Going First

One Friday afternoon in February I sat down to watch a virtual keynote I’d recently delivered to a live leadership development event. While the message was good, my delivery was anything but. I certainly wouldn’t have been inspired by me if I was watching me. Granted, it was the day after the sudden death of my brother, and I knew I could give myself a pass for that. But even still. The energy, juice and mojo that usually characterize my work were missing. Were they gone for good? Could I get them back? Was I losing my relevance?

The following Monday I wrote an email to two friends about the experience of watching myself in sub-par action. The three of us have had a standing monthly virtual meeting for several years now, and together have created a safe space where we can show up in whatever state we find ourselves. Once I started my email to them, the words wouldn’t stop. Lump in my throat, I uncovered a fear that has been lurking inside for some time, and the longer it lurks, the stronger its grip.

Re-reading what I had written, it felt so raw, so real, and so exposed, that I was tempted to hit delete.

I hit send instead.

“As much as I believe in the beauty of aging, and the importance of doing everything I can to be the very best, most vibrant, strong, wholehearted, and attractive me possible, and of being an example of what real aging looks like to my daughters and the world at large, it is a lot easier said than done when it's me staring back at me.”

Both friends got back to me in short order. Not with words about why I shouldn’t feel that way, or to boost my confidence, but with gratitude for having told the truth, and inviting a conversation they were eager to have and in need of themselves.

Putting my experience into words and sharing them loosened fear’s grip, and paved the way for me to find a new interpretation of an old story. Rather than sliding into irrelevance with each new trip around the sun, I am being invited to step into my role as a teacher of the well and hard earned wisdom collected along my way. I can even say that I’m (mostly) looking forward to bringing my communication skills to a new kind of stage.

As it turned out, after watching the video, one of those same friends left me a voice mail that brought us both to tears. While my message might not have been delivered in the visual way I would have wished, she said that she couldn’t take notes fast enough on what I’d shared, and it paved her way for a new interpretation of an old story too.

That’s what happens when we tell the truth.

What happens is that we find out that we are not alone.

What happens is that we give other people permission to tell the truth too.

What happens is that we start a conversation where it is safe to tell the truth, which in the long run, is the only kind of conversation worth having.

Ours is an if-you-show-me-yours maybe I-will-show-you-mine kind of culture. It simply feels too risky to go first, and so usually, no one does. Better safe, isolated with our own fear, pain and insecurity, than risk being sorry to have shared them at all. It’s a vicious cycle. One that can only be broken when someone dares to go first.

We Are The Mountain

For us humans, emotions are a tricky thing. They can come and go in the blink of an eye, drop in without notice and drop out just as quickly, or decide to settle in and stay for a spell. Most of us relish what we deem the good emotions, and resist having to endure the ones we’ve come to see as bad or negative. The ones that don’t, well, feel good.

I’ve always been a feeling kind of girl. Emotions, even big, hard, painful ones don’t scare me. However, they can snag me, and before I know it, I’m wrapped around some kind of axle and in full reactive mode. It’s like I am the emotion, rather than me experiencing that emotion. It can be exhausting. For me, and for the people I share life with.

This morning, as most mornings, we sit on the front porch, coffee cups in hand, and read the daily offering of Fr. Richard Rohr, founder of the Center for Action and Contemplation (CAC) in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

His focus this week is Wisdom.

CAC faculty member, Cynthia Bourgeault, suggests that, “Wisdom is not knowing more, but knowing with more of you, knowing deeper.”

To help us dig deeper into wisdom, what it is, and how to grow more of it, Fr. Rohr created a list of 7 pathways, or ways of knowing, that can help us along our own wisdom way.

One of those pathways is emotion.

“Emotion: Great emotions are especially powerful teachers. Love, ecstasy, hatred, jealousy, fear, despair, anguish: each have their lessons. Even anger and rage are great teachers, if we listen to them. They have so much power to reveal our deepest self to ourselves and to others, yet we tend to consider them negatively. I would guess that people die and live much more for emotional knowing than they ever will for intellectual, rational knowing. To taste these emotions is to live in a new reality afterward, with a new ability to connect.”.

As we sat reflecting on our emotions as a way of knowing with more of ourselves, the changing light hitting Mt. Adams seemed to underscore what we had just read.

We are the mountain.

Emotion is our teacher.

