Pressing Problems

The other day on a walk through our local wildlife refuge, I asked my friend what, in her mind, was one of the most pressing problems facing our world today. Walking in silence for a bit, she turned and said, I’m concerned about the impact of robots taking over our work. What value, she wondered, will work have in the future? As our conversation unfolded, it was clear that it wasn’t a fear of AI (Artificial Intelligence) or that robots would take over the world, but rather, when things become available at the push of a button and there is little to no human-to-human contact in getting our needs met, what else will get lost? When a drone can drop a package at our doorstep in a matter of minutes, without interaction with the UPS driver we’ve come to know, what will become of our appreciation for the efforts and work of other human beings? Or when the latte at our favorite coffee shop is served up by robotic baristas, will we miss the friendly banter we’ve come to count on, which as it turns out, is why we walk the extra three blocks to frequent that particular establishment in the first place?

Her question about the value of work in the future is worthy our consideration today. On a small scale, how can we bring value to others through the work we offer in the world, and, how can we better acknowledge and appreciate the work that others offer to us? On a grander scale, how do we make sure that everyone has a place at the work table, and an opportunity to use their unique strengths and abilities to care for the needs of others and to tackle the issues of today and tomorrow?

Further along on our walk my friend asked me the same question. While there are many issues I could have talked about, maybe because we were having our conversation while walking on a forest trail, what came to mind was that I’m deeply concerned about the critical environmental issues impacting the planet. Especially of concern is what I perceive as our individual and collective indifference about the responsibility we all bear to care for our shared planet. On a small scale, how do we begin to feel the impact of our small everyday actions on the earth and the life which inhabits it, and what will that inspire us to do? On a grander scale, how can we force ourselves to come to grips with the fact that the survival of one is intricately bound together with the survival of all?

As we made our way around the refuge, while we didn’t come up with any conclusive answers, the conversation that ensued was a start.

What, in your mind, is one of the most pressing problems facing our world today?

Photo: Pexels

Take A Hike

Taking a hike can teach us about life and how to make our way in the world.

Pack light, pack smart.

Pack what you need, leave behind what you don’t.

The steeper the trail, the smaller the steps.

When the going gets steep, don’t stop. Just take smaller steps.

Choose traveling companions wisely.

Head out with those who will stick with you no matter how challenging the trail.

The hikers return from the top of Little Huckleberry

The Whole Thirty-One

There is something called the Whole30. An eating program designed to reprogram the way we eat, and the ways in which we think about food. I’m a fan. It has worked for me in the past, and when I am in need of a reset, I will return to it again.

Loosely, it goes something like this. For thirty days, cut out all dairy, added sugars, legumes, grains, and alcohol, choosing instead to consume real food including good protein, plenty of vegetables, fruits, and ample amounts of natural fats. By the grace of God, you can still have coffee.

There were days when this it felt like an impossible assignment. I did it anyway.

There were days, when I felt like a total fraud. I did it anyway.

There were days when I wanted to give in and give up. I did it anyway.

Every time I have completed the Whole30 (and occasionally, the Whole60 or 90) I have felt better. Lots better. More energy, better sleep, increased clarity, and a more positive outlook (after the initial crankiness wears off).

I’m not jumping back on the Whole30 bandwagon just yet, but the program has me thinking about how these same principles—cutting out things that can have a detrimental impact on our health and wellbeing, and consuming instead what will nourish and fuel our lives more effectively—might transfer to other areas of our lives.

Welcome to the Whole Thirty-One: Soul Food Style

Loosely, it goes something like this. For the next 31 days, cut out all negative self-talk, fear-based language, and scarcity thinking, choosing instead to begin each day with a positive mindset, language seasoned with gratitude and grace, and the faith that what is needed will be provided. By the grace of God, you can still have coffee.

There will be days when this will feel like an impossible assignment. I will do it anyway.

There will be days, when I will feel like a total fraud. I will do it anyway.

There will be days when I will want to give in and give up. I will do it anyway.

This sounds like good food for thought to me. Maybe it does to you too.

Welcome to Day 1

The Third Way

Stark contrasts are visible in our little valley this summer. Out in front of our home, the once green field is quickly being devoured by the massive infestation of grasshoppers. Our lawn is barely a memory, and there is no sign that the grasshoppers are leaving anytime soon. They weren’t here last year, and they may not be here next year, but one thing is for certain, they are here now. But drive down our road and hang a left on Mt. Adams Hwy, and there are fields of daisies on either side of the road. A riot of color, it’s hard to miss them, and there is no sign that they are leaving anytime soon. They weren’t here last year, and they may not be here next year, but one thing is for certain, they are here now.

We encounter both of these vastly different views every single day, and it is tempting to only focus on one or the other. Pretend the grasshoppers don’t exist and fix our gaze on the daisies, or fixate on the dead and dying grass and forget to take in the white petals and yellow-as-the-sun centers. We can choose one or the other, but as in most things, there is a third way, and that is to choose both.

Like the dying field out our window, and the vibrant meadow down the road, there are times when life presents us with stark contrasts that invite us to encounter them together. Grace and grief, love and loss, beginnings and endings, beauty and brokenness, healing and heartache. We can choose one or the other, but as in most things, there is a third way, and that is to choose both.

