectly worn Levi jacket, and heading out together on horseback for a day of riding through the Ponderosa pines, side-by-side, talking about the stuff of life big and small. In 1988 he passed that old, perfectly worn Levi jacket on to me, and it wasn’t until years later, after he was gone, that I found his crumpled business card in the front pocket, a message in his familiar handwriting on the back…

Molly:

This carries many cherished memories of hide and seek among the pines of Indian Ford.

Love, Dad

When it comes to defining a life, it’s important to know the rest of the story.

Spoiler Alert

In the age of fake news, it is essential that we are diligent to discern fact from fiction, and information from opinion. It is incumbent upon each of us to search for journalists who fiercely ferret out the truth, and tease the facts out of the rat’s nest of fabrication. When it comes to the news and our ability to make informed decisions, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth matters. Good journalism is the art of reporting the story in such a way that it shines a light on the truth.

In our personal lives, when it comes to telling a good story, there’s an art to that too. We are story tellers at heart, and we see ourselves in one another’s stories. A story is our own account of events and experiences, not someone else’s recollection. We tell our stories to entertain and inspire, connect and reveal, and a story that isn’t absolutely accurate can still be absolutely true. But have you ever been in the midst of telling a story, and suddenly someone feels the need to correct your telling of it? Nothing kills a good story like a self-appointed fact checker.

I’ll take an authentic story over an accurate one any day, and the next time someone steps in to correct my story, I’m going to try and respond the same way a good friend of mine does.

Now don’t go spoiling a good story with the truth.

Digging A Hole

My sister reminded me of an experience she had many years ago. An old message, founded in old wounds, continued to haunt her, clouding her thinking and keeping her stuck in old ways that no longer served her. While she knew it was time to move on, that toxic story continued to stealthily land on her shoulder and whisper its poisonous message.

How to be done with it once and for all?

Dig a hole.

She found a place that required work to get there, dug a deep hole, buried it, and left it behind. If she ever wanted to retrieve that story, she’d have to go to the effort of returning to that hard-to-get-to place and dig it up again. When the story tried to show up again, as stories like that are wont to do, she remembered that it was buried in a deep, deep hole far, far away.

End of story.

What Goes Around

We all have old stories and toxic messages that keep circling around, appearing on our landscapes yet again. When they do, we have the choice of grabbing hold or taking a step back. In grasping a familiar message, we deepen our connection to the past, and continue to carry it with us into the future. In stepping back, we have the opportunity to evaluate its relevance in the present, and decide whether it is worth the weight it adds to our load. Each time our stuff takes another lap around our block,  we have the choice is to latch on or let go. 

I'll Show You Mine

“Every person has a story with the power to crack you wide open.”

Oprah

We are story tellers at heart, and we see ourselves in one another’s stories.

Why is it then, that we are so reluctant to actually tell our stories? The real ones. The messy ones. The ones that don’t have happy endings. The ones where we still haven’t figured it all out yet. I’m not talking about blurting everything out behind the cyber curtain on some social media platform, but in real life conversations, with real people, in appropriate settings.

When I was writing BLUSH: Women & Wine, it took me a long time to talk openly about my love, and my misuse, of wine. This was partly because I knew that I had my own hard work to do to figure it all out. But it was also because there was some shame connected to the reliance I had on my nightly wine to cope with the stress and painful parts of my life, and fear of what others would think if they knew. Shame and fear keep our stories under our carefully crafted wraps.

One day, in the midst of a catch-up phone conversation with a friend, she asked me what I’d been up to. Without thinking, I blurted out my story of the book I was writing about my relationship with wine, and my use of it as a very classy looking coping mechanism. There was a long, awkward silence on the other end of the phone, and I immediately regretted my impulsive vulnerability. But then she said, “You’re talking about me. But I would have been too embarrassed to talk about it if you hadn’t said something first.”

When it comes to our very human stories that connect us with all the other human stories, why wait?

Let’s be the ones to go first.

How It Works

Make something marvelous.

Create a compelling story about it.

Share the story with those who want to hear it.

That’s how it works.

Take Pop’s Eggnog for example. As I wrote in a recent post, this marvelous holiday concoction has been a tradition in our family dating back to the 1930’s, when Pop (my dad) and a few fraternity brothers made a batch together. Fast forward to November 19, 2018, and that same eggnog is being served up at Solstice Wood Fire Cafe & Bar, a kick-ass establishment that serves up food and drink that showcase the best local and seasonal Gorge and Pacific Northwest ingredients. Said establishment also happens to be managed by Pop’s youngest granddaughter.

Solstice decided to offer Pop’s Eggnog and share the story of how it made its way from a kitchen in a fraternity house more than 80 years ago, to the kitchen of one of the Columbia River Gorge’s most beloved restaurants. They’ve made something marvelous. The’ve created a short, but compelling story about it. They’ve shared that story with those who want to hear it.

And Pop’s Eggnog? It’s flying off the shelves.

That’s how it works.

Here’s the thing: What worked for Pop’s Eggnog can work for us too.

Make something marvelous. It doesn’t have to change the whole world, just the world of those who want what we have to offer.

Create a compelling story about it. It doesn’t have to resonate with everyone, just with those who want what we have to offer.

Share the story. It doesn’t have to reach every audience, just the audience that wants what we have to offer.

That’s how it works.

Your 2-3 Minute Story

On my way to Nashville to facilitate a meeting for a group of educators, I wrote about their Unbreakable Commitment to GIRLS in STEM Education. The meeting is over, and as I reflect back on my day spent with them, the power and inspiration from our day together did not stem from their knowledge, expertise, and competence, although they have all of those in spades. What carried the day was their stories.

Each person was asked to come prepared to share the 2-3 minute story behind their own Unbreakable Commitment. Throughout the day we would pause from the meeting agenda and invite another person to come take the floor, in front of their colleagues, and tell their story. As they gave voice to their individual stories, the collective commitment of those in the room grew stronger, and everyone left with a deterimination to continue to hone and tell their story to those that need to hear it. 

We are story tellers at heart, and we see ourselves in one another’s stories.  What is your 2-3 minute story? Who needs to hear it? 

Stories change the world. 

The world is in need of your story.

2-3 minutes is a great start.