A Space of Belonging

Saturday evening we held a gathering at our home for an Evening Fireside Conversation. This experience had been an auction item at a fundraising event for Mt. Adams Resource Stewards, an incredible non-profit organization committed to promoting sustainable connections between the land, local economies, and rural communities in the Mt. Adams Region. In slightly more soulful language, MARS works diligently to preserve, honor, nurture, and celebrate its glorious corner of the world. Which, come to think about it, is not a bad way to go through life. Every nook and cranny of this spinning planet, and of each and every human heart, longs to be preserved, honored, nurtured, and celebrated.

My dear friend Caley, a licensed mental health therapist with deep roots in the academic community, came up with the idea for the evening, and invited me to join her in envisioning, creating, and leading the event. As we saw it, the evening would be a gathering together to enjoy good food, good wine, a gorgeous view, good connection, and some thoughtful conversation. Inspired by MARS, we imagined a time to consider how each of us could serve as stewards to care for and nurture our own little necks of the woods.

The group consisted of what we imagined to be kindred spirits in such an endeavor, as admittedly, this kind of evening is not everyone’s cup of tea, or in this case, glass of really, really good wine.To plan the evening, Caley and I approached it in a way that we both consider important for an event like this or for almost any aspect of life. We began with the end in mind. At the end of that evening, what did we want to be true? How did we want people to feel? What did we want them to have experienced? Well, we wanted them to have had a chance to reflect on and share what they might be feeling called to do in order to care for themselves, others, and the world within their reach. We hoped that they would feel seen and heard. And, the one word that continued to emerge was belonging. We wanted people to be filled with a sense of belonging as a result of our time together.

If that is what we wanted to have happen, what did we need to do to bring that about? We would need good questions that would invite good reflection that would result in good conversation. To that end, we identified multiple questions to guide our evening. However, as any good facilitator knows, you gotta start with finding out who’s in the room. To that end, we came up with four questions. Who are you? Where do you call home? What is a word that you would use to describe you, and why? Why did you want to be here tonight?

As we saw it, going around the room with some quick-ish introductions would get the evening started so that we could dive into deeper conversational waters.

Boy, did we get it wrong. Except not really.

Simply introducing ourselves took about an hour and a half. At times you could have heard a pin drop as we hung on one another’s words. There was laughter, a few tears, moments of silence, and lots and lots and lots of gratitude for being together in that space. It was, as we had hoped, a space where each person was filled with a sense of belonging.

We never got around to those other questions. You know, the ones that were supposed to take us deeper. That must be because to show up, introduce ourselves to one another, and to then feel like we belong, is about as deep as it gets.

Written with gratitude to Caley M, Jay McLaughlin, Mt. Adams Resource Stewards, and everyone present in that collective space of belonging.

Fear-Less

Sitting with our coffee the other morning, looking out over the hillside below, I finally said it out loud. “I’m scared about my knee replacement surgery.”

From what I’ve learned, there’s good reason to be at least a little scared. Of the surgery itself, (think saws cutting through bones) not to mention the sometimes rough road to recovery. The work required to rehab even though it’s painful, to regain mobility, range of motion, strength and stamina are nothing to sneeze at.

Up until now however, I’ve banked on all the other things I’m feeling about it: That while not looking forward to it, I’m glad I’m getting it done while I’m still “young”. That I’m grateful for the clarity about my decision to proceed, and for a loving guy to walk me through it, literally and figuratively. That I’m committed to taking the pain meds until I don’t need them, and confident that I’ll be better off for having it done.

Heck yeah. Let’s do this thing.

But afraid? Scared? I haven’t wanted to think about my fear, face it, or feel it. Until that morning on the hillside with the sun cresting the ridge. “I’m scared about my knee replacement surgery.” I couldn’t believe how good it felt to finally say those words out loud. To myself, and to the man I trust with my whole heart, and now with my soon-to-be new knee. Come to find out that naming it out loud actually took some of the fear out of it.

There’s a children’s book that our daughter reads to our grandson. It’s about courage and being brave and how we can’t be those things without first being scared. Fear, it turns out, is the doorway to courage. Being scared is the first step to bravery.

