Misplaced Frustration

frus·tra·tion:

the feeling of being upset or annoyed, especially because of inability to change or achieve something

It’s been one of those days. Off my game. Agitated. Tense. Call it what you will, I don’t like how I am showing up today.

Case in point: I spent a decent amount of time taking whatever it is out on my husband by vigorously expressing my exasperation over a big landscaping project that got started too late and is taking too long. Even though that is clearly not the issue,

But it felt so good to let it out.

After a few long moments I tried again.

“I think this landscaping project is simply a good place to take out my frustration over all the things I feel like I can’t change, and you were the place I chose to take it out. I’m sorry.”

I’m frustrated these days. Maybe you are too.

Over what?

Well, you name it. COVID 19, the looming election, global warming, systemic racism, income disparity, face mask fatigue, people who refuse to wear face masks, fear mongering, people that I love who are hurting, long hold times waiting for answers to urgent questions, dualistic thinking, separation from friends and family, the hidden history of our country that I never learned about until now, the loss of concern for the common good, student loans, healthcare, the threat to our democracy, and all of the other things that are probably on your mind too.

Can you blame us for being frustrated?

Me either.

Let’s just guard against taking out that frustration on those we love.

Hearing Aids

I assumed that one day I would need to get hearing aids.

Just not before I was at least 70.

Today at 66, ok, almost 67, I am officially “audiologically” enhanced, sporting my new Bluetooth enabled, virtually invisible hearing aids.

I can already tell, or rather hear, the difference. For example, when the refrigerator door is left ajar, my husband no longer needs to call down from upstairs, “Mol, the refrigerator door is open.” Never mind that I am standing right next to it, the tone is simply one that I can’t detect. And if hearing the refrigerator is challenging, that can’t bode well for my communication with living breathing human beings.

And here’s the thing.

For me, relationships are everything, and communication is the lifeblood of connection.

If the Pandemic has shown us anything, it is that our lives are interconnected, and whatever isolates us one from another puts us in danger of losing our connection to each other. We stop talking to each other, and more importantly, we stop listening to each other.

Getting over the stigma of hearing aids as a sign of being old was a choice. One that will allow me to continue to connect with others in meaningful ways, beginning with what is needed now more than ever. Listening.

Listening is always a choice, and it doesn’t have anything to do with hearing aids.

Plowing It Under

We are in the middle of a major landscaping project, including the installation of a sprinkler system and the addition of actual real grass for the lawn. Last week the landscaping crew arrived and got to work. The very first step was to completely till the soil. Using a powerful rototiller, all of the existing grass, if you could even call it that, was plowed under, and two huge truckloads of compost were added to enrich the soil. Sprinkler pipe has been laid, and soon new grass seed will go in.

What we’ve lived with wasn’t working. It was an eyesore, provided little protection against a wildfire should one breakout, and the health of what little grass we had declined more every year. There was no way of getting something different, something new, something better, without plowing under the old and starting over with something new.

Currently, however, it’s nothing but a mess. A dry, dirty, dusty mess, and other than the promise of something better to come, there is nothing beautiful about it now. In fact, it’s downright ugly. But if all goes as planned, come next spring, we just might have a beautiful healthy new lawn.

It is hard to see anything these days without drawing a parallel to the state of the world, starting with our own country. Metaphors for how we got here, where we need to go, and how to get there abound. Our new lawn project is no exception.

What we’ve lived with as a country isn’t working and hasn’t been working for a long time. It is an eyesore, provides little protection for those who really need it, and the health of what we do have is declining more every year. Our only hope is to do the hard work of plowing under the old, enriching the soil beneath our feet, sowing the seeds of liberty and justice—for all—and then diligently tending what we’ve planted.

To grow our country into something beautiful and worthy of respect will require individual and collective work, and it will be a mess. A dry, dirty, dusty mess, and other than the promise of something better to come, there will be nothing beautiful about it for now. In fact, it will probably be downright ugly. But come sometime in the future, maybe, just maybe, we can grow something beautiful and healthy together.

Get Over It

When the reality of the pandemic first began to hit, many people, including me, had no idea how long a haul we were in for. Are in for.

We hunkered down and prepared ourselves to ride it out and make it safely to the other side.

Somewhere along the way, many people, including me, began to tire of the uncertainty, restrictions, and isolation. We were over it, and wanted to get on with it.

