Please Hold

It is snowing like crazy. Roads are closed down. Cars are in the ditch. Businesses are closed due to the weather. Grocery stores are short on eggs. Flights are being cancelled. Schools are on snow days. Plans are being put on hold. Earlier this morning our neighbor came to plow our road, and in the process got his rig stuck in the ditch. A few minutes later my husband and two other neighbors rallied together with snow shovels, tow straps, and pickup trucks to pull him out.

In short, it’s winter. The days are short, the nights long, and there is an otherworldly stillness that fills the air with the sound of silence.

Winter is a reminder that life is unpredictable. It can change in a heart murmur, a snowstorm, an icy patch of road, or a power outage. It’s a time to remember that we are meant to rely on one another. Check in with each other. Share a meal, lend a hand, and maybe a snow shovel.

Winter is a reminder of the importance of slowing down and allowing life to come to just short of a halt. We ignore these slower days at our own peril. Times of dormancy are necessary for life to spring forth in new ways. In nature, and, in our bodies, our work, and our souls.

Winter is a reminder to be present to the here and nowness of our lives. It invites us to set aside our to-do lists and settle in for a spell. Lord willing and the creek don’t freeze, there will be ample time to get back into the groove of doing. This short season offers the possibility of establishing a pace and a rhythm for the year before the year establishes one for us.

I’m writing this as I am on what might be a five-hour hold time to book reservations for a much anticipated trip to Scotland later this year. The snow continues to fall outside my window. There are good leftovers in the fridge for dinner, firewood is stacked on the porch, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are in the playoffs, and I’m at my desk writing.

Winter is life’s way of putting us on hold. Minus the elevator music.

When Why Gets In the Way of How

In a recent episode of the NEXT RIGHT THING podcast, Emily P. Freeman asked two simple yet powerful questions worth considering as we step over the threshold into a new year. What worked in 2023? and, What didn’t work? As I recall, in the podcast she speaks to the first question, and will be pondering the second in her end-of-the-month newsletter.

Both are great questions worthy of some serious consideration, and I plan on doing a deep dive into each of them. But the one that grabbed me first was actually what didn’t work in 2023. Easy answer: Not having a regular writing practice. I love writing. I’m better when I write. I’m more grounded when I write. I’m less reactive when I write. I’m happier when I write. In short, I’m a nicer human when I write.

These aren’t new insights, and I’ve known this about myself for a long time. So, why didn’t I establish a regular writing practice? Who knows? And furthermore, who cares?

Now, there are times when it is worth diving down the rabbit holes of our inner landscape. Truly. Self-inquiry matters, and I’m a big fan and typically a big practitioner. However, in this case, rather than dig in and figure it out, I’m just going to start writing again. Figuring out why, in this case, would simply be another distraction standing between me and my desk.

Sometimes trying to understand the why keeps us from getting to the how. And in this case, getting to the how is pretty simple. Start writing again.

Is there anything on your mind that doesn’t need an answer to why, but is waiting for you to jump into the how?

(With gratitude to Emily P. Freeman for her always good work!)

Hot Coffee On A Cold Porch

It was minus 10 degrees this morning. As is our custom, we sat on the front porch with our insulated mugs of steaming Sleepy Monk coffee, all bundled up with multiple layers, fleece blankets, wool beanies and warm gloves.

No one would have blamed us if we had decided to stay inside where it was warm and toasty for our morning ritual of coffee, connection, and a little contemplative reading. It was below zero for crying out loud. But somehow, doing what it takes to preserve and protect that practice, come what may, is worth the effort. For now.

It’s not a rigid, letter-of-the-law rule by which we have to abide, but rather, a choice worth making. For now.

It’s a time together at the beginning of the day that sustains and better equips us for whatever life brings our way. For now.

There’s nothing sacred or magic about coffee on a porch. That is found in the showing up. In the readiness to listen. In the openness to receive. In the possibility of being connected to and changed by something way bigger than two elders who love each other and a good cup of coffee. It just happens to take place, for us, over coffee on a porch.

That’s the ritual that sustains us. For now.

That’s the practice that equips us. For now.

That’s the choice worth making. For now.

What might yours be? For now.

Dancing In The Dark

We take a nightly walk down our road before crawling into bed, and the sky never disappoints.

Pitch black and heavy with clouds, it is a reminder that we rarely, if ever, see the whole picture. That our view is always obscured by our own experience.

A sky filled with stars lulls us into believing that we do see the whole picture. So captivated by their light, we forget that the stars we are looking at may no longer exist.

And occasionally we are treated to the biggest news of all. That it all belongs. The darkness and the light. Dance partners, both are necessary, and only made visible because of the other.

These are difficult times. Perhaps they have always been, but right now, these are our hard times. Darkness and fear loom over the future. In the world. In the news. In our hearts. And most of us have no idea what to do with all of that fear and all of that darkness.

A walk in the night might be a good start.

Photo: Tom Pierson-the light of my life

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

On Holy Ground

Yesterday morning we parked in our usual spot at the bottom of the hill. Getting out of the car, I put on my pack, lengthened my trekking poles, and was ready for another trip to the top of the logging road. Uncertain of what the trip up - and down - would feel like given a recent, but unspecified, injury to my right knee, I waited uneasily for Tom to lock the car and join me.

I have no idea what I did to that knee, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Swelling, pain, instability. That kind of not good, and our upcoming hike into the crater at Mt. St. Helens in two weeks was looming especially large in my soul that morning. The hike is no small thing. 10 miles round trip over uneven terrain, some gnarly trails and boulders, no shade, and plenty of elevation gain, a girl wants to be able to put her best almost 70-year-old knee(s) forward. Not to mention the fact that Tom is the geologist who will accompany those who have paid a pretty penny for this bucket list trip, and I want to keep up with his almost 76-year-old knees.

I have the never-to-be-taken-for-granted privilege of easy access to incredible healthcare, including a stellar physical therapist. Working with her, icing and elevating my knee, self-massage, targeted stretching and exercises, things were improving. But still…

Tom walked up with a look I’ve come to recognize. It is a look that signals his certainty for what is called for in that particular moment. Bending down, he laid both hands on that troubled right knee. And prayed. Out loud. For strength and healing and ease.

And then we headed up the hill.

And it felt good.

His wasn’t a “name it and claim it prayer” for which tele-evangelists are famous, and sometimes go to jail for. It wasn’t a plea for divine intervention. It was simply an acknowledgement of the sacred in the midst of our everyday lives. Of a Loving Presence that is greater than we can possibly imagine and closer than we will ever know.

His quiet words, spoken out loud, were a reminder that wherever we are, we are standing on holy ground.

Mt. St. Helens—Into The Crater Hike—2019

(Stay tuned for 2023)

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.