Pitons

According to Wikipedia, a piton is a metal spike that is driven into a crack or seam in the climbing surface with a climbing hammer, and which acts as an anchor to either protect the climber against the consequences of a fall or to assist progress and aid climbing.

I’ve hiked some steep trails and summited a mountain, but never in conditions that required the use of pitons. I hope I never will, however, if I ever am in a situation where a piton will keep me from free falling down a steep rock face or over a precipice, I will be deeply grateful for those metal spikes driven deep into the crack.

A piton must hold fast, allowing the climber to fall only so far.

A piton becomes a marker for progress made.

A piton is the place from which further progress begins.

A mountain face is not the only place where we suddenly find ourselves in need of an anchor to keep us from falling. Every one of us can fall into old habits, and tumble into long-held stories that are no longer true, or perhaps never were. None of us can make it on our own, and we all need those who will serve as our pitons. Those trusted few with whom we scale the mountains and precipitous cliffs to become our most wholehearted and authentic selves.

Onward.

Upward.

Together.

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Safe Spaces

We all need safe spaces for courageous thinking. 

Let’s create them for each other.

The Step To Take

Start close in,
don’t take the second step
or the third,
start with the first
thing
close in,
the step you don’t want to take.

David Whyte

(Excerpted from River Flow: New & Selected Poems )

Today in conversation with another coach, we were reflecting on next steps, and how to pursue what is calling us, right from where we are. In the midst of what is, how do we step closer to what could be? It is easy to get focused on the far horizon, and miss the fertile ground squarely beneath our feet. Wherever we want to go, where we are is the place to start.

Sharing a bit of silence, David Whyte’s poem, Start Close In came to mind, and I introduced the words quoted above to our conversation. Instantly a next step came to mind. One that was close in. A step that wasn’t the first choice, but the right choice.

Wherever we are, there is a next step. One that is close in, and while it may not be the one we want to take, it is the step that will lead us deeper into the life we are called to live.

What is the step you don’t want to take?

The one close in?

Take that one.

With gratitude to DC

Givers Of Life

Once a month I have a video call with two individuals who are not only respected colleagues, but also dear friends. It is a call that I look forward to from the moment we end our time together until the next one rolls around. The three of us have worked together in various ways over the years, and while we value and respect one another professionally, it is the personal connection that keeps us coming back for more. Together we’ve created a safe space for courageous thinking, a shelter from our storms, and a shared home for our hearts and hurts.

Every call has a way of infusing more life into my being.

Today was supposed to be our monthly call, and as much as I look forward to it, I almost bowed out of it. After a couple of emotionally packed weeks, I simply felt like I didn’t have the capacity to show up as anything but a worn out mess, and taking anything off of my calendar sounded like a good idea. When I mentioned this to my sister who is here visiting, like any good big sister, she had a word of advice. She reminded me of how life-giving this call always is, and thankfully, like any good little sister, I listened to her.

No matter how I show up at the beginning of the call, I am always better at the end of it, and today was no exception.

The moral of the story?

Make time for life-giving connections, and listen to your big sister.

The Whispered Invitation

“Allow your intuition to guide you today

and trust that whatever is whispering in your heart

is the right decision.”

Keith Macpherson

This morning I was about to head out to the gym for a quick 30 minutes on the elliptical before getting ready to go into town.

And then I looked out our front window.

Stretching out into the distance was our field, covered in untouched snow, the first light of day spreading across the sky, and more snow quietly falling. The whispered invitation was clear…

Off came the gym shoes.

On went the snowshoes.

The gym will always be there.

The chance for the magic of a solo trek in the snow won’t.

Mission Accomplished

Everywhere I look people are going through hard things, and I am as well. These experiences are part of what it means to be human, and choosing to go through them rather than trying to go around them is how we find our way back home to ourselves. To our true self.

In the midst of a conversation the other day about such things, I suddenly recalled a scene from the movie Apollo 13. An explosion mid-flight had damaged the spacecraft which changed the mission from landing on the moon, to finding a way to bring astronauts Jim Lovell, Fred Haise, and Jack Swigert back home.

The heat shield on the Command Module had been damaged in the explosion, and it was not known whether it would be able to withstand the intense heat of reentry. There was no other way home but to ride it out, trusting that the heat shield would hold.

It did, and on April 17, 1970, at 1:07:41PM, the Command Module splashed into the Pacific Ocean, and they were home.

Mission accomplished.

It occurs to me that whenever we are engaged in the dangerous adventure of finding our way back home to ourselves, we too have to trust that there is a heat shield surrounding us. That we are protected by a love that wants us to be whole. A love that wants nothing in the world more than to bring us back home.

Mission accomplished.

https://airandspace.si.edu/collection-objects/command-module-apollo-13

Our Own Pace

The Coyote Trail hike left this morning at 6:15. My favorite hike here at the Ranch, and one of the more challenging ones, this morning I was one of about 15 hikers heading out as the sun began to make its way up above the horizon.

About three miles into the hike it felt like I had the entire mountain all to myself. No sight of those ahead of me who were hiking at a faster clip, and no one dogging my steps from behind.

Just me, the mountain, and the heart stopping beauty of her bolder strewn landscape.

Time to think.

Time to reflect.

Time to wonder.

Time to give thanks. 

And, time to listen. 

That is what can happen when we find our own pace. 

Giving in to my ego and trying to keep up with those going faster, or slowing down so as not to leave others behind, would have robbed me of the solitude and silence I so crave. Either would have opened the door to disappointment and resentment. 

Because she had me all to herself, I could hear her as she whispered...

Find your own pace.