Read the todays meditation in its entirety

Who Gets To Do This? And Why?

Fourteen years ago when we first set foot on the five acres we now call home, we were smitten. Mt. Adams, the 12,281’ high volcano sat directly in front of what was to become the site for the house. Pine woods on three sides gave the property a tucked in feel, and would provide protection from the winds that can frequent our valley. Sitting at just under 2000 feet, we were guaranteed all four seasons. Standing together and taking it all in, we began to envision building the home that we had first imagined over a bottle of wine, on the back of a cocktail napkin, the year our youngest daughters went off to college.

It was hard to fathom that we might actually be able to realize our long held dream of building a rustic home, east of the mountains, where we could live and that we could share with family and friends. I mean who gets to do that? And why?

Slowly the house took shape as we split our time between the city where our jobs were, and this piece of ground where our hearts were.

Sitting on the porch with my coffee 13 years ago, I continued to wonder, who gets to do this? And why?

2008

Thirteen years later, sitting on the porch with my coffee, I continue to ponder, who gets to do this? And why?

2021

Living here, having created the place that we hope to call home for years to come, is an unbelievable gift. I’ve never felt that we owned it. It is ours to steward, share, and make use of for the good of many. A safe haven and refuge for all who come here, and a place from which to imagine and work for a more just, loving, and inclusive world.

After this past year, I am starkly aware of the immeasurable, culturally inherent privilege granted to us that has made this dream of ours possible.

And to whom much is given, much is required.

Love Changes Us

“…love is an invitation to growth, a call to responsibility, and a hope for all that could be.”

(From the Opening Prayer, February 14th, 2021, Zoom Church, Bethel UCC, White Salmon)

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It was May 28th, 1994.

“I have a question for you.” he said.

On a snowy hike into the Indian Heaven Wilderness, and we had just stopped for lunch. I was pretty sure his question wasn’t whether I wanted the turkey or the ham sandwich.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

“Yes!” I answered.

Hiking back out it hit me. On the trail going in, life had looked one way. Walking back out, life as we had known it had changed.

Because that’s what love does.

It changes us.

Whenever we say yes to love of any kind, we are committing ourselves to something bigger without knowing how it will all turn out. Love isn’t about certainty, but a commitment to continue to show up and say yes even when it’s hard. Especially when it is hard.

Before we say yes to love, our life looks one way. After we say yes, life as we have known it, will change.

Because that’s what love does.

It changes us.

27 years of continuing to show up and saying yes. Here’s to the next 27!

From The Logging Road: Lessons #5

We had a wicked wind storm a week ago, bringing with it all of the usual things. Detours due to downed trees, power outages, and flags, furniture, and fallen branches strewn hither and yon.

This morning was our first foray up the logging road since the storm, and rounding an early bend in the road, a downed pine tree blocked our way.

We had four options. Turn back, climb over, crawl under, or go around. All were viable possibilities.

Turning back didn’t even enter our minds. Arriving at the top, and the hike to get there have become a sacred practice. An intentional habit that anchors our week, fortifies our bodies, and fills our souls. Climbing over was doable, but not necessary, as was crawling under. So around we went. After a short scramble we were quickly on our way again , footsteps falling together on the trail.

Obstacles are inevitable.

The trick is to know what to do with them when they fall across our path.

Lost In Translation

This is what he said:

“Let’s just use the rest of this up.”

This is what I heard:

“You probably won’t think of this, so I’d better remind you. This food needs to be eaten up, and we don’t want it to go to waste.”

A little context might be helpful.

My husband and I are starting the Whole30 tomorrow, and trying to finish up all of the non-compliant food before then. Tom was referring to some of said food, and simply letting me know that he was helping us do that.

His comment wasn’t meant to criticize, correct, or challenge me. That, however, is how I heard it, and as a result, my response was less than gracious.

Thankfully curiosity came on the heels of my snarky comment. Following that thread of inquiry led me to the discovery of my very own inner translator. One that takes a message and instantly converts it into my mother tongue, confirming an old story that has been with me for as long as I can remember. In this case, the story that I have to protect myself from strong male voices that only want to keep me in my place, question my abilities, and tell me how things are.

Programs like Google Translate work to predict the likelihood of a sequence of words, and quickly convert them from one language to another.

Our inner translators work in much the same way.

