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.

pexels-magda-ehlers-561870.jpg



Another Country Heard From

Back in the day, when my daughters were growing up, they along with their cousins had the good fortune to spend time with my parents. Sometimes it was just the grandkids from one set of parents there, other times the whole gang. The little ones had a lot in common, especially given the fact that they were all very close in age. It would have been easy to simply treat them as one big troop of grandkids gathered under one roof. Such was not the case.

In the morning as another set of footsteps descended the stairs and a new little sleepyhead wandered into the kitchen, our mom would call out, “Another country heard from.”

The dictionary defines a country as a nation with its own government, occupying a particular territory. And that is exactly how she saw each of her grandchildren—little people with growing degrees of agency over their own little lives, and occupying their own unique space in our shared familial territory. Each one their own unique force to be reckoned with, their inner workings understood, and all worthy of being seen, heard, loved, and accepted.

What if we could learn to see the world that way?

What if we began to recognize others, regardless of where they are from, who they love, what they believe, and how they look, as a unique part of the whole, and each worthy of being seen, heard, loved, and accepted.

Another country heard from.

Together, we make up the whole world.

Photo: pixels.com

Photo: pixels.com



A Molten Moment

Nobody is going to make this easy for us once on the other side of this life-altering time when things will supposedly return to normal. Except they won’t, or at least they don’t have to. Not if normal means how things were before, not the possibility of what they can be in the future

Living under conditions that separate us from one another, we remember that we are all connected, and that our individual survival is hardwired with that of the collective.

As the price of oil plummets, we can almost hear the sound of Earth catching her breath. The absence of noise reminds us to listen the deep quiet beneath it all.

Living as we are, under our own microscopes, everything about us is magnified. On any given day, the best of us might make her presence know, or be completely overshadowed by the worst, Most days it is a dance between the two, and the invitation at our feet is to learn to let the better angels of our nature take the lead.

We are discovering just how little we really need, and how much we don’t.

We are remembering what it means to be neighbors again. As we care for one another the world becomes a safer place, and while tribalism might have kept us alive in the past, it will do nothing but insure our demise in the future.

The powers that be are going to work mightily to persuade us to forget the hard-earned wisdom that we belong to one another and are indeed one another’s keepers including the care for this fragile planet we all call home.

This is a molten moment.

We have the chance to be changed for the greater good, and our calling is to remember what we are learning in the here and now once we step back out into our shared world of the there and then.

No matter what anyone tells us, and I mean anyone, things will not return to normal. At least that is my deepest hope and my most fervent prayer.

Photo: USGS

Photo: USGS




Green-Screening Your Life

This morning I texted good friends a photo of us from our snowshoeing adventure on the flanks of Mt. Hood. It was a glorious Pacific NW day, with brilliant blue skies, blazing sunshine, and Wy-East, as he is known to our Native American sisters and brothers, was out in all his glory. It was the kind of day that takes your breath away and reminds you of how amazing it is to be alive, and I wanted to share it.

Almost immediately a text came zooming back.

That’s some impressive green screen work... 😂

It made me laugh out loud.

But you know…he has a point.

It can be hard to tell real from fiction when it comes to what our lives actually look like. It is tempting to put ourselves in the best light possible, not wanting others to see our private struggles. We can carefully curate our lives with a backdrop that displays only that which is Instagram worthy, fearing what others might think if they saw the unfiltered truth of our everyday lives.

I’m not talking about disclosing in public spaces that which is in need of safe haven. There is way too much of that for anyone’s good. What I am advocating is that we find our people. Those with whom we can show up raw and uncensored, and speak our unfiltered truth. People who love us not in spite of our scars and imperfections, but at least in part, because of them. In other words, we need friends who can smell our green screen bullshit a mile away and gently, but firmly, call us on it. Because if I can’t tell you the real story of my life, then you might not tell me yours, and if we can’t see ourselves in one another’s stories, then where can we?

As tempted as I am with every passing year to use one of those nifty little apps that smoothe away my hard-earned lines and wrinkles, I sent this one off as is. What was great about this little text exchange today is that it came from a friend who already knows the real-meal-deal of who I am and what I struggle with. I guess you might call it the kind of friendship that is picture post card worthy. No green screen required.