Deciding to get a new knee feels like a brave choice. And being scared is part of the bargain.

My fear had been there all along, quietly waiting for me to finally look her in the face and call her by name, knowing that once I did, I could get on with being brave. I won’t be surprised if she rides shotgun with me for a while, as I suspect that I’ll need to continue to be courageous even when I’d rather not. Thankfully, fear will be there to help me out.

Two Humans And A Dog

Early Friday morning, as my husband left for a long day in town, it felt good to hug him just a little bit longer.To linger in that familiar connection, and to remind him to be careful, to drive safely, and to come back home to me. Watching him drive down our road, we waved as he rounded the bend, and then Gracie-the-chocolate labradoodle and I headed out for our morning walk. The one that the three of us, two humans and a dog, usually do together.

On the way out, the sun is always at our backs, casting our shadows down the road ahead of us. That morning, was no different. Except that there were only two shadows. One human and a dog.

Some day it might be like that.

But not yet.

And that is something worth noticing.

Every.

Single.

Day.

All In Good Time

For as long as the weather holds, coffee happens in the field in front of our home. This morning the mountain was out in all of her glory. It was 37 degrees, which meant an extra layer, a wool beanie, and a buffalo plaid, wool, fleece lined blanket. I was taking notes to get ready for my upcoming conversation with my spiritual director, Dane, which meant capturing the various wonderings going on in my head and heart. It’s always a meandering list, often times so random that I can’t imagine how one thing connects to another. Yet somehow, in conversation with him, the seemingly disparate threads begin to weave together, connecting this part of my life to that one, this question to that answer, this seeming ending to that possible beginning, this lingering fear to that little swatch of bravery. It is a beautiful and rare gift that he brings to our conversations, helping me stitch my life into the tapestry that is uniquely mine.

Looking at my list, it was indeed a bit of a hodgepodge, made up of a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and it was hard to see if and how it all tied together. But somehow I trusted that it did. Or it would, all in good time.

As I closed my journal, a text came through. A storm from Hurricane Francine had knocked out his internet and we would have to reschedule. While disappointed to miss our conversation today, I knew we would have it eventually, all in good time.

In large part thanks to our work together, I’m learning to hold it all a little more lightly. All, as in all of it. Time, schedules, plans, perspectives, beliefs, and even life itself. Grasping and gripping rarely make things better, and usually worse.

The day I had anticipated became something else. It was bit of a hodgepodge, made up of a little bit of this and a little bit of that. No big progress made in any direction, and it’s hard to see if and how it all ties together. But somehow I trust that it does. Or it will, all in good time.

In gratitude for Dane Anthony, and the gift of working together.

Return The Phone Call

Today as I write this, it is 9/11, and 23 years later I still remember exactly where I was when I learned the news. Driving to the high school, I noticed that every single driver I passed had the same stunned, shocked, and horrified look on their face. I called my husband and told him to turn on the TV because “something” was obviously happening somewhere. None of us will ever forget what that something was.

Today is a day to remember what occurred then, and perhaps to reflect on where we find ourselves now. As a nation. As individuals. As communities, neighbors, friends, and families.

Today as I write this, it is 9/11, and I am missing my oldest brother, Peter.

He loved hunting, bacon, and feeding the birds. So do I. He loved animals even more than people. There are days that I can see his point. He lost himself in books. So do I. He was a patriot. So am I. He leaned right of right. I don’t, and never did. When he needed to chill-out, he listened to Rush Limbaugh. I, well, I didn’t. As close as we had been over the years, later in his life our political differences kept the two of us apart. I seemed to be the place where he could take out his frustration and anger at what and who he believed were taking our country down the wrong path. I guess I was a safe place for him to do that because he knew we loved each other. And we really, really, really did. But I increasingly found myself feeling unsafe with him. Less willing to connect with him. Less willing to return his phone calls. I know that hurt him, and it was painful for me too, but I didn’t seem to be able to find my way back to him. Until he found his way back to me.

