Happy Anniversary X 4

On April 11, 2020, we took our first hike up a nearby logging road. In the midst of the early days of the pandemic, we needed exercise that didn’t require a gym or Peloton, and, we needed fresh air. That 1.7 mile trek, with a 1000’ of elevation gain, checked all of the boxes.

At first, it was simply a way to stay healthy and strong, and we made a commitment to do it whether we felt like it or not.

At first, it was just a logging road, used by county utility workers, ranchers on the look out for free range cattle, hunters, and us.

At first, it was just something we did because we’d decided to do it.

Today, April 11, 2024, four years to the day since that first trip up, and with over 350 trips behind us, the logging road has shown herself to be holy ground, quietly supporting us as we make our way up and back, up and back, up and back. The trees—fir, pine, oak—the wildlife—deer, elk, turkeys, jays, squirrels, hares, coyotes, raptors, bears—all remind us that we are never alone, but surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.

Four years later, we wouldn’t miss it. That road has kept her promise to help us stay healthy and strong.

Four years later, hers is a sacred path we are privileged to walk.

Four years later, we do it because we can’t imagine not.

April 11, 2020

April 10, 2024

Wake-up Call

It’s a blustery spring day here. Blue sky, clouds—some dark and ominous, others white and billowy—race across the sky, gusts of wind cause pine trees to sway, drops of rain splatter windshields, and brilliant sunshine all come together to inhabit the masterpiece that is this day.

It is as if the earth is trying to shake itself awake.

And it’s working.

Everywhere there is evidence of new life. Tiny calves arrive in the pastures. Ranchers plow and plant the fields. Buds burst on branches, wildflowers appear according to some anciently choreographed order, and blossoms turn orchards white and pink with the possibility of another fruitful season.

It happens every year. The earth knows when to wake up and tend to that which is ready to grow. If we pay attention we’ll find that we are living within the pages of nature’s handbook. A dummies guide to a fruitful life.

Spring is a reminder to shake ourselves awake and tend to whatever is ready to inhabit the masterpiece that is our life.

What Have You Been Up To?

“What have you been up to lately, Molly?” a good friend asked me this morning. For the life of me, I couldn’t really come up with an answer. Or at least not one that felt worth giving. Which did not feel good. At all.

It’s been a fallow season. Already three months into the year, and not much to show for it. Not in the tangible sense anyway. No book outline, new website, Substack presence, or speaking possibilities on the horizon. All of which are humming along on my internal radar, but are not outwardly in the works. Yet.

So what have I been up to lately? I guess simply living, one ordinary day at a time. Which come to think of it, is kind of extraordinary, because to even be alive in the first place is a miracle in and of itself.

Like the earth, the humus in which our life grows needs seasons of quiet. Times of rest. Stretches of time during which the compost of what we’ve contributed up until now can enrich the soil in which the new seeds of our life can take root and grow.

If you are going through a time when you haven’t been up to much lately, take heart. All that we’ve done before is meant to be the fertile ground for what is still to come. Even when that is simply living, one ordinary day at a time.

Better Off Said

I don’t even remember what the conversation was about. But at some point this past week, as we sat talking over our morning coffee, something that had previously been unsaid, was shared. Those few words connected dots that hadn’t made sense. Colored in the outline that my imagination had been attempting to fill, and as is usually the case, the real picture was much less scary than the imagined one.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t monumental, but it mattered. It wasn’t a big reveal, but a small revelation. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was the real deal.

How often, I wonder, do we keep things to ourselves that would be better off shared? Hold back for fear of what will happen if we actually disclose what we’ve kept to ourselves?

Maybe that’s some of the good, hard work of relationships. Especially our closest ones. To disclose what has previously been held back. To say what’s been waiting to be said. To share our thought bubbles, as scary as that might sound on a good day, much less a rough one.

Yes, some things are better left unsaid. But what about the ones that aren’t?

Here's My Card

On a whim I decided to create new business cards. It was an exercise to clarify and communicate who I am and what I’m about. In business, and in life. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

I asked my husband to snap a few photos. The camera is rarely my friend, so I wasn’t overly optimistic that he’d capture an image that would capture me in an authentic and real way. But I’ll be go to hell, he did.

The photo became the front of the card. It makes a statement. Here I am. What you see here is what you’ll get there.

Underneath the card, my name. Because with all due respect to The Bard, our name matters. It contains our whole life story. Given to us when we’re born, we’ll be remembered by it after we’re gone.

Underneath my name, what I do. Because what we do matters too. Writing and speaking are two of the ways I connect life’s many dots, and share what I discover with others. My work is always about finding ways for us to more closely connect who we are with how we live. In business, and in life. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

The back of the card contains the usual contact information. Because connection matters too. As human beings we are hard wired for connection. But it’s hard to connect with someone if you don’t know how to get ahold of them.

There was still a lot of blank space on the back. Enough room for one statement that would sum it all up.

It all turned out to be a great exercise. It forced me to distill it all down to what would fit on a business card. Or maybe it’s a life card. Because it’s all the same. Or at least it should be.

What would your card say?

Test Results

It’s been a long two weeks.

On a Tuesday afternoon my husband had a biopsy. His PSA numbers had risen to the point of raising some concern, and it was time to find out what was going on. His test results, we assumed, would be available by the end of the week.

It was an inaccurate assumption.

Winter weather moved in and life, including communication from the doctor’s office, came to a screeching halt for an additional week. Which gave us more than enough time to wonder just what those test results would have to say. Was it prostate cancer? If so, how aggressive? Would treatment be necessary? If so, what kind? What side effects? The longer we had to wait, the more we wanted to know the results. Until you have the information, it all swirls around in your head. Especially in the wee hours of the morning.

Today, his results came in, and there is no cancer.

Life has a way of reminding us that our days are both precious and precarious.

The precious is found in the here and nowness of our lives.

The precarious on the other side of a door that is not yet open.

No need to push on that door. It will open when the time comes, and not before.

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.

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

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.

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.