Better Off Said

I don’t even remember what the conversation was about. But at some point this past week, as we sat talking over our morning coffee, something that had previously been unsaid, was shared. Those few words connected dots that hadn’t made sense. Colored in the outline that my imagination had been attempting to fill, and as is usually the case, the real picture was much less scary than the imagined one.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t monumental, but it mattered. It wasn’t a big reveal, but a small revelation. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was the real deal.

How often, I wonder, do we keep things to ourselves that would be better off shared? Hold back for fear of what will happen if we actually disclose what we’ve kept to ourselves?

Maybe that’s some of the good, hard work of relationships. Especially our closest ones. To disclose what has previously been held back. To say what’s been waiting to be said. To share our thought bubbles, as scary as that might sound on a good day, much less a rough one.

Yes, some things are better left unsaid. But what about the ones that aren’t?

The Pushback

Well, just when you think you have it all figured out, you find out that you don’t.

If you read my last piece, Here’s My Card, you’ll know that I created a new business card. Not so much as a way to market myself, but to introduce myself. The me, myself, and I that is now 70 years old.

In that blog I make no bones about the fact that I’m not a fan of the camera. It’s the rare photo of myself that I like, which means that every time another photo op comes along, I’m already tense and pretty sure it’ll quickly become another deleted photo. Which it often does. It’s a vicious cycle that’s been hard to break.

In real life, not in front of the camera, I actually think I’m pretty cute. Beautiful, even. I walk through life, into a room, or up onto a stage with confidence. Confidence in who I am, what I bring, and, how I look. But bring in a camera, and all bets are off. It’s like, “Wait, that’s not how I look.”

The blog was waiting for subscribers to my newsletter when they woke up this morning. My eldest daughter texted me about what I had written. She wanted to push back against what she had read. Her text brought me to tears as she talked about how she sees me. In her eyes, I’m beautiful. Always have been, always will be. Even when my hair was permed. (That might be taking it a little too far. If I was meant to have curly hair I would have been born with it.)

After our text exchange, she followed up with a Marco Polo. I learned three things from her beautiful, honest, and insightful message:

Even though she no longer lives in my home, she’s still paying attention.

We are always modeling what it looks like to the generation behind us. More than anything I want them to see what it looks like to age with grace. To embrace the changing face in the mirror with love and respect, wrinkles and all. To fiercely tend to the needs of a body not meant to live forever. To laugh at ourselves because it’s good medicine for whatever ails us at any age. To look through the camera and connect to the people on the other side of the photo.

It’s time to make friends with the camera, because every photo captures an irreplaceable moment in a never-to-be-repeated life.

How we talk about ourself matters.

Our thoughts create our words. Our words create our stories. When we tell our stories, others are listening. What is the story I want others to hear? If, as I profess to believe, that we are all created in the image of God, then every single one of us is beautiful in our own unique way. And that includes me.

It’s time to talk to and about myself as one who reflects the beauty of the One who made her.

Deeply rooted stories require uprooting.

My daughter reminded me that my dad feared old age. He fought it. He denied it. He made some of us a little miserable in our efforts to love and support him well as his time on the planet grew shorter. I wonder if my apple doesn’t fall too far from his tree. There isn’t a ready answer to that question. Maybe yes, maybe no, probably a little bit of both. Regardless, there’s still plenty of time to do something about it.

It’s time to dig in, dig out, and cultivate a better story. A more accurate story. A story that I want my children to be able to tell their children about who I was, how I lived, and, how I left.

Like I said, just when you think you have it all figured out, you don’t. Which is why we need people in our lives who love us enough to push back.

Here's My Card

On a whim I decided to create new business cards. It was an exercise to clarify and communicate who I am and what I’m about. In business, and in life. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

I asked my husband to snap a few photos. The camera is rarely my friend, so I wasn’t overly optimistic that he’d capture an image that would capture me in an authentic and real way. But I’ll be go to hell, he did.

The photo became the front of the card. It makes a statement. Here I am. What you see here is what you’ll get there.

Underneath the card, my name. Because with all due respect to The Bard, our name matters. It contains our whole life story. Given to us when we’re born, we’ll be remembered by it after we’re gone.

Underneath my name, what I do. Because what we do matters too. Writing and speaking are two of the ways I connect life’s many dots, and share what I discover with others. My work is always about finding ways for us to more closely connect who we are with how we live. In business, and in life. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

The back of the card contains the usual contact information. Because connection matters too. As human beings we are hard wired for connection. But it’s hard to connect with someone if you don’t know how to get ahold of them.