On January 6, 2021, another tragic day in our collective history, the phone rang. It was Peter. As deadly chaos reigned in and around the U.S. Capitol, we talked for the first time in a long time. What was playing out in front of our eyes wasn’t the America we both loved. What was happening grieved and terrified us both, and when you are sad and scared, you want to hear the voices of those you love. Which is why, he said, he was calling me. A half an hour later we hung up the phone, two Americans on vastly different sides of the political aisle, but re-connected through our love for one another, for family, and for our country.

I will never forget that conversation. It was the last one we had. He died suddenly, eight days later, and I’ll never get to hear that deep, gravelly voice again, except for the one voicemail I’ve managed to save since he’s been gone. It’s a message he left me on May 29, 2020 from a phone call that I didn’t answer, and probably didn’t return. Oh how I wish that I had.

Today as I write this, it is 9/11, and the political divide in our country is tearing people apart. Families are estranged. People are losing real friends and finding virtual ones instead. Colleagues no longer meet for a beer. Neighbors look the other way. The loss of relationships and lack of connection with our fellow citizens is nothing less than a national tragedy. One not necessarily of our own making. But kinda.

No one can save us but us. It’s not up to our elected officials, the media, the influencers, or the trolls, bots, and algorithms. Do they play a part? Sure, and we need to hold them accountable to knock off the nonsense and get back to work on our behalf. But they can’t fix what ails us. Only we can do that. One relationship at a time. One conversation at a time. One handshake, wave, hug, meal, cup of coffee, beer, apology, reconciliation, and yes, one returned phone call at a time.

If Peter and I could do that, anyone can.

Written with gratitude for my brother, Peter.

Peter Davis 1940-2021

Embodying Hope

This morning as I was sitting out in the Adirondack chairs with my coffee, something told me to look behind me. The sun was shining through the clouds and Old Glory caught some of her rays. It kinda took my breath away.

It seemed to say, “There’s hope in America.”

I believe that’s true.

But hoping doesn’t make anything so.

Now is not the time to wring our hands, tire of the rhetoric and tune out, look the other way, wish it were different, blame someone else that it’s not, sit this one out, or simply give up because it feels too big, too scary, and too, well, hopeless.

We are the only ones that can embody that hope. and bring it alive.

Now is the time to use our hands and feet and hearts and voices and resources for good. Now is the time to cast our votes, not just for our good, but for the good of all. Now is the time to gather our strength, turn toward one another, and do what we can to nurture, tend, and love the hell out of our little corners of this country we love.

Will we all agree on what that means?

No.

But that is part of the magic of our great experiment.

Differing views. Same country.

Like That

I just knew I needed her this morning. The logging road can always be counted on to provide whatever is needed for the day and my heart.

Yesterday was just one of those days. A tough loss for my team. Knowing someone’s heart was hurting. Technical difficulties…All Day. Long. A knee replacement surgery looming. Concern for our country and the rocky-no-matter-what road ahead for all of us who love her. And spirits that felt like the smokey haze obscuring the mountain from view. Bed sounded good long before it was time to crawl in.

Despite all of that, one thing, well two, that I knew for sure. A new day would dawn, and a trip up the logging road would help.

A new day dawned, and before the sun crested the hills above the logging road we set out, side-by-side to make our way to the top, our steps falling together on the steep incline that will continue for almost two miles. It’s never easy, but today it’s a little harder than usual. Over the past four years of hiking this same path time and again, I’ve come to know that hard isn’t a bad thing, simply a thing. On or off the trail, hard is part of the bargain.

Today, like every day, the logging road is able to take whatever burdens we carry, always providing solid ground beneath our feet. She’s steady. Sure. Reliable. I want to be like that.

The trees on either side of the road bear witness as we pass by. Douglas and grand fir, ponderosa pine, and Oregon white oak. Rooted in the ground and stretching to the sky, they don’t question or try to fix. They simply stand strong, inviting us to come as we are. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just real. I want to be like that.

Sitting on the side of the hill, looking out over the woods, open grassy slopes, and surrounding ridges, the breeze moves around us, rustling the leaves and causing wheat colored grasses to sway ever so slightly. The air ia soft, warm, and gentle It feels like mercy, grace, kindness, and forgiveness. Freely given, asking nothing in return. I want to be like that.