IMG_1582.jpeg

Blast From The Past

In 2006 one of my daughters was a 20-year-old college student, living in a 300 sq. ft. apartment in Missoula, Montana. One day shortly after one of those Family Weekends where we parents make endless runs to Target, fold piles of laundry, and scream our hearts out at football games, she wrote me a lovely card to thank me for the time, the meals out, and whatever we brought home from Target to make her space feel cozy.

She addressed it, sealed it, and stuck it in a drawer somewhere.

This last weekend she unearthed that un-mailed card when she and her husband cleaned out their garage. Today over coffee, my now 34-year-old daughter and I opened that card. It was filled with wonderful words of love and appreciation, and two checks written to pay me back for something or other. It had found its way me at long last, and, in perfect timing.

Sometimes a blast from the past is exactly what we need for the here and now.

( And no, I’m not going to cash those checks.)



Unnoticed Resources

One of my favorite exercises when working with teams involves a can of Tinkertoys. At the end of the activity, in which each team has been given a can of these wooden toys with which to complete an assigned task, we debrief the lessons learned. While there are many that come out of it, my favorite is the discovery of unnoticed resources that are close at hand but rarely used. Resources that are so close and so familiar that we lose sight of their value. This insight certainly applies to the workplace, but it applies everywhere else as well.

One such resource is right outside our door back door, and it is our gravel road. The obvious purpose of the road is access to and from our home. But that ordinary gravel road has so much more hidden value than merely a way to come and go.

On that gravel road, new friendships have been born and old ones renewed.On that gravel road, old wounds have been uncovered so that reconciliation could occur.

On that gravel road, many a writer’s block has been removed.

On that gravel road, thoughts are cleared, problems resolved, questions answered, and the frustration of a Seahawks loss fades away (almost).

On that gravel road, thresholds have been crossed and lives changed. (Hello BLUSH: Women & Wine-page 6)

On that gravel road, a dog takes her humans for a daily walk.

On that gravel road, the courage is found to ask for help.

On that gravel road, it becomes safe to have courageous conversations and to ponder scary questions.

On that gravel road, bodies are moved, hearts are strengthened, and lungs are filled with clear, mountain air.

And, on that gravel road, marriages are strengthened, children loved, babies held, and life is shared.

If an ordinary gravel road, right outside our door can provide so much value, how many other unnoticed resources are close at hand just waiting to be discovered?

IMG_1247.jpeg

Prime Time

Community is a place where the connections felt in our hearts make themselves known in the bonds between people, and where the tuggings and pullings of those bonds keep opening our hearts. ~ Parker Palmer

Tonight there was a fund raiser in our little town. A prime rib dinner no less, where pounds and pounds of beef were cooked to perfection by one of our own, along with foil wrapped baked potatoes, green salad and homemade desserts. Volunteers sliced and scooped and served and cleared. The money raised will support the senior class, which depending on the year ranges in size from one to three students.

It’s been a long week, and I for one was bone tired, but in a time when there is so much that pulls us apart, it was good to come together to sit around paper covered cafeteria tables with our neighbors, catch up on the goings on in our lives, and remember that come what may, we are all in this life together.

IMG_0768 2.jpeg

Story Time

“You have to understand, my dears, that the shortest distance between truth and a human being is a story.”

~ Anthony De Mello

“The shortest distance between two people is a story.”

~ Patti Digh

Finding our way to the truth can be tricky.

A story can help.

Finding our way to one another can be tricky.

A story can help.

If ever we needed to live in the truth, and in connection to one another, it is now. Sharing our stories is a good place to start.

Photo by Maël BALLAND from Pexels

Photo by Maël BALLAND from Pexels



You Are Welcome

We live on Inclusivity Lane. A half mile stretch of gravel road, it meanders along the edge of the pine woods and open meadow leading to our driveway.

I love that we live on a road called Inclusivity. It’s a conversation starter for sure, and I never wait for people to ask when giving them our address, I just go ahead and spell it for them. But the reason I really love it is because of the message it sends.

You are welcome here.

