Kenosis

Kenosis.

Don’t you just love that word?

Not sure what it is?

Neither was I until I learned about it in a conversation with my spiritual director, and it’s stuck with me ever since.

Kenosis is the act of self-emptying. It’s the practice of using who we are and what we have to offer in order to love, help, and heal the world within our reach.

The best example of this practice is found in the life and times of Jesus the Carpenter, the one I love and attempt to follow. In his short time here on the planet, he did some really cool stuff. He turned water into wine, and healed the sick. He raised his friend from the dead and cast out demons. He gave TED level talks to the crowds that followed him, and then, as if that weren’t enough, he turned a tiny snack of a few fishes and a little bread into a banquet for the masses. And don’t even get me started on his voluntary death on the cross and the mystery that came after.

It’s exhausting just thinking about it all.

However.

All that doing was only half of the practice. The other half is what made all that pouring out of his life possible. Time and again, after giving of himself until he had nothing left to give, he drew away, often into the wilderness, for a time of rest and renewal. Yes, I’m sure he prayed and contemplated and reflected and meditated. But I’ll bet he did some other things too. Like napping.

With a little imagination I can see him eating all of the fish and all of the bread, because a guy’s gotta eat. He’d sip a cup of French Press coffee as the sun came up because, well, he just would. He’d wander along a deserted shore, take a little dip to cool off, and probably vent to his Dad about the sad state of the world to which he’d come.

Give it away.

Fill it back up.

That’s what we’re here to do.

If Jesus had to do it that way, I’m pretty sure that we do too.

Knock Knock

Some lessons we learn early in life. While cleaning out a file cabinet I came across a folder of old stuff, including a poem I wrote on Thursday, December 6, 1973. In my twenty short years on earth I had apparently already stumbled upon the inconvenient truth that pain and love are partners. They are a package deal, and try as we might, we simply can’t have one without the other. Not if we want the real-meal-deal.

Looking back at that young woman in the midst of her last year of college I’m not exactly sure what prompted the writing of that little verse. It could have been the disappointment that comes when the boy you love doesn’t love you back (or even see you in the first place), the loss of her own voice and with it the vision for an advanced degree and a bigger life, or simply the inevitable angst of growing up. Regardless of their origin, her words still ring true.

Love hurts.

It isn’t in our nature to welcome pain, much less invite it in when it comes knocking on our inner door. But pain is the price of admission to a life of love. It is a messenger sent to get our attention, letting us know that something or someone is in need of tending. We are fallible folk, prone to mistakes that will inevitably hurt those we love, including ourselves. Love’s task is to understand the source of the pain and do what it takes to address the underlying cause. Sometimes it’s a quick fix, sometimes a long haul, but almost always worth the trip.

When pain knocks at the door, love invites it in for a visit.

Love Is Ridiculous

I’m a flipper-outer.

For example, yesterday morning we were about to head out to meet friends at a nearby wildlife refuge for a lovely summer morning meander, and I was running a little late. The sock in one of my shoes didn’t feel quite right so I had to take it off and start over. The dog’s e-collar was giving me fits. The handle on the fridge needed wiping off so that our friends wouldn’t think less of us if they happened to open the door to grab a beer. I couldn’t find my water bottle. I dropped my phone. It was one of those days when every step of trying to get out the door came with some sort of hitch, and I could feel the inner tension growing. The faster I moved, the worse it got.

Putting a cup of coffee into the microwave I knocked the cup against the side of the door, slopping coffee on the counter………….

Fuck!!!!! I hate having to hurry, I yelled at no one.

Dumping my now hot coffee into the travel mug, I slammed the microwave door. For good measure, I slammed the open cupboard door next to it (because along with being a flipper-outer, I’m also a door leaver-opener). Turning around, Tom was simply leaning against the sink with his cup of coffee, a slight smile on his face. He is unmistakably not a flipper-outer because (A) he simply isn’t wired that way, and (B) I do enough flipping out for both of us.

“Thank you for never (well, hardly ever) making this (me flipping out) into a teachable moment. It feels like you are just watching me thinking ‘God, I love that girl’.”

Pretty much, he said.

And the ridiculous thing is, he means it.

It’s quite a thing to be loved not only in spite of my messiness, but because of it too.

God, I love that guy.

