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.

No More Kicking Cans

to kick the can down the road:

put off confronting a difficult issue or making an important decision, typically on a continuing basis

Recently, but prior to George Floyd’s death, these two sentences came to mind.

No more kicking cans down the road. There is no more road left.

With those words came an image. An accumulation of cans piled up against a barrier. Each can had a word on it that identified one of those difficult issues and important decisions that have persistently been put off. Cans that we have continued to kick down the road. I could see the cans. It took longer for the barrier that stopped them to come into view. Was it a brick wall? One of those concrete barriers you see on the New Jersey turnpike? Or maybe, the gates around the White House?

Squinting my inner eyes, I finally saw it. The barrier was the Earth herself, drops of sweat on her weary brow from the effects of climate change, wearing a mask like the ones we wear to protect one another from spreading COVID-19. The global pandemic has exposed this pile of cans for what it is. The accumulation of years of unwillingness to do the right thing, take the long view, and reckon with our own tendencies to look out for me and mine, while looking away from them and theirs.

Then George Floyd was murdered.

He pleaded with the man with the knee on his neck, telling him repeatedly, that he couldn’t breathe. He pleaded until he ran out of air. And then he was dead.

The Earth, against which all of those cans have been kicked, is telling us that she can’t breathe.

Words alone wouldn’t communicate what I was thinking and feeling, and while I might have a bit of a way with words, not so much with colored pens and pencils. That’s when I called my friend Willa. A sophomore in high school with a heart that is deep and wide, Willa has a keen intellect, and a grasp of the world far beyond her years. I want to be like Willa when I grow up.

I asked if she would consider drawing something to capture what I had seen in my mind’s eye.

She would.

And she did.

Except not exactly.

She took what I said, filtered it through her own lens, and came up with something so much better. Something more powerful, and disturbingly accurate—the Earth in full protest. Willa saw what I couldn’t. The cans are not heaped in a pile waiting to be picked up. It’s too late for that. They’ve all ruptured. Their contents have spilled out all over everything, and we have to deal with the mess we have made of the world. Starting with the racism that has been laid bare. In my mind, racism has been its own separate issue. That’s because I am white. To anyone who is not white, the impacts of racism are felt within the context of every other issue filling the skies above the protesting Earth. Yes, white people are impacted by these issues too. But not simply because they are white.

No more kicking cans down the road. There is no more road left.

Earth is calling us to action. To not only take to the streets in protest against what is wrong, but to lace up our shoes and get to work for what is right.

Look at her.

Feet firmly planted, her fists raised in defiance, she is simply not going to take it any more.

We can’t either.

With gratitude to Willa McLaughlin

The Whole Picture

I’ve worn bifocals for years. They allow me to see both near and far, read, and safely drive a car. Without my dual lenses life would become a bit one-dimensional.

The state in which we find ourselves today, where the racism upon which this country was built and continues to be sustained, has been laid bare. The needs that must be addressed have been brought into sharp focus, and we must not look away. It is difficult to view life through any other lens.

The danger in only seeing the world through a single lens is that we become one-dimensional people.

Lately, whenever I turn my attention elsewhere, away from the shame of our racist past and my part in it, the pain of our racist present, and the threat of a continuing racist future, I feel a little guilty. Like I am being shallow or selfish for finding moments of hilarity, causes for joy, or the simple pleasures found in a good novel, good food, good wine, or a hike in the woods. How can I allow myself to feel good when there is so much bad to be reckoned with?

I let myself feel good because I must.

We all must.

We must stay connected to our innate goodness in order to oppose that which is bad.

We must laugh every chance we get because a merry heart does good like a medicine. And when it comes to the virus of racism, we are all called to be healers. Especially if we are white.

We must find causes for joy so that we can address the issues that are causing such deep sorrow.

We must delight in simple pleasures lest we give up because it is simply too hard.

We must never lose sight of the whole picture.

Six Words

Last week I read a post on FB shared by a woman I’ve known for many years. While the words were not hers, they accurately speak of what she is feeling and experiencing after the murder of George Floyd. The post was hard to read. It was raw, real, and filled with righteous anger. I wanted to stop reading part way through. I wanted to look away. For perhaps the first time in my 66 years I didn’t. I kept reading. Six words began to echo inside.

