Crossing The Bridge
In my work I help people find their way forward, and always toward a more authentic and wholehearted life. This never happens without encountering some difficult terrain along the way. In order to become more of who we are meant to be, there are choices to make, challenges to overcome, courageous conversations to have, and new skills to practice.
Sometimes getting from where we are now to where we want to go seems so far away, that getting there feels next to impossible. The decisions to be made are too daunting, the unknown too scary, the obstacles too big, the conversations too intimidating, and the new skills so far outside our comfort zone that we can’t imagine ever mastering them.
When encountering this space with someone, whether that be a client, a friend, a family member, or myself for that matter, I always try to explore the reality of the perception that the distance to be covered is simply too great. There are times when the bridge from here to there is so long that it appears to drop off of the horizon. However, there are other times when the distance is very short, but the bridge to get there is over a canyon that is so deep and dark, that we can’t see the bottom. We can only hear the raging river far below. In my experience, these canyons have been eroded over long periods of time by the turbulent waters of our old stories, obsolete beliefs, and tightly held fears. If we never cross the bridge, we’ll never find out what life could be like on the other side.
Long distances and deep canyons are both daunting. But if we want to move toward wholeness, and the people we are meant to be, there is only one way to do that. Whether a bridge too far or a canyon too deep, our only choice is to keep going.
The Good Stuff
The truth of the matter is that we want to share life with people who bring out the best in us. They are the ones who believe in us, encourage us to show up fully, shine lights into our blind spots, and see in us what we can’t see for ourselves.
Some further and rather inconvenient truth about the matter, is that the only people who bring out the best in us are also those who see the worst in us. When we fail—sometimes miserably—in front of each other, it is a chance to practice staying in when it would be easier to step out, moving toward each other rather than away, and staying in the conversation rather than shutting down. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Some even further truth of the matter is that it’s hard stuff, this becoming our best selves, and we can’t do it alone. Find your people, stick together, call each other out, and cheer each other on, because while it may be the hard stuff, it’s all the good stuff.
With deep gratitude to all who help me be my best self…you know who you are.
Leaving Our Mark
There is a tradition at the Glenwood Rodeo, and every year it gives me pause. At the beginning of the show and before the events get underway, time is taken to honor those in the community who are no longer with us. It may be a veteran who served, a longtime resident who passed away, or a community member that left us too soon. For each person being remembered, a cowboy rides around the arena leading a riderless horse as our beloved announcer pays tribute.
This year one of those who is no longer with us was a young man named Angel, and along with working on one of the original ranches in our area, he attended community college to learn the art of saddle making. His new craft gave him great pride and hope for his future, and while his future was cut short, his pride in his work will live on.
In listening to this tribute today, I learned that a maker leaves his or her own unique mark on every saddle they craft. It is a mark that says I believe in what I do enough to stamp it as my own. Those lucky enough to own a saddle that came from Angel’s hands will treasure it even more now that he is gone, his mark a reminder of what it looks like to believe in what we offer enough to stamp it with our own unique mark for all to see.
In Need of a Dock
There are days when I am so in need of grace that I can hardly catch my breath. When it seems that try as I might, I am unable to find an inner dock on which to drag myself out of the murky waters in which I am drowning.
As you might suspect, today is one of those days.
Our family arrives tomorrow for our annual Father’s Day Glenwood Rodeo Weekend Gathering, which I love. It is way too hot, which I hate. Projects are running behind, which should be expected, but somehow have caught me by surprise. Again. Gracie-the-chocolate-labradoodle picked now to have intestinal issues, which should evoke my compassion, the operative word being ‘should'.
I could continue, but you probably get the gist.
Searching madly for something to grab onto an hour ago, I remembered a poem by Carrie Newcomer that my spiritual director, Dane, shared with me after our last session together. I had every good intention of reading it the day he sent it to me, and, as we all know, the road-to-you-know-where is paved with good intentions.
Drinking in the words, I found a grace soaked dock on which to rest, and there is no doubt that the timing of finding it was heaven sent. If you are in need of a dock on which to rest, feel free to join me there, and we can sit with not knowing together.
I’m Learning to Sit With Not Knowing
Carrie Newcomer
I am learning to sit with not knowing.
Even when my restless mind begins jumping
from a worried
“what next”,
to a frightened
“what if”,
to a hard edged and impatient,
“why aren’t you already there?”
I’m learning to sit and listen
to pat myself on the knee,
lay my hand on my heart,
take another deep breath,
laugh at myself,
befriend my mistakes,
especially the ones,
that showed me how,
I most needed to change.
I’m learning to sit with whatever comes
even though I’m a planner,
because so much of this life
can’t be measured or predicted
or evenly portioned.
Because wonder and suffering visit
when we least expect
and rarely in equal measure.
I’m learning to sit with what
I might never know
might never learn
might never heal
with what might waltz in and surprise me
might nudge me into the risky business of growing
might crash into my days
with unspeakable sorrow
or uncontainable delight.
I’m learning to sit
with not knowing.
Photo by Yiğit Yıldırım from Pexels
With deep gratitude yet again, for Dane Anthony for walking with me on my spiritual trail, for my one and only sister Margie for never leaving my side, for my niece Katie for always bringing a spirit of peace to the adventure, for Harper Joy for bringing us joy, for my geologist Tom for caring that I care not only about how things function but also for how they look, and for my hermano-in-law Bobby for always showing up no matter what.