Making our way down, my heart is lighter, my head more clear, and my spirit more at ease. The road hasn’t done anything to me, she’s simply been there for me, and that is what makes all the difference.

I want to be like that.

The Farewell Tour

“Well…you need a new knee.”

Not the words I’d hoped to hear from the orthopedic surgeon recommended by my physical therapist who I trust almost as much as Jesus. He continued, “You are young, strong, and you want to keep doing these things that you love for a long time, so there couldn’t be a better time to do this. Go take that 100 mile trek in England, and then let’s get this thing done.”

That he called me young and strong made me want to kiss him on the spot, but orthopedic surgeons aren’t known for being the touchy-feely type. I was trusting him with my knee, not my heart, and his words rang true. I’d gone in to his office with the intention of walking out with clarity, and I had it. We took that 100 mile trek through the Lake District in England, dubbing it the “Farewell Tour” for my right knee.

I’m not looking forward to the surgery, or the early days to follow, (Hello, Oxy. Nice to meet you.) but I am grateful for the chance to get a new knee. A bionic knee. One that will help me continue logging as many miles as are mine to hike on the trail that is my life.

A farewell tour signals the end of a thing. It’s a chance to showcase something one final time. In this case, the right knee I was born with, but for musicians, it usually means performing the best of their best. The fan favorites. The songs people know by heart and that that particular band or performer are known for. For those who love the band, the musician, and the music, attending that farewell performance can be a spiritual experience, connecting them to one another and the music they collectively love. It is an experience where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Maybe life is like that. As our years accumulate, we have the chance to offer the best of our best. The music written in the key of our life. The songs we’re known for. Our fan favorites. The ones they will continue to hum long after we’re gone. We get to offer what we have to give. Not for the applause or the standing ovation, but for the chance to give away what we have gathered up from the life we have lived, starting with those we love the most. It too is an experience where the whole is greater than the sum of our parts.

Every gig worth the usually exorbitant price of admission includes an encore performance. The audience calling for one more song, and another, and another, and another, until the performers have nothing left to give, and it’s time to exit stage left. To leave the scene without a fuss, because they know their time, on that stage, is done.

Maybe life is like that too, with calls for one more song, and another, and another, and another, until we have nothing left to give and it’s our time to exit stage left. To leave the scene without a fuss, because we know that our time, and this stage, is done.

The Terroir of a Marriage

A few years ago my husband—the geologist I sleep with— took a group of us on a Geology tour of the Columbia River Gorge. It is an unbelievable treasure with a rich and complicated history, and a visually stunning part of the world. After a day of talking about the Missoula floods, mudflows and volcanic sediments, the last stop was at the Cathedral Ridge Winery tasting room.

We gathered around an outdoor table overlooking the Gorge to taste two different bottles of Pinot Noir. Both bottles were made from the same grapes, and were made by the same winemaker. The only difference? One was made from grapes grown in Underwood WA, the other from those grown less than 20 miles as the crow flies in the Dalles, OR. Their taste? As if they were grown on different planets. Tom and I loved the one made from the grapes grown in the Dalles. It was complex, rich, and layered. The one from Underwood? Light, fruity, and sort of acidic.

The difference between the two was the terroir, which refers to the environmental conditions, especially the make-up or geology of the soil and the overall climate.

The grapes that resulted in the wine we preferred  grow in a climate that is hot and dry, and on volcanic sediments that are probably about 10 million years old, and richer in sodium and potassium, The other grapes grow in a relatively cool, wet climate on young basalt lavas less than 1 million years old that are richer in iron, magnesium, and calcium. Same grapes. Same winemaker. Different terroir.

We just celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary, and I’ve been reflecting on the terroir of our particular marriage. What makes up the soil in which our marriage has grown? I’ve been trying to cleverly put that into words for a couple of hours now so that it all fits in with the metaphor of a vineyard, the terroir of that vineyard, and the fine wine that comes as a result but to no avail.

So instead, here goes.

For me, for us, it all boils down to hard work, the rituals that connect us, and a willingness to keep showing up. It’s as simple as that, and somedays, as hard as it gets.