The Rest Of The Story

(In case you didn’t read The Horse We Rode In On yesterday you might want to do so before reading this one.)

---

Yesterday I wrote about a difficult experience that changed the trajectory of my life, and the other person at the center of it all  was my dad. It was a hard and painful thing that happened with consequences that lasted for years, and the choices I made at that time as a result of trying to please him rather than trust myself will always be a part of my story.

But, thankfully it isn’t the whole story, nor is it the one that defines me.

In the same way, it isn’t the whole story of my dad either, nor the one that defines him. Like most of us, he was a mixture of the good, the bad, and the occasionally ugly. If we are only defined by the times we fall short, get it wrong, or miss the mark, that is only part of the story.  It’s important to get the rest.

From the time I was a little girl, all I wanted was a horse. I read every book in the Black Stallion series, longed to go to Chincoteague Island to see if I could spot the real Misty from  Marguerite Henry's book Misty of Chincoteague, and counted the days and saved my pennies until our annual summer vacation on the Oregon Coast, where I would ride bareback on the beach on my favorite horse from the Cannon Beach Stables. I drew pictures of horses, dreamed about horses, devoured stories about horses, and drove my dad crazy asking if I could get a horse. Finally, one day when I was about 8, he said “When you are 12, if you still want a horse, you can get one. You’ll have to earn the money yourself, but if a horse is what you still want, then a horse is what you’ll get.”

It’s hard for an 8 year old girl to earn much money. I was too young to babysit, no money was given out for chores, and the houses too few and far between for a paper route, but for the next four years, my dad had the cleanest car in the neighborhood, and the shiniest one as well. I washed his car every week, and twice a year it got a thorough wax. Having never waxed a car before, I asked him what I would need to do a good job. He replied “lots of elbow grease”, which is exactly what I asked to buy he took me to the hardware store. 

Dad was in the insurance business, and one of his clients was the owner of Indian Ford Guest Ranch in Sister’s Oregon. Our summer vacations had moved east of the mountains, and we would spend a couple of weeks at the guest ranch, where I was the kid who drove all the wranglers crazy. Down at the stables in my turquoise jeans, turquoise fringed shirt, turquoise cowgirl hat, and of course, turquoise boots, hanging over the fence  and, peppering them with questions, I came early and stayed late, until they shooed me back to our cabin. . 

The head wrangler, Dale, owned the horse of my dreams. Her name was Missy, and no one rode her but him. Revered by everyone on the ranch, her disposition was sweet, her gait smooth, and her coat sleek. If I could have had any horse in the world, she would be the one I’d choose, but she belonged to someone else, and that was that.

By the time my 12th birthday rolled around I had saved exactly $350, and yes, I still wanted a horse.

My parents planned a visit to the guest ranch for my birthday. It was closed for the season, but Dale walked out of the barn to meet us. We chatted for a bit, and then he stood up on the fence, whistled long and loud out over the pasture, and just like in the movies, in the distance a lone horse appeared, head held high, galloping toward us. It was Missy. Dale brought her into one of the paddocks, threw her bridle on, and asked if I wanted to take her for a spin around the arena.

Me?

Missy?

Fifty-three years later, I can still feel the sensation of that first ride. Dale walked over, put his hand on Missy’s neck and said “Well, it’s time for me to sell her, and if you want her, she’s yours.”

His asking price? $350.

Because of my dad, I learned to work hard toward something that mattered. Because of my dad, I wasn’t just a little girl who dreamed about horses. I learned to ride, care for, and train them, and have one to call my own.  Because of my dad, I went from a kid who drove the wranglers crazy to becoming a wrangler myself. Because of my dad, I experienced the magnificent freedom that can only be found on the back of a horse. Because of my dad I love horses to this day, and in a few short weeks, the love of my life and I will celebrate our 25th anniversary on a 5 day horse pack trip east of the mountains.

Some of my best memories of my dad are of him, wearing his old perfectly worn Levi jacket, and heading out together on horseback for a day of riding through the Ponderosa pines, side-by-side, talking about the stuff of life big and small. In 1988 he passed that old, perfectly worn Levi jacket on to me, and it wasn’t until years later, after he was gone, that I found his crumpled business card in the front pocket, a message in his familiar handwriting on the back…

Molly:

This carries many cherished memories of hide and seek among the pines of Indian Ford.

Love, Dad

When it comes to defining a life, it’s important to know the rest of the story.

The Horse We Rode In On

We all have them. Decisions we wish we could revisit and choose another course. Words we’ve said in the heat of the moment, but are unable to take back. Relationships we started that turned out to be dead ends, and ones we ended too soon, missing out on the life to be found there. Times when we let fear hold us back, and others when we allowed our pride to push us ahead before we were ready. Some years feel like a total waste, as we lingered in our shame, fear, and disappointment. And then, there are those times when we made what can only be called terrible mistakes. Errors in judgement that cost us, and those we love great harm. Every experience up until now has made us who we are today, and we’ve all arrived to our present moment on the backs of our stories. All of them.