I am part of the problem. I am part of the problem. I am part of the problem.

Letting those six words in wasn’t easy, but it was too late. They were already in. Looking for a way out I jumped to problem solving. What can I do to become part of the solution? That’s the deal with most of us. We see a problem and want to do something to fix it. To make the problem go away. The problem with doing something is that it can be a convenient way to avoid an inconvenient truth—I am part of the problem.

Before I can become a part of the solution, I have to be willing to encounter the ways in which I am responsible for the racism upon which this country was built and continues to run. I have to be willing to do nothing but sit with the awful discomfort of accepting my own responsibility in bringing about this moment in which we all find ourselves.

So maybe doing nothing is actually doing something.

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Since reading that FB post, I continue to sit with the many difficult emotions that arise. As things to do emerge, I do them. But what I am also coming to know is that doing nothing, staying put, sitting in the midst of the ugly emotional mess is actually doing something. It is changing me.

I am part of the solution.

Time to go do something.

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A very short list of possible things to do:

Watch the video of George Floyd’s murder and bear witness to his death.

Watch the video of George Floyd’s funeral and bear witness to his life.

Read this FB post by Dara Njeri (noted above)

Make financial donations to organizations that are diligently and effectively working to address racism in all its forms and its impacts on our fellow citizens of color.

Join the MLPP 21-Day Anti-Racist Challenge.

Speak up.

Read books that are hard to read. (A few lists to check out: NPR, USA Today, Chicago Sun-Times

Choose love over fear.

Do your work to become the best version of yourself. Get a therapist. Engage a spiritual director. Face your shit, own your shit, and heal your shit. The world needs the best we have to offer.

Support and vote for candidates that get it and will do something about it.

Cultivate joy, appreciation, gratitude, and curiosity.

Practice radical hope in the midst of all that feels hopeless.

Be willing to make mistakes and learn from them.

Risk saying it wrong in order to learn how to say it right. (Watch this video by Jay Smooth to learn more.)

Stay in community.

Challenge your community.

Enlarge your community.

Extend love and grace to all, including yourself.

We are part of the solution.

Going Without

I am currently in the middle of a two-week cleanse. Today is the second day of consuming only water and diluted vegetable and fruit juices. Sometimes we do something for one reason only to to find out that there are other discoveries to be made along the way. In this case I set out to reap the benefits for my physical health and well being, and was surprised to uncover the value to be found in the act of going without.

I love good food. Shopping for it, cooking it, sharing it, and of course, eating it. Nothing wrong with that. However, as I am noticing during these days of caloric restriction, I take food, not to mention abundant, healthy, fresh, delicious, and readily accessible food for granted. As I experience a few mild hunger pangs, I am reminded of just how much I don’t like being hungry, and when I am there is an easy fix always at the ready. The refrigerator is full of good food, the pantry stocked, grocery stores and farm stands are within easy reach, and should I find myself on an empty stomach during a day in town, there are restaurants offering delicious take-out.

Hunger is simply not an issue for me.

The hunger games however, are real.

About 1 in 10 people in the world experience chronic hunger. Even before the COVID-19 crisis hit, hunger was a daily reality for millions of our fellow citizens. While the pandemic may limit some of the foods I typically purchase, I will not be among those who, already accustomed to hunger as a way of life, will be even more deeply impacted by food shortages and food deserts. By some estimates, COVID-19 could double world hunger rates. The inequity in pay received for work done is under even brighter light as many workers, now deemed essential, must continue to subsist on less than a living wage. Those without work face an even bleaker picture.

There is enough food produced on the planet to feed 1.5 x the world population. It is a solvable problem. We all have a part to play. Exactly what that part is, I’m not sure. What I do know, in part for having chosen to go without for a very short time, is that being well fed is a privilege. But it shouldn’t be.