Relationships are hard work. Period. Hard stop. Luckily for us we found in one another someone who was, and is, willing to do that work. Again, and again, and again, until death do us part.

Rituals, something done with intention over and over and over again, have a way of forging a connection. For us, our days begin and end with ritual. Coffee early in the morning—always outside regardless of the weather— and a walk in the dark before bed with Gracie-the-chocolate-labradoodle are the bookends of our days. They hold our life together by giving us designated time to connect, resolve conflict, laugh, cry, problem solve, imagine, or simply be together side-by-side.

Showing up means just that. Bringing the best of our messy, broken selves and saying “I do.” all over again to whatever life brings our way for as long as we both shall live.

The terroir of our marriage has helped us to grow into the messy and magical partnership for which we are grateful every single day. And I say that with a lot of humility and gratitude because I am no picnic to live with. (He isn’t either, he just looks like one.)

Getting Our Act Together

I don’t write about politics, and I’m not about to start.

Except to say this…

We the people have got to get our act together.

I live in a small rural town, and I’ve come to see political yard signs as one more way to divide us rather than inspire us to become curious about our neighbor’s perspective. If I actually did put one up for this upcoming election, I suspect mine would be in the minority of those displayed in the beautiful valley that I share with my goodhearted, and like me, patriotic neighbors. Rather than sparking curiosity, I worry that it would only further fan the flames of division that are threatening the country that we the people all love.

The truth is, it has become scary as hell to bring up anything political (with anyone other than those who “agree” with us). With family who lean in a different direction than we do. With friends who cast their sacred votes differently than we do for reasons that make good sense to them just as ours do to us. With our neighbors who identify with a different political party than we do. With colleagues upon whom we depend for a job well done, but don’t dare broach certain subjects around the metaphorical water cooler. With the stranger in line at the grocery store who, nevertheless, is a fellow citizen of this country that we the people all love.

But if we the people are going to get our act together, then it’s time that we the people put on our big boy/girl/however-you-identify pants, and start talking with each other. But because it’s scary, because it feels like a bridge too far, we don’t do it.

But what if we did, and where could we start?

How about with one simple question…

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand to know what party we identify with.

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand to know who we are going to vote for and why.

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that doesn’t demand to know who we blame for the mess we’re in, or to whom we attribute the progress we have or haven’t made.

How are you feeling about this election?

It’s a question that invites us to get out of our ideological heads and into our human hearts. It’s a question to which there is no wrong answer, just my answer, your answer, their answer, all of which are true, and many of which I suspect are the same, even if for different reasons.

Almost all fruitful endeavors, conversations, inventions, solutions, and relationships begin with and are sustained by good questions. Which, when asked and received with a sense of curiosity and grace, can lead to the next question. And the next and the next, and the next, until before we know it, we’ve found ourselves on some common ground, even if only a sliver. And a sliver is a place to start.

For any of us who watched one of the conventions, we were challenged to stop complaining and “do something”. If we the people are going to get our act together, maybe it starts with each of us doing something that connects us rather than divides us. Like talking with each other.

So, how are you feeling about this election?

I’m so terrified that you asked, but here goes.

I’m feeling hopeful, optimistic, scared, and yes, joyful.

Hmm. Tell me more about that. and why you’re feeling that way.

I’m a little less scared and a tiny bit more glad that you asked.

I’m hopeful that it will lead us forward. That it might pave the way for us to address the very real challenges that we the people face, and that our children and grandchildren will face after we’re gone.

I’m optimistic that it will embolden anyone who feels that their party has been stolen from them to take ownership of it again, because everyone is needed for we the people to get our collective act together.

I’m scared that too many of us will choose party over country, vote against someone rather than for something, do nothing out of despair that their vote doesn’t matter or in protest against an imperfect system, rather than exercising their right to vote in order to perfect our union just a little bit more.

And, yes, I’m feeling joyful that we might actually have a chance to bring a lot of us, from both sides of the aisle, a bit closer together, which is where the shit we all care about actually gets done.

So, how are you feeling about this election?