There was still a lot of blank space on the back. Enough room for one statement that would sum it all up.

It all turned out to be a great exercise. It forced me to distill it all down to what would fit on a business card. Or maybe it’s a life card. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

What would your card say?

We Are Not Alone

On a rainy Thursday morning I unexpectedly found myself alone in a coffee shop. There to meet a new friend, we’d gotten our wires crossed on the time we were to meet. I had at least an hour before an upcoming appointment. Ordering an Americano—with an extra shot of course—I sat down at a table, my journal sitting next to me. It was then that I wondered if the morning wasn’t a mistake after all. If, in fact, I was there to have a date with God. An hour of quiet to sit together, to listen, and to be heard.

Earlier that morning I’d had one of those powerful, messy, raw, and ultimately beautiful FaceTime conversations with one of my daughters. Our conversation wandered through home decorating ideas, upcoming pre-school schedules, parenting challenges, and grocery shopping lists. And then suddenly we found ourselves at the crossroads of her past, the challenges of the present, and her hopes for the future. Which landed us on the painful topic of past trauma and wounding, which then led us to the possibility of generational healing.

Looking through my own lens, and speaking only for myself, ours is a family that has struggled with anger and rage, impacting multiple people on multiple fronts. It was true of the generations before me, and it was a part of my own experience growing up. Add to that the fact that the first time around I chose to marry someone who had his own issues with anger and rage. With good help, I’ve worked to understand those rageful roots, and undo their patterns. My daughter and I talked about how those roots and patterns were part of the soil in which she grew up, and in which her own family is now growing. None of us wants to pass on those parts of ourselves that are unhealed, but left untended, we do. Her pain around anger and its impact on her and now her own family was tangible as we sat together screen to screen. I expressed my deep sadness that she had to experience that in her past, and now has to encounter this same family tendency in her present. I apologized for the part I played in passing that tendency on. Our conversation mattered. My apology mattered. Her need to hear that apology mattered. We ended the time grateful for the safe space we’ve created to talk about scary things.

Sitting in the coffee shop with my Americano, my journal, and God, I picked up a pen and started writing. What does it take to do the hard work to heal from our past? To mend from the uninvited, and perhaps unintended, pain and trauma that make up part of our history? Unintended or not, generational wounding and trauma are inconvenient truths that come with being human. Generational healing is only possible when we encounter and engage with our wounds.

Our unhealed pain always reveals itself, and when it does, that is the moment of invitation…

“Will you meet me head on?” it asks. “ Will you confront me? Will you look me in the eye? Will you put your forehead to mine so that together we can find our way out of this cage of your past that imprisons us both? I want out of here as much as you do, because our freedom, and the freedom of the generations to come are inextricably linked. Know that you are not alone in this quest for wholeness. It is the path all are called to walk if they have the courage to do so. You are not meant to navigate such difficult terrain alone, so seek wise traveling companions, and ask for their help. ”

Closing my journal and heading for the car, I was reminded that we are not alone in our brokenness. None of us make it through unscathed. Our pasts are some combination of the good, the bad, and sometimes, the seriously ugly. Our healing begins when we are courageous enough to look that truth in the eye, and discover what it has to tell us. Because only the truth can set us free. Us, and the generations to come.

Amen.

May it be so.

The Sliver

As soon as my feet hit the floor this morning I could feel it. There was a sliver in my left foot. But it was so tiny—as in the size of a grain of pepper— that my husband could hardly see it even with the help of a headlamp and a magnifying glass. After he made a few gnarly attempts to get it out we decided that a trip to the doctor was in order. To get the sliver out, and to protect our marriage.

Hobbling into the doctor’s office, I felt a little silly. How could something so small hurt that much? Who knows why, and for that matter, who cares. It hurt, and it was going to continue to hurt until it was gone. It took the doctor less than 10 minutes to get it out, and the second I put weight on that foot, the pain was gone. As in gone-gone.

Left to its own devices, that little pepper-sized spec would have burrowed a little deeper, gotten infected, and made my situation a whole lot worse . It wasn’t fun getting it removed, but the relief was worth the price of admission.

What was true of my foot is true in life.

Left untended, a sliver of resentment can splinter a relationship, a scrap of fear can shatter a dream, and a fragment of shame can fracture a soul. That tiny sliver reminded me that noticing and tending to painful things early is the quickest way to the other side. The side where healing happens, wholeness returns, and the ground is firm beneath our feet.

I once had a friend tell mm that I’m always looking for a lesson to write about. And I think that friend was right. Not because I have so many things to teach, but because I still have so many things to learn.

To Begin Again

She was born on August 8, 1953.