However, as lockdowns, mandates about the use of masks, group gatherings, school options, and tiered plans for re-opening continue to roll out, there is no real end in sight. Add to that the glaring light shining on systemic racism, the inequities in every arena, the political rancor that is poisoning our shared life, and perhaps the most important election of our lifetime—well— the haul just got longer.

We have each played a part in writing the story of today, and, we will each play a part in writing the story of tomorrow. Will we bring the best of ourselves to the world within our reach, or not?

There is no seeing over this horizon.

There is no getting to the other side of it.

This is what we have.

And this is where our work is.

Right here.

Right now.

Wishing it were different never has, and never will, make it so.

Let’s get over it, and get to work.

Photo by Gabriel Peter from Pexels

No More Kicking Cans

to kick the can down the road:

put off confronting a difficult issue or making an important decision, typically on a continuing basis

Recently, but prior to George Floyd’s death, these two sentences came to mind.

No more kicking cans down the road. There is no more road left.

With those words came an image. An accumulation of cans piled up against a barrier. Each can had a word on it that identified one of those difficult issues and important decisions that have persistently been put off. Cans that we have continued to kick down the road. I could see the cans. It took longer for the barrier that stopped them to come into view. Was it a brick wall? One of those concrete barriers you see on the New Jersey turnpike? Or maybe, the gates around the White House?

Squinting my inner eyes, I finally saw it. The barrier was the Earth herself, drops of sweat on her weary brow from the effects of climate change, wearing a mask like the ones we wear to protect one another from spreading COVID-19. The global pandemic has exposed this pile of cans for what it is. The accumulation of years of unwillingness to do the right thing, take the long view, and reckon with our own tendencies to look out for me and mine, while looking away from them and theirs.

Then George Floyd was murdered.

He pleaded with the man with the knee on his neck, telling him repeatedly, that he couldn’t breathe. He pleaded until he ran out of air. And then he was dead.

The Earth, against which all of those cans have been kicked, is telling us that she can’t breathe.

Words alone wouldn’t communicate what I was thinking and feeling, and while I might have a bit of a way with words, not so much with colored pens and pencils. That’s when I called my friend Willa. A sophomore in high school with a heart that is deep and wide, Willa has a keen intellect, and a grasp of the world far beyond her years. I want to be like Willa when I grow up.

I asked if she would consider drawing something to capture what I had seen in my mind’s eye.

She would.

And she did.

Except not exactly.

She took what I said, filtered it through her own lens, and came up with something so much better. Something more powerful, and disturbingly accurate—the Earth in full protest. Willa saw what I couldn’t. The cans are not heaped in a pile waiting to be picked up. It’s too late for that. They’ve all ruptured. Their contents have spilled out all over everything, and we have to deal with the mess we have made of the world. Starting with the racism that has been laid bare. In my mind, racism has been its own separate issue. That’s because I am white. To anyone who is not white, the impacts of racism are felt within the context of every other issue filling the skies above the protesting Earth. Yes, white people are impacted by these issues too. But not simply because they are white.

No more kicking cans down the road. There is no more road left.

Earth is calling us to action. To not only take to the streets in protest against what is wrong, but to lace up our shoes and get to work for what is right.

Look at her.

Feet firmly planted, her fists raised in defiance, she is simply not going to take it any more.

We can’t either.

With gratitude to Willa McLaughlin

The Whole Picture

I’ve worn bifocals for years. They allow me to see both near and far, read, and safely drive a car. Without my dual lenses life would become a bit one-dimensional.

The state in which we find ourselves today, where the racism upon which this country was built and continues to be sustained, has been laid bare. The needs that must be addressed have been brought into sharp focus, and we must not look away. It is difficult to view life through any other lens.

The danger in only seeing the world through a single lens is that we become one-dimensional people.

Lately, whenever I turn my attention elsewhere, away from the shame of our racist past and my part in it, the pain of our racist present, and the threat of a continuing racist future, I feel a little guilty. Like I am being shallow or selfish for finding moments of hilarity, causes for joy, or the simple pleasures found in a good novel, good food, good wine, or a hike in the woods. How can I allow myself to feel good when there is so much bad to be reckoned with?

I let myself feel good because I must.

We all must.