Legit

I have every good intention of having a legit spiritual practice. In my mind this is what that is supposed to look like. Early in the morning I head upstairs, step into the lovely little meditation space I created a couple of years ago, light the candle, settle onto the cushion I purchased just for this purpose, set my Insight Timer app for 20 minutes, focus my gaze on the Buddha statue with the beautiful cross around her neck, take a deep cleansing breath, and sit until the timer goes off. Those 20 minutes are how I am supposed to connect with God. With the holy and the sacred that flows through and around everyone and everything.

That’s what a legit spiritual practice is supposed to look like.

Here’s what mine actually looks like.

Early in the morning I walk to the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, put on a jacket against the chill, and head out to our field. Settling into the chair next to Tom, it’s impossible not to focus my gaze on the mountain in front of our home, take a deep cleansing breath, and sit. No timer. No Buddha. No candle. No cross. Just us, our coffee, and Gracie-the-chocolate labradoodle. We watch the birds, and wait for the sun to crest the pine trees and hit the anthill a few yards away rousing the ants to another day of work on behalf of their community. We read a daily offering from the CAC that lends a holy perspective to our human experience. We talk about everything and nothing at all. We give thanks. We grieve. We complain. We apologize. We laugh. We cry. We do the sometimes hard work of trying to love each other well, or at least a little better. That time, in those chairs, is how we connect with God. With the holy and the sacred that flows through and around everyone and everything.

That’s a legit spiritual practice too.

Almost anything can be a spiritual practice if it helps us to connect, however briefly, to the sacred in the midst of our ordinary lives. It doesn’t have to look like anything other than what it is. A spiritual practice can be as short as our next breath if we notice it, as messy as a toddler’s meltdown if we stay present for it, as scary as engaging a therapist to help us unhook from old stories and heal from old wounds, and as difficult as having the conversations we don’t want to have. Our practice can be as mundane as doing yet another load of laundry, or as miraculous as a few unexpected quiet moments before the rest of the house wakes up. It’s in the presence and the noticing that the practice occurs.

It’s not lost on me that there is a privilege that makes my brand of morning spiritual practice possible. We are both white with all of the advantages that has granted us over the course of our lives. We are decidedly middle class, and generally retired with a bit of time and money to spare. Recognizing that privilege brings with it the responsibility to work for a world that is more just, loving, and inclusive. A world that recognizes the holy and the sacred that flows through and around everyone and everything.

That’s a legit spiritual practice too.

Choose Your Own Adventure

As I approach my 70th birthday it can be hard to know how to think about aging. I live in culture that doesn’t appear to value the passing of the years that show up on my face, around my waist, and oh-so-many-other places. In fact, I live in a culture that is decidedly anti-aging. To be anti-anything is to be against it. To oppose it. Let that sink in for a moment. Anti…aging.

Well, this gray-haired girl is here to tell you that is bullshit.

Aging is the natural order of things.

Aging is the lifelong process of growing progressively older.

Aging is the accumulation of experiences that leads to the wisdom that can only be acquired through the passage of time.

Aging is the gradual letting go what doesn’t matter and holding closely that which does.

Aging is the discovery that old dogs can still learn new tricks.

Aging is the chance to get it right in the places we’ve gotten it wrong.

Aging is the invitation to show up and say yes to life.

Aging is the ticking clock that reminds us that there is still time to give ourselves away to love, help, and heal the world within our reach.

Aging is the ultimate choose-your-own-adventure story.

We are not meant to live forever, nor stay forever young. We are here for a time, the time we have here matters, and don’t let anyone try to tell you differently.

From The Rooftops

Recently I wrote a review of More Human Than Otherwise: Living & Leading With Humility by my dear friend and most trusted colleague, David Berry.

David’s book is for anyone in leadership, considering leadership, or wondering about leadership. It is a book to give as a gift to someone you know who is seeking to be the kind of leader others would willingly follow. If you are looking for a meaningful graduation present for someone about to step onto the leadership trail, look no further. While you are at it, get a copy for yourself and dive in. After all, you are more human than otherwise too.

After posting the review on Goodreads I noticed a tiny box that could be checked to post my review on a blog, and checked it immediately. Why didn’t I think of that, I wondered, as it’s kind of a no brainer to share good news with as many people as we can, whenever and wherever we find it. In fact, given the state of the world, we should be shouting any and all good news from our rooftops to the world within our reach.