Looking back over my life, I have very few regrets. In fact, there’s really only one, and it cost me a lot. When I was in college, I had a conversation with my dad that changed the course of my history, and if I could have one do-over, it would be that one phone call. I allowed his patriarchal view of women and the world to color my own. Instead of speaking up and applying for graduate school, I stayed quiet and took a job to pay the bills. In listening to his, I silenced my own voice, and rather than owning my intelligence and strength, I turned them out to pasture. It took me a long time to find my way back to myself and take the reins into my own hands.

Slowly but surely I put a period on the end of that story, which was the only way I could begin to write a new one. It would have been easy to allow that many year detour to define me for the rest of my life, and there are still times, if I’m honest, that I indulge myself by replaying the shoulda-coulda-woulda song, but those times are short lived, and few and far between. It was that detour that led me to the work I have today. It is because of that experience that I am passionate about helping others step more fully into their own lives, access and trust their inner wisdom, and bring all they have to offer, in whatever form, to a world waiting for what they have to give.

Every choice and chapter will always be a part of our story, but they don’t have to define us forever. The only way they can is if we let them. In my better moments, I am even able to thank my dad for helping me to find an unconventional trail to wholeness, meaning, and purpose. Because that is that story that now defines my life.

An Invitation To Integration

Recently on a getaway with friends, we spent several hours at the Earth Sanctuary on Whidbey Island, which by the way, is worth a ferry ride just to experience this sacred space. I’ve always been drawn to labyrinths, and the one at the Earth Sanctuary is beautiful in its simplicity, the path formed by vibrant vegetation on either side of the stones leading to the center.

Photo from Trip Advisor

Slowly making my way to the heart of the lush green maze, I lingered as I usually do, before making my way back out.  About to rejoin our little group, I realized that I was pulled to walk it again, this time taking something in to leave as had other pilgrims to this same path before me. Head down, I looked for something that struck the right chord, and found it in a small triad of leaves, all connected to a singular stem which nourished them all, life flowing from one to the other.

For a while now I’ve been trying to reconcile the three leaves of my own life — myself, my relationships, and my work. It often feels as if each is in competition for my time and energy and that tending to one means taking away from the other two. All three areas matter to me. Doing the internal work to become more whole, and caring well for myself matters. Connecting deeply with and supporting those I love matters. Touching the world within my reach with my work matters. How can I choose one over the other without feeling like I’m letting myself, other people, and my work down?

Looking at those three small leaves, a new thought began to emerge. What if they are all the same? What if tending to one informs and enlivens the other two? What if there is no difference? What if I trust that the stem that nourishes my triad of leaves will guide my choices, knowing that it is all one life?

There is something about the process of following a labyrinth path, knowing that the way in is also the way out, knowing that in truth, there is only one way, and it leads us to the center, and then invites us back out again. My three leaves, like the labyrinth, are an invitation to integration, and the realization that mine, like yours, is all one life.

(Gratitude to DA for helping me see the invitation to integration.)

The Freedom To Choose

“ I am not what happened to me,

I am what I choose to become.”

Carl Jung

Crossing The Bridge

In my work I help people find their way forward, and always toward a more authentic and wholehearted life. This never happens without encountering some difficult terrain along the way. In order to become more of who we are meant to be, there are choices to make, challenges to overcome, courageous conversations to have, and new skills to practice.

Sometimes getting from where we are now to where we want to go seems so far away, that getting there feels next to impossible. The decisions to be made are too daunting, the unknown too scary, the obstacles too big, the conversations too intimidating, and the new skills so far outside our comfort zone that we can’t imagine ever mastering them.

When encountering this space with someone, whether that be a client, a friend, a family member, or myself for that matter, I always try to explore the reality of the perception that the distance to be covered is simply too great. There are times when the bridge from here to there is so long that it appears to drop off of the horizon. However, there are other times when the distance is very short, but the bridge to get there is over a canyon that is so deep and dark, that we can’t see the bottom. We can only hear the raging river far below. In my experience, these canyons have been eroded over long periods of time by the turbulent waters of our old stories, obsolete beliefs, and tightly held fears. If we never cross the bridge, we’ll never find out what life could be like on the other side.

Long distances and deep canyons are both daunting. But if we want to move toward wholeness, and the people we are meant to be, there is only one way to do that. Whether a bridge too far or a canyon too deep, our only choice is to keep going.

The Good Stuff

The truth of the matter is that we want to share life with people who bring out the best in us. They are the ones who believe in us, encourage us to show up fully, shine lights into our blind spots, and see in us what we can’t see for ourselves.

Some further and rather inconvenient truth about the matter, is that the only people who bring out the best in us are also those who see the worst in us. When we fail—sometimes miserably—in front of each other, it is a chance to practice staying in when it would be easier to step out, moving toward each other rather than away, and staying in the conversation rather than shutting down. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Some even further truth of the matter is that it’s hard stuff, this becoming our best selves, and we can’t do it alone. Find your people, stick together, call each other out, and cheer each other on, because while it may be the hard stuff, it’s all the good stuff.

With deep gratitude to all who help me be my best self…you know who you are.