In other words, we hear what we are listening for rather that what is actually being said.

Counting The Cost

When someone asks, it can be hard to say no.

Such was the case for me not long ago. An organization that is doing important work, as in really important work, asked if I would consider bringing my experience and expertise to their efforts. Because I hold them in high esteem, respect their work, and consider their mission critical, I was honored to even be asked. It was a request not to be taken lightly, which I didn’t. I took time to consider it and did my research.

There was a part of me that was ready to say yes. Another part still wasn’t sure. Until my good friend and colleague asked me the clarifying question I needed.

What won’t you have the time or energy for if you commit to this?”

As important and crucial as this work was, it wasn’t mine to do.

Saying yes to one thing means having to say no somewhere else. Putting energy here means less energy there. Committing the time to this endeavor leaves less time for that one.

Before jumping in to almost anything, it is good to count the cost.

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

Too Good Not To Share

re-spon-si-ble

having an obligation to do something, or care for someone, as part of one's job or role

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Especially during COVID, staying connected matters more than ever. Thanks to technology we can still meet, gather, collaborate, celebrate, learn, remember, worship, and share a meal or bottle of wine together. We can work with a therapist, doctor, coach, personal trainer, or spiritual director, all from the comfort of our home office, closet, car, or tree fort.

As good as all that connecting is, sometimes it’s just too much.

Our devices ring and ding and vibrate, alerting us that someone somewhere is reaching our way, and we, or at least I, feel responsible to answer right there and then. It’s as if not picking up the phone, responding to the text, joining the video call, or answering the email immediately communicates that I don’t care. That that person isn’t a priority, and as someone who values connection and relationships above all else, I never want to convey that. Ever. And yet I have this fear that I do.

This was the quandary I brought to a monthly video conversation with my spiritual director. One of his many gifts is his practice of parsing words. He will take a word apart, maybe switch a letter of two, all in the service of looking at it in a new and more helpful way. In this case, rather than feel responsible to answer the phone or respond to the text, decide if, in that moment, I am response-able to do so.

Do I have the emotional capacity, at the time, to respond with the best of myself? Is my tank, at the time, empty, full, or somewhere in between? Do I have what it takes, at the time, to be fully present? In that moment, am I responsible or response-able to answer? It isn’t about not responding. It’s about responding well.

Some things are simply too good not to share.

(Once again, a grateful shout out to Dane Anthony.)

Photo by Wendy Wei from Pexels

The Scream

Ducking my head to walk underneath the small fort we built for the little people in our lives, I dropped to the ground to see if I could add another pushup to my tally. It was raining, and the ground underneath the fort was dry. Standing up, one more pushup under my belt, I headed back out into the rain. Because I was wearing my Seahawks Super Bowl Champs hat I didn’t see the low board ahead of me and walked right into it. I hit my head. HARD. I hate hitting my head.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over, screaming at the top of my lungs. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed, until I couldn’t. It’s a good thing our closest neighbors are a ways away, or they might have called the local sheriff to come investigate.

All I can say is that it felt really, really, really good to scream. It felt like a mixture of rage and fear, and a few other emotions that must have been lodged pretty deep inside for awhile.

I guess I just needed to scream.

There is a lot to be angry and fearful about right now. So many things out of our control. So many things that need to be addressed and fixed and repaired and built and changed, and most of us feel pretty powerless to do anything about it. Whenever we feel powerless, rage and fear aren’t far behind, and those emotions need to come out somewhere. For me, it was a guttural scream, bending over underneath a fort out in the pine trees.

Sometimes I guess we just need to scream. And then stand up and get back to work loving and helping the people and the world within our reach.

Mending

Yesterday my daughter spent time mending a pair of pants for her four-year-old son. Passed down from his cousin, a few years his senior, they already had history. Hours spent doing what little boys do. Rather than toss them, she carefully mended them. Artfully stitching together the old with the new, patching the hole, reinforcing the seams, and readying them for more of what this little boy will do.

What is true of a pair of pants is true of life. With time comes wear and tear, and the need for repair. Our fabric wears thin, feelings catch on sharp words, hurtful choices tear people apart.

Mending is the art of tending to what has been torn.

Mending matters.

(To learn more about the art of mending, check out Mending Matters by Katrina Rodabaugh)

With gratitude to HKK