Compassionate. Creative. Courageous. She arrived on the planet with these innate qualities in tow, and they are the stars by which she steers her ship, come what may. Always has. Always will.

My best friend for almost 50 years, Kristine Patterson wears her heart on her sleeve, while always leaving ample room for yours. There are more creative ideas in that beautiful heart of hers than most of the rest of ours put together. Refusing to let fear have its way with her, she steps out where angels fear to tread, and invites them to come along. And they do.

Like most of us, life didn’t turn out as she expected. More glorious goodness than she ever thought possible, and more pain and loss than she thought she could bear. Time and again she has had to call upon her compassion to keep her heart open, creativity to make beautiful the life that is hers, and the courage to get up every day and choose to begin again. And never more than when the life she had worked so fiercely to build got blown to smithereens. It would have been so easy to give in and give up. To allow her heart to harden over, her creativity to wither away, and her courage to falter and allow fear to bully its way into her soul. But she never did.

One day at a time, she chose to begin again.

Moving into a small bungalow on a quiet street beneath a towering Dutch Elm, she began building a home in her own heart. The home that had been waiting for her all along. Sweeping out any old stories that had held her hostage, she made room for new ones that offered her freedom. Grieving what had been lost, she slowly opened her heart to what was to come. Sifting and sorting through the cupboard of her life, she held on to the goodness and beauty that still held true, and let go of that which no longer did. Or perhaps never had.

Her hands found their way to clay. The clay became works of art. Each work of art became a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

Her heart found its way to new love. That new love became a new life. That new life became the next chapter in the story that began 70 years ago on August 8, 1953.

Today marks the beginning of another trip around the sun for this magnificent friend of mine, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate her birthday than to join with her and say, Today, I am choosing to begin again.

The Reprieve

The hike up the logging road is just that. An uphill climb the entire 1.7 miles to the top, with two exceptions. The reprieve and the wee-prieve.

The reprieve is a short span at the top of one of the steeper pitches that flattens out for about 200 feet, and the wee-prieve, the offspring of the reprieve, might be 50 feet if that. So out of the approximately 9000 feet of road, only 250 feet are flat. Everything else is up, up, up, and then up some more. So those few feet of flat ground matter. They are the only ones where one can catch her breath, feel her heart rate slow, and gather her energy to finish the climb.

Those brief respites are so small in comparison to the rest of the road, we could be on the other side of them without even noticing the relief and support they offer. It would be easy to miss them, so we make sure that we don’t. Every time we come to them we notice them, name them, thank them, and let them work their magic on us. Some days we need them more than others, but they are always a welcome interlude on the way to the top.

What is true on the logging is true in life. We are in need of the reprieves that show up in our daily lives. Those moments, no matter how brief, can make all the difference in helping us to keep on keeping on with the keeping on that is ours to do. A cancelled appointment? A reprieve giving you a slice of time you didn’t know you needed. A toddler immersed in his imagination as he pours water on the counter to see where it flows? A wee-prieve for you to notice the look of joy on his face that comes from trying stuff out. With a little imagination, even a traffic jam can be a reprieve. Seen one way, that long line of cars is just another pain in the ass inflicted on us. But seen through the lens of the reprieve? It can mean a little more time in the car to listen to that podcast or book, review your upcoming meeting, reflect on a conversation worth revisiting, or simply let your mind wander until traffic picks up again. That rare morning when your little one sleeps in? Some unexpected moments to do with as you wish, whether that be to work, have another cup of coffee, catch up on your own sleep, or putter in the garden. Someone needing time to process before being ready to engage in a respectful and meaningful conversation? Yep. A reprieve that might even save us from our lizard brain reactions. Even our breath can be the tiniest of reprieves. If we pay attention to it.

Reprieves are invitations to rest, if even for a moment, and yet they are so easily missed.

Let’s not miss them.

Let’s notice them, name them, thank them, and let them work their magic on us.

The Reprieve

The Wee-Prieve

A Lifelong Mentor

What is the emotion you are most familiar with? The one that has been your traveling companion since almost before you can remember. Perhaps the one that you’ve spent your life trying to avoid.

Mine is loneliness. Hands down. No question.

Wikipedia defines it as “an unpleasant emotional response to perceived isolation”. How fun does that sound?

However.

Loneliness has helped me become who I am today. She has served as a wise and kind mentor, helping me learn early on to cultivate a friendship with myself. To feel comfortable in my own company. To this day, time alone is a balm, which means I am never without a friend.

She led me to books from my earliest years, introducing me to the multitude of friends that are found in those pages. My favorite Christmas present was, and is, a new book. Books offer their friendship without hesitation. Pick me up. Read me. I’m always here for you.

