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.

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.

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.

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.

America The Jazzy

My friend Tim is a jazz musician. Sunday, July 2, he played his own jazz rendition of America The Beautiful as a part of the service at our open-and-affirming-all-are-welcome-at-the-table church. It was a gorgeous musical offering as we sat looking out over the spectacular Columbia River Gorge, Mt. Hood looming tall and jagged and proud in the distance. Tim’s take on this classic American song had a beautiful but subtle dissonance to it. Dissonant describes noise that is out of harmony. It paints a picture of things that are in stark disagreement.

We are out of step with our fellow citizens, our voices out of harmony, and our ways of dealing with the issues we all face often in stark disagreement. What if jazz has something to teach us about how to be better Americans together as we wake up this Fourth of July, 2023?

Not being a jazz aficionado, a quick search turned up the following: Jazz has its roots in the African-Amercian communities of New Orleans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and is often characterized by improvisation and syncopation.

• To improvise means to perform without rigid preparation, and to work with what is at hand. Improvisation is an invitation to let go of the notes on the page and be led instead by your ear and your heart. It isn’t about doing it the right way but about finding your way to new, possibly-never-before-heard music.

• Syncopation means stressing the normally unaccented beats. Those that are typically the strong ones take a back seat, stressing the beats that are generally not emphasized.

What if we began improvising a new America? One in which we let go of the rigid ways of thinking and doing that got us here in the first place, and let ourselves be led by our hearts and not the party line clamoring for our vote and our dollar.

What if we began to shake up the American way? Stressing the normally unaccented beats, and not suppressing the voices that have so much to contribute to our collective music.

Improvisation can be scary as hell, with notes that occasionally hurt the ear. But if we keep going, it can bring forth music more beautiful than any we could imagine. Syncopation catches us off guard. It can knock us off of our comfortable well worn course, which is our only hope of ever finding a new one.

America The Beautiful isn’t a proclamation.

It’s an invitation to sing a new song.

Together.

May God shed her grace on all.

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.