It's Good To Be Here

Mimi…It’s good being here.

Those words, spoken this morning, would warm any grandmother’s heart. Especially when they come from a little three-year old grand boy who is staying with us, along with his fifteen month old brother, for a long weekend while his wonderful, weary parents celebrate their anniversary.

It’s a big deal.

They love us. They miss their mom and dad.

They love being with us at our “cabin”.. They miss being with their parents in their own home.

They love their bedtime rituals with us. They miss having their Mama and Dada tuck them in.

Like I said. It’s a big deal. Especially for two little boys away from home for multiple nights.

Mimi…It’s good being here.

All day long I’ve reflected on those words. Why, exactly, is it good being here? It’s probably not too complicated. Even if he can’t yet put words to it yet, I think it’s good being here because here…he feels loved, safe, important, and valued. And it doesn’t hurt that we have a whole lot of fun.

Some things never change.

For Sunday Reflection

“Consider this: the only person you’re guaranteed to be with every day of your life is you.”

Emily P. Freeman

When I read this sentence, it landed as true. And if it’s true, then we’d best get on with becoming the kind of person we’d like to hang out with.

Give Me A Break

Yesterday was a very big day for Gracie-the-chocolate-labradoodle. We had a private training session where she learned some big new things, and she did great. Later in the day she came with us to a community dinner where she practiced being calm in the midst of her greatest temptations to go crazy, and she did great.

Today, she is completely worn out. It was our plan to build on the training that we started yesterday, and she wasn’t having any of it. In every way she knew how she was telling us that she needed a break. A day of rest to just be, and not do, and that is exactly what she got.

We would all do well to follow her example. When everything in us is telling us to take a break, let’s do everything we can to do that. Take a day, or an hour, or fifteen minutes to just be, and not do.

Working With What We’ve Got

It is so easy to add something new. To take a quick trip to the grocery store for a few more things rather than using what’s already in our fridge. To search for another piece of clothing rather than using what’s already in our closet. To take another online course rather than using the gifts and skills already in our wheelhouse. To paint the walls a different color rather than working with the one that’s already there.

Learning to work with what we’ve got calls on our creativity and imagination.

Learning to work with what we’ve got helps us put our talents to good use in new ways.

Learning to work with what we’ve got expands our capacity to solve problems.

Learning to work with what we’ve got teaches us to be content with what have.

Learning to work with what we’ve got helps us to be grateful for the life that is already ours.

Today a dear friend showed up with lunch in the midst of a big day of moving another dear friend into her new home. Rather than going to the store to buy more groceries for our lunch, she simply worked with what she had. And it was perfect.

What Love Does

Bob Goff wrote a book called Love Does. It’s a great book, and everyone should read it.

The title of his book just about sums it up. Life I mean. Love just plain does stuff. It doesn’t talk about stuff, lecture about stuff, or judge others about their stuff. It just keeps showing up and doing the stuff necessary for the day at hand.

I can’t think of a better question to ask when faced with any decision, big or small than this—What would love do?

And then just go do it.

This is what love did today…

Gracie wanted to march with us because she knows that’s what love does too…but she’s in heat…so she had to watch from the car.

The Third Way

Stark contrasts are visible in our little valley this summer. Out in front of our home, the once green field is quickly being devoured by the massive infestation of grasshoppers. Our lawn is barely a memory, and there is no sign that the grasshoppers are leaving anytime soon. They weren’t here last year, and they may not be here next year, but one thing is for certain, they are here now. But drive down our road and hang a left on Mt. Adams Hwy, and there are fields of daisies on either side of the road. A riot of color, it’s hard to miss them, and there is no sign that they are leaving anytime soon. They weren’t here last year, and they may not be here next year, but one thing is for certain, they are here now.

We encounter both of these vastly different views every single day, and it is tempting to only focus on one or the other. Pretend the grasshoppers don’t exist and fix our gaze on the daisies, or fixate on the dead and dying grass and forget to take in the white petals and yellow-as-the-sun centers. We can choose one or the other, but as in most things, there is a third way, and that is to choose both.

Like the dying field out our window, and the vibrant meadow down the road, there are times when life presents us with stark contrasts that invite us to encounter them together. Grace and grief, love and loss, beginnings and endings, beauty and brokenness, healing and heartache. We can choose one or the other, but as in most things, there is a third way, and that is to choose both.

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.