Damn Straight
There is an important project underway at our home. A dog run for Gracie-the-chocolate-labradoodle. It has been on the to-do list for awhile now, but suddenly there is a critical reason for it to be done NOW. She is over 8 months old and could be going into heat for the first time any day now. This weekend a male dog will be joining us when our family gathers for the rodeo, and this handsome Brittany Spaniel is still fully capable of siring a litter. Now I’m sure he and lovely Gracie would make beautiful babies together, but (a) she is too young, and (b) we are too old, or at least wise enough to know better than to take on a litter of puppies. Thus, the construction of Gracie’s Space is in full swing.
It has taken Tom two days to align the fence posts perfectly. It’s been a slow process of measuring, adjusting, cutting, re-measuring, re-adjusting, re-cutting, re-re-measuring, re-re-adjusting, and re-re-cutting, until, as Tom proudly muttered today from beneath his cowboy hat covered sweaty brow, If you find f#%*ing straighter posts anywhere, you let me know.
And those suckers are straight, no doubt about it. With the temperatures soaring and the deadline for the weekend looming, it would have been easy for him to cut corners and do with straight that was good enough. But for this pen to embody that magical combination of form and function, straight posts are the corner stone on which it all hinges.
There are times to cut corners. Situations where good enough is well, good enough. Not every project or task is worth the effort. But some are.
Is Gracie worth the extra effort to do it right you might ask?
You’re damn straight she is!
This Is It
Over an early morning cup of coffee, my dear friend and I were talking about how much time people (ourselves included) spend working on it. We talked about all the its in our lives. All the things we’ve worked on in order to get better, do better, be better. We’ve worked on ourselves, our relationships, our work, and everything in between, and we worked on whatever it was as if it were a destination. A place to arrive and finally be done with it.
And then we got it.
This is it.
This is it.
This is it.
This is it.
Always has been. Always will be.
Pentecost
In my tradition, today, on the seventh Sunday after Easter, we celebrate Pentecost, remembering the story of the Holy Spirit descending on those gathered in the name of the Carpenter, to celebrate the Jewish festival of Shavuot. The Spirit sounded like a fierce wind, and looked like tongues of fire. According to the story, those there felt themselves so filled with the Spirit of the Holy that they were able to speak in new languages.
There are days when I long to speak in a new language. One that blesses those who hear it. One that reflects the image of the One in whom we are all created. One that offers the message that has been true since before the beginning of time. A language that says to all, you are loved, you are seen, and you belong.
But man is that hard some days.
It has been windy around our home this week, and the sound of the wind in the pines is nothing if not the Spirit of the Holy, reminding me that Pentecost isn’t a one-and-done deal, but an ongoing story that is meant to be lived again, and again, and again. Today as we head to our church wearing red to symbolize those flaming tongues of fire, to gather again in the name of the Carpenter, I want to remember that that new language isn’t new at all. Our first language, it is as old as the wind that blows through the pines, and it is right on the tip of my tongue waiting to be heard in a world more thirsty for the message than ever.
You are loved.
You are seen.
You belong.
The Invitation
You do not need to know
precisely what is happening,
or exactly where it is all going.
What you need is to recognize the possibilities
and the challenges offered by the present moment,
and to embrace them with
courage, faith, and hope.
Thomas Merton
There is, it seems, always an open invitation from life, even in the midst of bittersweet endings and uncharted beginnings. The invitation isn’t to somewhere else, but to be fully where we are, for it is from here that we must ground ourselves to take the next right step. And the next, and the next, and the next.
Endings of any sort mean the letting go of what has been and the leaving behind of what we’ve known, which, if we let it, will lead to the melding of gratitude and grief into the precious metal of grace. The deeper the gratitude and the more profound the grief, the longer we may need to linger at the threshold between what has been and what will be. These are the days of intentional packing, intentional goodbyes, and intentional moving on. There will be days when we can only pause and rest, and others when we must forge ahead regardless of how weary we feel.
Whether the selling of the longtime home in which we’ve raised a family, the retirement from a meaningful career, the fading of a vision that cannot be brought to life, the loss of a breast, or the ending of a relationship that cannot live up to the commitments made, the invitation is to stay fully engaged in life. Right here. Right now. Trusting that the ground beneath our feet will hold, as it has, as it is, and as it will.
Washing Windows
Once a year we get our windows washed, and the before and after is noticeable. We’re good about scheduling a trusted professional once a year to tackle the task, but the upkeep in between, which is up to us, tends to slip right off our radar screen. The truth of the matter is, it wouldn’t take much effort to maintain our windows, keeping them clean and clear to enjoy the beautiful view. A little spritz of windex here, a swipe of a paper towel there, and just like that, the smudges, spatters, bird-strikes, and spots would disappear.
The same holds true for the lens through which we look out at the world. Tending to the things which cloud our vision is easier when we do it in real time, rather than waiting for stuff to build up. When we notice that we are looking at life through the window of an old story, negative self-talk, or a toxic thought, we can do what needs to be done to address it, giving us clear glass through which to see.
Looking out through our windows today, the view hasn’t changed, but the glass through which we see it has.