Well, this is me, shouting from my small but mighty rooftop.

David Berry asks us to consider what it takes to become a leader others would willingly follow. It is at once a question and an invitation. It is the question anyone desiring to lead well must not only continually answer but live into every day. Beyond that, it is an invitation to transformation, which is the journey of any leader worth her salt. Because transformation is what happens when we are willing to learn from and be changed by our experiences. All of them, and perhaps most especially, the difficult, painful, and humbling experiences that help us gain more clarity on who we are and how we are showing up in the world as a human being leading other human beings.

One of the many things I appreciate about this book is how David created a safe space for the reader’s own courageous thinking. He does this by modeling a critical element at the heart of leadership. What it looks like to go first. To be the kind of leader that says, “It’s ok. I’ll go first. I’ll show you ‘mine’ (the good, the bad and the ugly) so that maybe you will be willing to show me ‘yours’. He does this by sharing his own experiences, what he learned, and what has changed in him as a result.

It quickly becomes clear that David takes seriously his call to help equip and support the next generation of leaders. Leaders who will be courageous enough to become evermore self-aware. In multiple ways this book reminds us that telling ourselves the truth about who we are is foundational to being a leader others would willingly follow. To do that we need the help of others. Cultivating the practice of seeking feedback on a regular basis, learning in community, and engaging a therapist are but a few of the ways suggested in these pages.

I highly recommend this book for anyone in leadership, aspiring to leadership, of wondering if leadership is for them. To that last point, leadership isn’t confined just to those with the title. To be more human than otherwise is to answer the call to love, help, and heal the world within our reach, which sounds a lot like leadership to me.

Endorphins

It was really hard work this morning as we made our way up the logging road. It’s a steep1.7 mile uphill climb all the way from where park to the top. Hiking it twice a week, it’s our way of training to get stronger. It’s always hard at the beginning as our bodies adjust to the effort. Some days it gets easier as we make our way to the top, other days not so much. This morning was one of those not-so-fucking-much times. With the end in view, we pushed hard for the last 50 yards or so. I sounded a lot like Roy Kent from Ted Lasso as I growled his favorite word with every step.

Head on the stump at the top, I caught my breath, and then gulped down some water. Looking at my watch, we’d shaved another minute off of our time. No wonder it was hard.

And then it happened.

The flood of those magic endorphins that follow vigorous exercise showed up. These miraculous chemicals trigger a positive feeling in the body and brain. It’s like Ellen Degeneres is doing her happy dance on my inner stage.

The thing about endorphins, from my experience, is that they only show up when I’ve exerted myself to the point of it being hard. To get stronger I have to push myself beyond what is comfortable. But those damn endorphins feel so damn good that it’s worth working that damn hard to have them flood me with their silly goodness.

What is true on the logging road is true in life.

Stretching past my comfort zone is where the magic happens. In every aspect of life, the only way I know to grow and get stronger is to stretch a little more, reach a little higher, dive a litter deeper, and risk a little more.

It may be hard at the time, but it’s totally worth it.

That Thing

Sometimes the thing that is needed is the last thing we want to tackle. Irritatingly enough, it’s usually the thing that we know will bring us the most relief, satisfaction, clarity, inner peace, or sense of purpose, once it’s done, and yet something keeps getting in the way. Somehow we just can’t quite seem to get around to it. Something always comes up. There’s always something, or someone, that seems a little more pressing. Whatever that thing is—that phone call, conversation, issue, task, problem, email, unfinished project, creative project, credit card bill—it’s just going to keep vying for our attention in whatever way it does—niggling inner voice, guilt, sense of obligation, worry, anxiety, fearful thoughts, tears, sleepless nights or grumpy days—until we deal with it.

So let’s back it up a little bit.

It starts with just naming it. Because we know what it is, we just wish we didn’t. Say it out loud. Write it down. Tell someone about it. For me, right now, that thing is reestablishing my writing practice. Simply showing up on a regular basis and putting words on the page. Like I’m doing now. Writing is life giving for me. I’m a better person when I do it, and it gets me one step closer to actually putting another meaningful piece of work out into the world before I’m gone.

What is that thing for you right now? That thing that if you handled it, dealt with it, completed it, started it, delved into it, or got rid of it altogether, would allow you to breathe a little (or a lot) easier, look on the brighter side of things, be a better person to be around, sleep a little better, have an easier go of things, or simply feel better about life in general. Yes. That thing.