Photo by Magda Ehlers from Pexels

Emotional Weight Lifting

Whether in actual physical proximity to people I care deeply about, or through a virtual connection that is the lifeline of relationship during this time of shared crisis, I feel untethered from my ability to connect with people. Some of the most basic navigational tools I’ve come to rely on are not available at present. No longer able to share a hug, I’m left to rely on my words. Unable to reach out and touch a shoulder, the tone of my voice must convey nuance. Facial expressions are stand-ins for the holding tight of hands, eye contact takes the place of a kiss, and tears that flow more freely than usual have to suffice for the comfort of a long embrace.

Strangely, the ways in which we have become accustomed to connecting to one another now put us all at risk. If we truly want to care for one another, we are being challenged to find new ways of being in relationship with one another. It often feels like trying to complete an intricate task with one hand tied behind my back, or navigate through the house blindfolded. I know what I’m trying to accomplish and where I want to go, but with only half of my relationship wheelhouse available.

It makes me wonder.

How often do we substitute easy contact for real communication and familiar gestures for genuine connection? Perhaps this time of separation, isolation, and physical distancing is a call to forge even deeper connections, hold each other close even when we are alone, and practice going it together even as we stand apart.

Learning to be in relationship without all of our usual resources is really hard work. It is tiring to the point of exhaustion. In many ways it’s like weight-lifting. The only way to get stronger is through repetition, increased effort, pushing past previous limits, and giving ourselves time to rest and recover.

And then going at it again.

Photo: Leon Martinez on pexels.com

The Sound Of Silence

Silence.

It has been one of the most profound markers of this global pandemic. Not simply the lack of surface noise, but the presence of a deep quiet. It is, as many have noted, as if the Earth is catching her breath. Not gasping for air, but quietly inhaling and exhaling in the way one does when in a deep and restful sleep.

It is as if silence is the container in which creation is meant to reside, and it must have been here all along, as in forever. But it took the absence of manmade sound for it to quietly slip into my awareness. In just 6 short weeks I have come to depend upon the presence of this ancient silence. It has permeated my interior landscape and quieted my inner thoughts, and I never want to lose it again.

This morning, for the first time in many weeks, that deep silence was broken. Shortly after sunrise the sounds of big equipment rang across the valley. Someone, somewhere nearby, was dropping trees and moving dirt, the sound of human voices raised above the mechanical din, and try as I might, I could no longer locate the silence. It has been punctured by the sounds of people engaged in work that must have felt important to them, and yet in that moment I was filled with the kind of sadness that accompanies the loss of someone or something precious.

It was grief, pure and simple. The silence was gone.

It was tempting to place blame on those doing the work, or find fault with the people pushing to lift the restrictions meant to safeguard us too quickly. Doing so would have felt far better than sitting with the sadness. However, as the equipment continued to do what it was doing, I tried to let that sadness do what it was doing. As painful as it is, our sadness always points us toward something we hold dear.

Even as I understand that we must carefully begin to emerge from this time of quarantine and sheltering-in-place, I am deeply afraid of losing what has been gained during this time of mutual sacrifice for the common good. Of forgetting what has been remembered, and of discarding what has been discovered. Silence is one such thing.

Whatever work was being done just beyond the trees surrounding our property came to an end. The sound of heavy equipment and the people operating it stopped, and there it was. The deep silence, that container within which we all reside, was still there. And it always will be. If I lose touch with it again, there is no one to blame but me.

Sabbath

When we consecrate a time to listen to the still, small voices, we remember the root of inner wisdom that makes work fruitful. We remember from where we are most deeply nourished, and see more clearly the shape and texture of the people and things before us.” 

~ Wayne Muller, Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in our Busy Lives

For the last 575 days I have written something to share here with my readers. Most of those days the daily practice of writing has been life giving, and, on the ones when it wasn’t, it still fed me in meaningful and fruitful ways.

Today, I find myself in need of rest. A kind of sabbath of sorts from the sifting and sorting through the questions that intrigue me, the ideas that captivate me, and putting those thoughts into words that I hope will resonate with others. I will never stop sifting and sorting and working to put those thoughts into the world. That, it seems, is part of what I am here to do.

For now, however, I will share my thoughts here as I feel inspired, but I am also consecrating a time to listen, and to find nourishment that will bear fruit in my life, the world around me, and on the page.

Thank you for every step you’ve walked with me till now. I can’t wait to meet again further down the trail.

Photo: Tom Pierson