In a few hours, our family will start to arrive for Rodeo Weekend, and a rite of passage is that once off the main road and onto ours, one of the “littles”, as we call them, climbs onto the lap of the parent that is driving the car, and takes over ( with help of course). The car creeps along, zigging this way, and zagging that, until they come to a stop and everyone pours out of the car. 

There will be about 26 people this year camping out under the pines, tucked into a guest room or the Airstream Trailer parked across the driveway, gathering for morning coffee by an outdoor fire as the sun hits the mountain, cheering on the cowboys and cowgirls at the Rodeo, riding in the parade through town, holding babies, and sharing KP duty.

It’s simply the best.

It’s the best not because we are all the same, but because we aren’t. While we hold many things in common, there are plenty that we don’t. We love each other deeply and are connected and committed, not because of our similarities but in spite of our differences. 

That is why living on this road makes me so happy. 

If  you find your way to our little town, keep an eye out for Inclusivity Lane and wind your way to our home.

You are welcome here.

IMG_1423.JPG

The Icing On The Cake

Somewhere in a kitchen a long, long time ago a family tradition was born. That tradition is known as the caramel icing cake. A white cake, made from scratch, went into the oven. Meanwhile, on what was likely a wood burning stove, the icing simmered along. As the cakes cooled on a rack in that long ago kitchen, a watchful eye was necessary, as the icing could quickly turn from what candy makers call the soft-ball stage to hard-ball stage in the blink of a weary eye. Once the mixture reached the perfect consistency, a cube of butter was beaten into the icing with a wooden spoon, and it was time to ice the cake. This was no small task as our paternal grandmother dipped a knife into cool water in between every spoonful of icing dropped on the cake, and then spread it quickly yet gently so as not to tear the cake. It would have been easier with two sets of hands, and sometimes that extra set belonged to our dad.

The caramel icing cake made it into our family kitchen, and onto the table for birthdays. Dad made the icing and Mom baked the cake, but try as she might, according to him, her cake never measured up to “Mother’s”, which is of course, what every woman longs for her husband to say after she has stayed up late in the kitchen,  after everyone else is in bed, to make the family cake. Again. Truth be told, the cake, his mom’s recipe of course, wasn’t very good. In fact it was downright dry. So……….. One year, our mom secretly bought a box of cake mix, the kind with pudding in it, baked the cake, and threw out the box before he was any the wiser. He probably complimented her on finally getting “Mother’s” recipe right. She probably just smiled. As they say, ignorance is bliss. So is caramel icing. It contains more sugar that you can imagine, and is so rich and sweet it actually hurts your teeth. But in a good way.

If it had been left up to me, the tradition would have passed into family history when the baker and the caramel icing maker passed away. Thankfully, my sister Margie picked up the baton, or in this case, the wooden spoon used to beat the butter into the icing. She learned how to make it along side our dad, and now she is passing it on to the next generation. As they make it alongside her, there is more passed on than just a recipe. Dumping the cake mix from the box, they remember that finding your own way instead of trying to measure up to someone else’s is a delicious way to live. Keeping a mindful eye on the frosting, never rushing it, checking it regularly, and recognizing when it is ready reminds them that patience and persistence pay off. Icing the cake together, they discover that many hands make light work. Of a cake, or almost anything else for that matter.

When it comes to the caramel icing cake, a few things will never change.

Always, always, always use a cake mix with pudding in it, and hold your head up high when you do.

Secure the layers together with tooth picks so they don’t slide apart when icing the cake.

Make a batch and a half of icing, because, well, just because. The family cake isn’t the place to skimp.

Hide it before the party, unless you want to find half of the frosting gone before ever lighting the candles.

The icing tastes as good on your finger as it does on the cake. Especially with your first cup of coffee in the morning the day after the birthday party.

One thing has changed.

Because the cake is simply the vehicle for the frosting, a cupcake will do just as well. Probably better. Less cake, more frosting.

This year, my niece Katie, Margie’s youngest daughter, made her first batch of caramel icing cupcakes all on her own for two-year old Harper Joy’s birthday party.

When it comes to the sweetness of family, a savored tradition is the icing on the cake.

58129039504__3348DEFD-1A4D-4162-953C-55283BDC9D0C.jpeg