Whatever it is, name it.

Write it down. Say it out loud. Tell someone about it.

And then, get about doing it.

Missy's Bridal

All I wanted was a horse. Not just any horse. I wanted Missy.

A bay Quarter Horse, she belonged to Dale Tackett. He was a cowboy who worked summers as a wrangler on the guest ranch we visited every summer in Sisters, Oregon. Missy was gentle, wise, wicked good with cattle, and worked with a hackamore bridle called a Bosal. She had a light touch and seemed to know what he wanted before he asked it of her.

When I was eight years old I asked my dad if I could have a horse. I could when I was 12, he said, if I wanted to work hard enough to save the money to buy one. By the time I was 12 I had saved $350. On my 12th birthday my parents took me to Sisters for the weekend. The guest ranch was closed for the season, but we stopped by for a visit. Dale met us out by the barn, and after a little small talk, he climbed to the top rail of the fence and gave a long whistle. Over the rise in the field one horse came into view, cantered through the open gate and into the arena. It was Missy.

Dale wanted to sell her. To me. For $350.

Missy, Pistol’s Little Miss, and me. 1967

Missy came with her bridal, the only one I ever used on her, and from the time I was 12 until I left for college, summers were spent working as a wrangler on that same guest ranch. Work started early as the sun came up and didn’t stop until long after dark. The staff bunked near the barn, except for the few weeks that my parents rented a home at a nearby ranch. During that time I stayed with them, riding the several-mile trail through the woods to and from work. In the morning the sun warmed our faces, and at night, we traveled by starlight. It was dark and a little scary for a young girl. Night noises came from tree branches, underbrush, and the footfalls of creatures hidden in the shadows. I remember one night when a pair of yellow eyes followed us most of the way home. Turning my collar up against the chill, there was no moon that night and the woods were darker than usual. I wanted to cry out for help, but there was no one to call. It was just me and my horse, and I was at once grateful when the lights of the ranch house finally appeared, and gratified for braving one more ride home in the dark. It’s the first time I remember the sensation of being afraid and courageous all at the same time. Time in the saddle will do that to you.

On the back of a horse I found freedom and independence at an early age. I learned how to work hard, work long, and work well. Because of her, I am stronger and more courageous. I learned to trust the horse beneath me, knowing that she could see the trail even when I could not. If I lost my way in the woods, she would always get us home. I think Missy knew that I needed her more than she needed me. She saw me through my teenage years that often felt filled with as much pain, loneliness, and angst as laugher, friendship, and fun. Her patience, loyalty, forgiveness, and grace tended to my young heart in ways that even my parents couldn’t.

So many memories are wrapped up in my time spent on the back of my horse, reins held loose and low on her neck. It’s a magical thing how objects connect us to memory. Missy is long gone, but I’ve never been able to let go of that bridal.

Until now.

My great niece, Ashby (named for my mom), has fallen in love with horses too. We are sister hippophiles, and she is about the age when Missy, and her bridal, came into my life.

Now, it’s is time for me to pass the reins to Ashby.

I can’t wait to see where her ride takes her.

Practicing Non-Interference

Lately I’ve been practicing non-interference. Hard work with a steep learning curve.

Non-interference is the act of not acting. Of not inserting myself into someone else’s process, problem, or plan. Of allowing others to steer their own ship, chart their own course, and connect their own dots. It is trusting a process put in motion by others, letting the puzzle pieces fall in place as they will, and bearing witness to the efforts, strengths and successes of others.

Non-interference is communication without words. Of keeping still and letting others find their way to their own solutions. Of zipping my lips and letting others do the talking. It is shutting the heck up already, and listening to and learning from the ideas and approaches of others.

Non-interference is respecting the agency of others. Of trusting that they will find a way, in their own way. And if they don’t, trusting them to learn from their experience. It is allowing them the same freedoms I want for myself.

Interference on the other hand is stepping in without being asked, chiming in rather than listening, and getting involved in it rather staying out of it.

Interference comes a little too easily to me. Maybe it does for you too. That means we get to be grateful for all the opportunities that come our way, every single day, to do it differently.

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PROJECT IN PROCESS.

NO HELP NEEDED.