I am going to try and remember that. 

Being Brave

As I write this today at Rancho La Puerta, our first workshop has finished and I am once again reminded of the courage we are asking people to find in order to answer the questions we pose. Anytime we choose to listen to our inner wisdom, we are entering territory that is both sacred and scary, standing on ground that feels both holy and shaky. As Brene Brown reminds us, any act of courage can only happen when we are also willing to be vulnerable. That is what I witnessed again today as those in our workshop listened generously to themselves, trusted what they heard, and found their way to possible next right steps. While bringing the time together to a close, I shared a story from  my last trip here this past July when my 33 year old daughter Lauren joined me.

During the week she not only enjoyed the beauty of this place and some wonderful spa treatments, she also attended my workshops. It was obvious watching her, that she had decided to show up fully for herself and go all in. She listened to her voice and captured what she heard. The night after that first workshop, I returned to our villa to find her happily reading in bed. Mom, you have my journal from the workshop in your pack pack, right? Wrong. Digging through everything in there, twice, there was no journal to be found. Standing in her doorway, I watched as her face crumpled into tears as she realized that the words she had bravely written, but that were for her eyes only, had been lost somewhere in the Ranch. She felt exposed and betrayed, as she pulled the covers over her head and said, I get brave and choose to write about really fragile and private things that I’ve been too afraid to think about till now, and look what happens. 

It was suddenly clear to me what we needed to do. I firmly told her to get up, get dressed, and come with me. Resistant for a minute, she chose to trust me and we were soon walking through the darkness back to the room where the workshop had been held. A Ranch employee was cleaning up the room, and I asked if we could look through the box of unused journals that had been picked up after my session. Lauren began to sort through the stack, pretty certain hers wouldn’t be there. And then her hands landed on the one that was hers. Gripping it to her heart, we started back to our room, and walked in silence for awhile, as her relief settled in.

Remember, I said, whenever we are brave enough to take action on our own behalf, to do the hard work of becoming our most authentic self, and to step more fully into our own lives, we are supported by unseen forces. And when you find yourself afraid in the future, and you will, you will always have the memory of tonight to remind you that you are not alone.

Onward.

Together. 

Todays post shared with gratitude for the permission to tell her story, and her courage to always show up.

Grounded

“Ground is what lies beneath our feet. It is the place where we already stand; a state of recognition, the place or the circumstances to which we belong whether we wish to or not. It is what holds and supports us, but also what we do not want to be true; it is what challenges us, physically or psychologically, irrespective of our hoped for needs. It is the living, underlying foundation that tells us what we are, where we are, what season we are in and what, no matter what we wish in the abstract, is about to happen in our body, in the world or in the conversation between the two.

To come to ground is to find a home in circumstances and in the very physical body we inhabit in the midst of those circumstances and above all to face the truth, no matter how difficult that truth may be; to come to ground is to begin the courageous conversation, to step into difficulty and by taking that first step, begin the movement through all difficulties, to find the support and foundation that has been beneath our feet all along; a place to step onto, a place on which to stand, and a place from which to step.”

- from Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words by David Whyte

Rest In Peace

“And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” 
And he replied: 
“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.” 

(Excerpt from the poem The Gate of The Year by Minnie Louise Haskins”

The summer before last we got lost on our way down from the summit of Mt. Adams. Originally our intention was to hike down that same day, stopping to pick up the tents and gear we’d left behind at Lunch Counter, a flat area where hikers camp before summiting. But as the day wore on, it was obvious that we would need to spend another night on the mountain. As darkness began to fall and with no camp and no other hikers in sight, it became obvious that our only option was to bivouac. In other words, spend the night outside at 9000 feet in below freezing temperature without a tent or cover. Family and friends were expecting a call to say we’d made it down, but we couldn’t find a spot with cell service.

We found a small flat area surrounded by a crude rock wall that others before us had built, and did our best to settle in for the night. We put on every layer of clothing we had in our packs and pulled an emergency blanket over us. Think laying on your driveway under a big piece of tin foil. It was going to be a long night.

My biggest concern wasn’t that we wouldn’t make it out, but for the people who loved us who were expecting our call. When they didn’t hear from us, I knew they would be scared something had happened to us, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Except maybe pray. Which I did.

Night time is for sleeping, but that night, there was no sleep to be had. But even when back home and in our oh-so-comfortable bed, there are nights when sleep is illusive. What is it about 2am in the morning? Or, in my case, 2:20am to be exact. That is when, if I am going to wake up and fret, it will be then, and nothing seems to be off the table. Money, health concerns, worries about family and friends, the economy, those currently in the White House, climate change, dementia, hearing loss, sagging skin, and the thousands of family photos that need to be organized. The next morning I am always amazed at how much better things look, but in the middle of the night, things can look mighty bleak.

That night on the mountain however, as I lay there alternately worrying about those who were worrying about us, and praying for the whole situation, my attention turned to the night sky. There was nothing I could do about our situation until the morning, but I had a front row seat for the Perseid Meteor Shower, the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, and the Milky Way. I’d never spent an entire night watching the magic show on display that goes on whether we see it or not, and the splendor of it all took my shivering breath away.

There is something about being stranded on a mountain, under the heavens that puts everything into perspective, and laying there I remembered the words of Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” And somehow, I knew she was right. All was well, and all would be well. Maybe not immediately, but eventually.

Dawn began to appear, and it was time to move our stiff and aching bodies down the mountain. Reaching for my cell phone, I found that where I hadn’t been able to get a signal the night before, a few bars appeared and I was able to make a call to put other’s minds at ease.

All was well.

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.