My love of reading led me to a love of writing. Words on the page are my way of finding meaning in lived experience. Mine. Yours. Ours. Words on the page connect writer to reader and back again, creating friendships with people we may never meet, but come to know intimately.

Writing led me to speaking. Who knew a shy, introverted, sometimes-lonely girl would love standing on a stage, but she does. Speaking is simply a way to embody the words on the page and bring them to life in the presence of others.

I’ve always been one to forge fewer but deeper friendships. While I still wonder if it might have been better to cultivate more, I wouldn’t trade the depth and connection of those on my friend dance card for one with more names on it.

In conversation with my wise spiritual director, Dane, I was reminded again that the gift of loneliness is intimacy. It invites us to forge deeper connections. With ourselves, others, and the natural world. Often when we’re lonely, we aren’t longing for other people as much as we are for our true self. The one we were created to be, and sometimes leave behind, in an attempt to please others. Loneliness isn’t due to a lack of friends, but a lack of connection to oneself.

Loneliness is an invitation to come back home to myself. And you are always welcome to join me there.

What To Do With It

It’s almost impossible to overestimate the impact of the past few years. We’ve muddled our way through a worldwide pandemic, lived in isolation from one another, and divided ourselves into political bunkers. While the pandemic may be behind us, we are still flailing around in its wake, and it’s hard to know what to do with all of the detritus. Where do we put the flotsam and jetsam that comes out as anger, frustration, fear, contempt for those we deem at fault, and judgment of those we disagree with or don’t understand?

It all has to go somewhere. And it does. We weave in and out of traffic at high speed, hang up on the customer service agent when we don’t get the answer we want, refuse to let another car merge into our lane, pound our fists on the desk, throw our cell phones across the room, scream at the chatbot, numb out on whatever we numb out on, and when all else fails, we take it out on whomever is close at hand, including ourselves.

There has to be a better way for us to manage all of this bottled up backwash.

This past Sunday a Zen Buddhist monk visited our church. He began by leading us in a Metta Loving Kindness practice We placed our right hand over our heart, covered it with our left, and then offered this blessing to ourselves. May I be well. May I be happy. May I know love. May I know peace. The practice doesn’t stop there, but is repeated several times towards others. Someone easy to love. Someone hard to love, Someone who has less than us. Someone who is our enemy.

We are, each of us, all of those people to someone. To some I am easy to love, to others not so much. I am a stranger to some, have less than others, and, yes, I am someone’s enemy.

We are all in need of this blessing. We all long to be well and to be happy, to know love and to know peace. Including the driver who won’t let us merge, the developer of the chatbot that doesn’t seem to be artificially intelligent enough to understand our predicament, the stranger on the other end of the phone who can’t—or won’t—give us what we want, the erratic driver on the freeway, those on the other side of the political aisle, and the person at the freeway exit with the sign who we are sure is taking advantage of the system.

What if, when that familiar urge to take it out on something, anything, someone, anyone rises up, we just don’t. What if instead, we quietly, silently, offer the blessing found in this practice, and then let it all go.

May you be well.

May you be happy.

May you know love.

May you know peace.

Can’t hurt. Might help.

Comings and Goings

Almost before my feet hit the floor I could feel the lump forming in my throat. Standing in the kitchen a few minutes later, the tears started to flow. Sad. Lonely. Discouraged. Those were the companions that greeted me yesterday morning. Feeling the urge to grab ahold of them, I took a slow, deep breath instead. Rather than attach myself to them, I quietly named them out loud. This created a tiny space between me and them. Instead of ramping them up a notch with an old story about what they might have to say about me and my life, I poured a cup of fresh French Press Coffee and took a sip. Tom showed up, poured some coffee, and sat next to me.

Climbing into the red pickup a few minutes later, we headed out to meet a friend at the bottom of the logging road we hike a couple of times each week. I invited my feelings to come along if they wanted, which apparently they did. Twenty minutes later we all headed up the 1.7 mile stretch of hallowed ground found on that ordinary dirt logging road. Three humans and two dogs, my emotions bringing up the rear.

Somewhere along the way my emotional companions must have taken another trail, because when we climbed back into the truck an hour later, they were nowhere to be found.

There was nothing to fix or mend or do with those feelings. They weren’t there to derail my day unless I let them. They simply needed to keep me company for a spell. The tears helped. The deep breaths helped. Naming them helped. Tom simply being there helped. A hike with a friend helped. And coffee helped (duh).

By inviting them along, they were free to take their leave.