We must stay connected to our innate goodness in order to oppose that which is bad.

We must laugh every chance we get because a merry heart does good like a medicine. And when it comes to the virus of racism, we are all called to be healers. Especially if we are white.

We must find causes for joy so that we can address the issues that are causing such deep sorrow.

We must delight in simple pleasures lest we give up because it is simply too hard.

We must never lose sight of the whole picture.

Six Words

Last week I read a post on FB shared by a woman I’ve known for many years. While the words were not hers, they accurately speak of what she is feeling and experiencing after the murder of George Floyd. The post was hard to read. It was raw, real, and filled with righteous anger. I wanted to stop reading part way through. I wanted to look away. For perhaps the first time in my 66 years I didn’t. I kept reading. Six words began to echo inside.

I am part of the problem. I am part of the problem. I am part of the problem.

Letting those six words in wasn’t easy, but it was too late. They were already in. Looking for a way out I jumped to problem solving. What can I do to become part of the solution? That’s the deal with most of us. We see a problem and want to do something to fix it. To make the problem go away. The problem with doing something is that it can be a convenient way to avoid an inconvenient truth—I am part of the problem.

Before I can become a part of the solution, I have to be willing to encounter the ways in which I am responsible for the racism upon which this country was built and continues to run. I have to be willing to do nothing but sit with the awful discomfort of accepting my own responsibility in bringing about this moment in which we all find ourselves.

So maybe doing nothing is actually doing something.

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Since reading that FB post, I continue to sit with the many difficult emotions that arise. As things to do emerge, I do them. But what I am also coming to know is that doing nothing, staying put, sitting in the midst of the ugly emotional mess is actually doing something. It is changing me.

I am part of the solution.

Time to go do something.

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A very short list of possible things to do:

Watch the video of George Floyd’s murder and bear witness to his death.

Watch the video of George Floyd’s funeral and bear witness to his life.

Read this FB post by Dara Njeri (noted above)

Make financial donations to organizations that are diligently and effectively working to address racism in all its forms and its impacts on our fellow citizens of color.

Join the MLPP 21-Day Anti-Racist Challenge.

Speak up.

Read books that are hard to read. (A few lists to check out: NPR, USA Today, Chicago Sun-Times

Choose love over fear.

Do your work to become the best version of yourself. Get a therapist. Engage a spiritual director. Face your shit, own your shit, and heal your shit. The world needs the best we have to offer.

Support and vote for candidates that get it and will do something about it.

Cultivate joy, appreciation, gratitude, and curiosity.

Practice radical hope in the midst of all that feels hopeless.

Be willing to make mistakes and learn from them.

Risk saying it wrong in order to learn how to say it right. (Watch this video by Jay Smooth to learn more.)

Stay in community.

Challenge your community.

Enlarge your community.

Extend love and grace to all, including yourself.

We are part of the solution.

The Guy In The Camo-Hat

We are all one family who have forgotten who we are.

~ Rhonda V. Magee - The Inner Work of Racial Justice

He walked into my favorite local farm store just as I was about to check out with my basket full of produce, birdseed, and farm-fresh eggs. Tall and imposing with a long beard fashioned into what is sometimes referred to a Viking beard, the expression on his face was anything but warm and friendly. He was dressed in khaki hunting pants and a short-sleeve t-shirt, a camo hat pulled low over his eyes. And, he was packing a semi-automatic pistol on his hip. Accompanied by a woman wearing a mask, he had a young German Shepard on a leash. The woman with him was small in stature and, to my eye, seemed timid and submissive, as if she had acquiesced any personal power and agency to him.

I was grateful that I was wearing the mask that I diligently use during these strange and scary COVID-19 times. Thankful that I can do even this simple small thing to protect my fellow citizens, yes, but also grateful that he was unable to see the look on my face—a look that would have let him know that I knew his story and was disgusted by it. Everything about this guy in the camo-hat smacked to me of white supremacy, white nationalism, an unflinching commitment to the least restrictive interpretation of Second Amendment rights, and the relegation of women to their place behind men. I could feel my anger rising up as I considered all the ways in which what this man surely stood for are undermining our country and threatening our democracy. How, with people like him on the rise, can we have a shred of hope for ever achieving “liberty and justice for all”?

