With, At, or For?

Last week I made a stop at Target before heading back up the Columbia River Gorge and home. I needed a few groceries, a couple of bottles of wine, paper towels, and for good measure and an alert drive home, a Nitro-Brew With Sweet Cream from the Starbucks on my way out.

They didn’t have any of the groceries I needed, the wine selection was subpar at best, so I consoled myself as I checked out with my paper towels that at least I’d be able to enjoy my caffeinated beverage of choice on the drive home. Except they didn’t serve Nitro-brew at that Starbucks. I might have given the barista a dirty look.

Leaving the parking lot, my Irish-throated Siri told me to turn left, but I was pretty sure he’d gotten his directions mixed up, so I told him in no uncertain terms to shut up. Turning right onto the road I reached into my jeans pocket to grab my Visa card (since I no longer carry a handbag into stores thanks to COVID) and put it back into my wallet. Except it wasn’t there. At the next stop light I frantically checked all of my pockets, the floor of the car, my wallet in case I’d forgotten that I’d already put it away, since forgetting things seems to be my latest new skill.

I thought I was going to explode.

Our credit card was compromised a couple of weeks ago and I’d just spent the better part of a day linking the replacement card to all of the necessary merchants and auto-pay accounts, and the thought of having to do it again was enough to do me in. I screamed at the top of my lungs, pulled a u-turn, yelled at every stop light between me and the Target parking lot, and prayed—well more like yelled at God as if it were Her fault—that by some miracle could I please f-ing find my card on the pavement where I’d parked. Which I didn’t.

Stomping back into Target I had to turn around because I’d forgotten my mask. I stomped back to the car, masked up (I’m a believer) and stomped back inside. Where, in short order, my credit card, which had been turned in by a kindly stranger, was safely in my possession. My little tantrum paid off, it just wore me out.

These days I can get so mad so fast that it makes my head spin. Like a Tesla, I can go from 0-60 in 2.3 seconds, and I never know what is going to set me off. If there were Anger Management Cops handing out tickets, I could wallpaper a room with them.

I’m not the only one either. Almost everyone I know is talking about it too. There are plenty of reasons to be majorly pissed off right now, and it can feel really good to be angry with someone or about something. But it’s exhausting too. Every eruption lets off just enough steam to keep going. Until the next outburst.

In the last conversation with my spiritual director, I told him about all of this anger that seems to come out of nowhere and spill out everywhere. As is his way, he let some silence sit between us before asking “I wonder, Molly, what you are angry for?”

What?

Not angry with.

Not angry at.

Angry for.

And just like that I knew what I was angry for, and what I could do about it.

Anger for is a different kind of animal than that which is with or at.

Anger for doesn’t erupt at, but energizes towards. It motivates us to fight for what we want, not against what we don’t. Rather than explode and cause harm, it exposes what is calling for our help. Anger for shines a light on what is missing, which is the first breadcrumb on the path to finding it.

Anger can get a bad rap. We’re taught to push it down, hold it in, or lock it up. Until we can’t. Which is when we get wrapped around the anger axle and take it out in all the wrong ways for all the wrong reasons.

What are you angry for?

Whatever it is, it’s worth fighting for.

A Holy Mess

God comes to us disguised as our life.

Paula D’Arcy

Life is so messy right now. Maybe it always is, but this feels like mess on steroids. Nothing is how it was before the world went into lockdown, which isn’t such a bad thing. The part about nothing being the same as before I mean.

Because if we’re being honest with ourselves, things weren’t working very well before. We’d just gotten used to them.

But still.

Living in the chaos of the unfamiliar is not easy. In fact it’s downright hard and scary and batshit crazy. The way forward is murky at best, and so we are stuck in the mess that is today. So just what are we supposed to do with it? The mess I mean.

To answer that question I have to take you back to my front porch earlier this morning. It was pouring rain and I was listening to a song my niece sent to me called The UK Blessing. Actually, now that I think about it, I have to take you back inside and upstairs earlier this morning. I was on my yoga mat doing a plank while listening to this song on full blast, tears streaming down my face. It just reached inside and grabbed me by the heart and said, this message is for you. Maybe it’s one for you too. The message I mean.

So, back downstairs and out on to the front porch. The rain was pouring down in a cleansing-tears-from-heaven kind of way. I was listening to the song, again, when I got a text from that same niece. She said that she had been listening to it too, because like mine, her life felt a little more than messy. The power in their home had just gone out, and so she decided to light some candles.

Which is the answer to that question. The question of what are we supposed to do with the mess I mean.

We are supposed to light candles in our darkness, let music pour into our souls, and tears stream down our weary faces. We are supposed to make a sanctuary, a holy place, right in the middle of our messy, muddled, murky lives. Whether we believe in God or not, we all believe in Love. Tomato. Tomahto. Life isn’t holy and sacred someplace else. If life is holy and sacred anywhere, it is holy and sacred right here. In the mess I mean.

(With gratitude to Katie Meleney)

Photo by VisionPic .net from Pexels

Okay With Not Being Okay

The other day I screamed at a customer service agent over the phone.

Stop! Just stop talking! Be quiet and let me finish! Thankfully I stopped short of yelling Shut the F#@k up!, but just barely.

It didn’t make me feel any better. How could it? Yelling at him wasn’t okay. But then again, neither was I. My little interchange on the phone was a clue about just how not okay I’d been feeling.

Typically whenever something isn’t okay, my first response is to try and fix it. To try and make it better. To try and get over it so that I can get on with it.

I’m trying not to do that.

I’m trying something new.

I’m trying to be okay with not being okay. It’s a stretch.