The Horse We Rode In On

We all have them. Decisions we wish we could revisit and choose another course. Words we’ve said in the heat of the moment, but are unable to take back. Relationships we started that turned out to be dead ends, and ones we ended too soon, missing out on the life to be found there. Times when we let fear hold us back, and others when we allowed our pride to push us ahead before we were ready. Some years feel like a total waste, as we lingered in our shame, fear, and disappointment. And then, there are those times when we made what can only be called terrible mistakes. Errors in judgement that cost us, and those we love great harm. Every experience up until now has made us who we are today, and we’ve all arrived to our present moment on the backs of our stories. All of them.

Looking back over my life, I have very few regrets. In fact, there’s really only one, and it cost me a lot. When I was in college, I had a conversation with my dad that changed the course of my history, and if I could have one do-over, it would be that one phone call. I allowed his patriarchal view of women and the world to color my own. Instead of speaking up and applying for graduate school, I stayed quiet and took a job to pay the bills. In listening to his, I silenced my own voice, and rather than owning my intelligence and strength, I turned them out to pasture. It took me a long time to find my way back to myself and take the reins into my own hands.

Slowly but surely I put a period on the end of that story, which was the only way I could begin to write a new one. It would have been easy to allow that many year detour to define me for the rest of my life, and there are still times, if I’m honest, that I indulge myself by replaying the shoulda-coulda-woulda song, but those times are short lived, and few and far between. It was that detour that led me to the work I have today. It is because of that experience that I am passionate about helping others step more fully into their own lives, access and trust their inner wisdom, and bring all they have to offer, in whatever form, to a world waiting for what they have to give.

Every choice and chapter will always be a part of our story, but they don’t have to define us forever. The only way they can is if we let them. In my better moments, I am even able to thank my dad for helping me to find an unconventional trail to wholeness, meaning, and purpose. Because that is that story that now defines my life.

In Sickness And In Health

My stars have been lucky when it comes to avoiding most of the contagious bugs that seem to catch others, which makes it easy to take my good health for granted. It’s been a good three or four years since I’ve come down with anything, but as I write this, a nasty summer cold is having its way with me.

When my daughters were growing up I came to love it when one or the other stayed home sick. I’d make chicken soup and butter crackers (saltines heated in the oven and slathered with butter), pull out popsicles from the freezer and play any or all of our three favorite sick-day movies— I Love Trouble, The Never Ending Story, and The Princess Bride. What I loved about those days wasn’t that the girls were sick, but the invitation to step out of ordinary time, away from doing and into being.

There’s nothing fun about being sick, but tending to someone who is gives us a chance to forget about ourselves and focus on the needs of someone else, which, I have to say, can be a very healthy thing to do.

When I’m sick, my first thought is always to power through, to keep on keeping on, and maybe feel just a tiny bit sorry for myself. This morning, a couple of days into this thing, I remembered those sick days. It’s too hot for chicken soup, but butter crackers and pop-circles are sounding pretty good, and I’ve got a few more episodes of Season 8 of Suits to finish up. Being under the weather issued an invitation to step out of ordinary time, away from doing and into being.

There’s nothing fun about being sick, but when we are, tending to ourselves gives us a chance to let go of the needs of others, and focus on our own, which, I have to say, can be a very healthy thing to do.

The Plague Upon Our House

Sometimes things happen over which we have no control. Okay, when it comes right down to it, most things are not under our control. A couple of things that are? The mindset we choose, and our response to what life brings our way.

A few weeks ago, life delivered right to our doorstep an example of just how little control we have, in the form of millions if not billions of grasshoppers. I’m talking a plague of locusts of biblical proportions.

Before they arrived, the field out in front of our home was a beautiful array of greens, golds, and reds. Today, it is a pale memory of what it was, and fading fast at that. And there’s nothing we can do about it.

Before they arrived, our lawn, while not ever a thing of beauty, was at least green and easy on the eyes. Today it is turning into a mini dustbowl right before our eyes. And there’s nothing we can do about it.

Before they arrived, we loved taking a walk down our road any time of the day. Today, we are relegated to first thing in the morning or after the sun starts to set. And there’s nothing we can do about it.

Thankfully, these swarming hoards don’t come through our valley every year, but this year they have, and we will most likely have to live with them for a few more weeks. And there’s nothing we can do about it. In the meantime, we are reading up on grasshopper mitigation efforts that we might implement in the future, enjoying our walks when we can, and relishing our early morning coffee before the little devils wake up and our evening glass of wine after they’ve turned in for the night. Anything else would eat away at our spirits like the grasshoppers are eating away the grass.

As the Dali Lama reminds us…

“If a problem is fixable, if a situation is such that you can do something about it, then there is no need to worry. If it's not fixable, then there is no help in worrying. There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.”