Climbing back into our car my thoughts continued to unspool about why people feel the need to wear a gun in public, not to mention a semi-automatic one. What felt like low-level adrenaline coursed through my body as I continued to focus on all the things I imagined when encountering the guy in the camo-hat. This went on all afternoon as we went about our bi-weekly essential activities trip into town.

And then it dawned on me.

I knew nothing about the guy in the camo-hat.

Not his name, the cards life had dealt him, or how he has chosen to play them.

Nothing.

In the time it would have taken him to draw his weapon, I had made up a story about him based on my own stereotypes and biases, and then proceeded to believe every imaginary word. It was the kind of story that separates us from our fellow human beings. The fear-based story of Us vs Them. The weaponized story that is undermining our country and threatening our democracy.

What if his story wasn’t anything like the one I had been telling myself since I first laid eyes on him. What if he was an off-duty policeman whose family had been threatened due to an earlier arrest and conviction? What if he was veteran committed to training therapy dogs for military members who were living with trauma-induced PTSD? What if the woman he was with wore a mask because she had a compromised immune system from treatment for cancer? What if she stayed close to his side because he was the love of her life who had seen her through her illness?

What if?

I can remember the exact spot on the road when this new story made it’s way into my closed and biased heart. There was a perceptible change in my body. Everything softened and opened up. My heart made room for this man I didn’t know. Like me, is he afraid for our country, and if so, why? Like me, does he love his family and friends with a love that runs deep and wide? Like me, has he been battered and bruised by painful life experiences? Like me, does he have knee-jerk reactions to others as a way to protect himself from those he fears?

I may never learn his real story.

It is certainly possible that the story I made up has a loud ring of truth to it. Even if it does, I can only hope that my encounter with the guy in the camo-hat will help me remember what so many of us seem to have forgotten. We are family, and we belong to each other. Which is why, tomorrow when I head out on a nearby logging road for a hike, I will be sure and wear my favorite hat to help me remember.

We are family.

We belong to each other.

A Molten Moment

Nobody is going to make this easy for us once on the other side of this life-altering time when things will supposedly return to normal. Except they won’t, or at least they don’t have to. Not if normal means how things were before, not the possibility of what they can be in the future

Living under conditions that separate us from one another, we remember that we are all connected, and that our individual survival is hardwired with that of the collective.

As the price of oil plummets, we can almost hear the sound of Earth catching her breath. The absence of noise reminds us to listen the deep quiet beneath it all.

Living as we are, under our own microscopes, everything about us is magnified. On any given day, the best of us might make her presence know, or be completely overshadowed by the worst, Most days it is a dance between the two, and the invitation at our feet is to learn to let the better angels of our nature take the lead.

We are discovering just how little we really need, and how much we don’t.

We are remembering what it means to be neighbors again. As we care for one another the world becomes a safer place, and while tribalism might have kept us alive in the past, it will do nothing but insure our demise in the future.

The powers that be are going to work mightily to persuade us to forget the hard-earned wisdom that we belong to one another and are indeed one another’s keepers including the care for this fragile planet we all call home.

This is a molten moment.

We have the chance to be changed for the greater good, and our calling is to remember what we are learning in the here and now once we step back out into our shared world of the there and then.

No matter what anyone tells us, and I mean anyone, things will not return to normal. At least that is my deepest hope and my most fervent prayer.

Photo: USGS

Cancelled

There are a lot of things being cancelled right now due to the uncertainty and panic surrounding the Coronavirus. Airline flights, conferences, meetings, conventions, sports team practices, long planned vacations and birthday parties, just to name a few, are getting axed. Eventually, especially if well-informed and calmer heads prevail, we will find our way out of this mess, but until we do, cancellation will continue to be a major buzz word.

Recently, for reasons far less significant and serious than a possible pandemic, a few events and obligations on my calendar have been scrubbed. My response every time was an immediate “Yes!” followed by a sigh of relief. Now, the things being cancelled were things I was committed to and even looking forward to.

However.

The fact that my first reaction was relief and not disappointment told me something. My response suggested that perhaps I needed a little more open space on my calendar and more generous margins around my days. I’ve taken these cancellations as a reminder to take a beat before adding something to my calendar.

The next time something on your calendar is cancelled, notice your response, and then, respond accordingly.

Photo by Jonas Kakaroto from Pexels