After hanging up the phone from yelling at the guy who was trying to help me, I cried for about the ninth time that day. Then I laid on the couch for a while. Then I cried some more. Then I threw the ball to the dog. Then I took a nap. Then I watched the KC Chiefs beat the NE Patriots. Then I ate dinner. Then I watched the GB Packers beat the Atlanta Falcons. Then I took a walk. Then I went to bed. Then I slept. Then I woke up. Then I had a cup of coffee on the front porch in the early morning darkness.

Things weren’t suddenly okay, but somehow that seemed, well, okay.

As I write this, there is a little more breathing room around my not-okayness. And with a little more space, I’m less tempted to run from it and more inclined to reflect on it. Instead of trying to fix it, I find myself turning to face it. Rather than hurrying to get over it, I’m slowing down so as to get something out of it. Because it’s here for a reason, and there are things that can only be discovered when we are anything but okay.

We are in a hurt locker. All of us. We’ve been through hard times before, but not these hard times. We’ve navigated hard things before, but not these hard things. With no end in sight, it only makes sense that there are going to be days when we simply are not okay.

And when we’re not, it is fertile ground for growth.

And I’m okay with that.

Photo: Rancho La Puerta

The Tip Of The Iceberg

This morning my throat hurt. Not from a cold or cough, but from screaming during the Seattle Seahawks’ nail biter of a game yesterday. Apparently I needed to scream. Thankfully the game gave me something to scream at, so that I wouldn’t scream at someone.

We are navigating the most challenging times many of us will ever face, and fear runs deep. Often operating below the surface of simply trying to make it through another day safely, and not freak out at the latest headlines, fear is taking an emotional toll on all of us. Cooped up with others, or living with only ourselves for company, that fear often comes out as anger. Not as necessary righteous anger at the injustice, incompetence, and inequality that has been laid bare, but at others who happen to cross our path at the wrong time.

Anger is the tip of fear’s iceberg.

Rather than take it out on one another, let’s look for healthy ways to express our anger, like a slam ball workout, a punching bag, or splitting wood until your arms ache.

Or.

You can tune into the next Seahawks game this coming Sunday at 10AM.

Photo by Frans Van Heerden from Pexels

Getting Around To It

Meditation has been on my mind for a long time now. It is the spiritual practice I am most drawn to, and yet, I never seem to get around to doing it.

This probably has to do with the fact that there hasn’t been a lovely, carefully designed space in our home in which to sit while doing it. Except the only space required to meditate is the one between my ears.

It could also have to do with the fact that I don’t seem to be able to find a consistent time, every day of course, to do it. Except any time of day can work.

Or it might be that the few times I have done it, nothing seemed to happen. Except the benefit of meditation is in the doing whether anything happens or not.

Perhaps it is because it’s difficult to find a time when the house is quiet and I will be uninterrupted. Except mediation happens in the midst of real life, not off at some silent retreat center.

So.

I’m writing this after having finished meditating smack dab in the middle of the day, within earshot of a visiting daughter doing homework with our grandson at the dining room table, the yaps of their little dog Comet, and the footsteps of my husband as he comes in from some outdoor chores. Nothing happened. I just did it.

It is easy to put up obstacles in our own path.

It’s easy to get rid of them too.

Ommmm

Photo by Shiva Smyth from Pexels

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.

Hope As A Practice

Every day we get to choose whether to give

the microphone to hope or fear.

The choice we make is the life we’ll lead.

Bob Goff

Someone recently shared this quote with me, and I couldn’t agree more. The words ring true in my head and my heart and in my experience.

However.

Especially now, there are days when I am in need of the tiniest of victories, and choosing to listen to the voice of hope in the morning is no guarantee that it will stay with me for the day. Fear can ambush me at any moment, and when it does, I have to choose to pry the microphone out of fear’s ferocious grip, and place it firmly back in the hands of hope. And then do it again. Hope is a practice.

Hope isn’t seeing the silver lining in a pit of despair. It is mining for the gold that is found buried deep in the heart of struggle.

Hope isn’t looking at the bright side of dark realities. It is choosing to be a light in dark times.

Hope isn’t passive. As I was reminded by someone recently, it requires something of us. It calls on us not to just choose it, but to work for it. Not to just wait for it, but to watch for it. To pursue it by pushing toward something better.

Like I said. Hope is a practice.

Photo by egil sjøholt from Pexels

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.

A Reprieve

re·​prieve : a temporary respite (as from pain or trouble)

From our car to the top of the logging road is 1.7 miles, gaining 1000’ of elevation. It is a hike straight uphill to the top with the exception of one very short reprieve, thanks to the one and only switchback near the summit.

The switchback is so short it would be easy to miss it. Easy to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, head down, eyes on the trail, focused only on the effort it takes to make the hike. But every time we get there, and the road levels out for no more than a couple of hundred feet, we take notice. Take notice of the easing of our breath, the strength in our legs, the ground beneath our feet, and the beauty of the views that stretch out before us.

After less than 30 seconds the trail heads uphill again, but that one switchback provides just enough of a reprieve to make that last push to the top seem doable.

Given the immense challenges stretched out before us at this time in history, and the daily grind of our days, it would be easy to miss the tiny reprieves that show up on our trail. Easy to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, heads down, eyes on the trail be it to the end of the day or the end of the pandemic, focused only on the effort it takes to keep going.

If ever we were in need of the tiniest of reprieves it is now.

Noticing that reprieve on the logging road has become a practice, and a reminder to be on the lookout for any temporary respites, no matter how brief, that appear on our path. Taking heed of them might just be what makes our next steps seem doable.

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.