Bridge Repair

The Hood River Bridge spans the Columbia River, and serves as a connection between Washington and Oregon. There’s lots of controversy about the bridge including what it costs to cross from one side to the other, the price of its upcoming replacement, the undue financial burden it places on those whose labor keeps our Gorge communities running but can barely afford to live here, and on and on and on. One thing that is undeniable is that this bridge matters. It’s necessary. It connects us one to another, and makes life possible in countless ways.

Recently, the bridge underwent necessary repair work to address deck fractures due to heavy truck loads. This meant that there were intermittent single-lane closures, usually lasting about 15 minutes, which meant drivers needed to allow additional time to make it to that doctor’s appointment, job, lunch with a friend, or whatever errands were on the list for that day. While a bit of an inconvenience, repairing fractures on a bridge that crosses a big body of water seems worth the trouble.

I didn’t expect the process to make an emotional impact on me.

But it did.

Pickup trucks were parked every so often, and in between each truck were two welders wearing helmets, goggles, and protective gloves, bent over their section of the bridge requiring reinforcement. There was no music accompanying their efforts, but the welders moved with the elegance and precision of those who have spent countless hours mastering the art of repair. A porta potty sat on the back of a flatbed truck located in the middle of the bridge, and flaggers directed traffic. Drivers were cautioned to drive slowly so as to ensure the safety of the workers, and to refrain from looking at the brilliant welding arc light that flashes as the welding iron worked its magic.

As I observed the process I suddenly had this lump in my throat. What I was watching was what I could only call a stunningly choreographed dance of collective human endeavor, and like it or not, regardless of our opinion about the bridge and how it is or isn’t being managed, we were all a necessary part of that dance. Because the bridge matters to all of us. And the bridge matters because connection matters.

Bridges, real or metaphorical, are what connect us from here to there. From one person to another. From one perspective or belief to a differing one. From one side of the political aisle to the other. And like the Hood River Bridge, at one time or another repair is needed to provide safe passage to the other side, and we all have a part to play.

So when encountering bridge repair, be mindful to proceed slowly and with caution for the safety and wellbeing of all involved. And don’t look directly at the welding arc, because there is some blindingly brilliant magic at play in the work of repair..

Shawshank Wisdom

It can all start to feel like death by a thousand paper cuts.

Aging.

It happens to the best of us.

With every new trip around the sun, passing day, and next breath, we’re older than the ones before. The process does seem to accelerate though. Injuries that used to heal quickly now take longer to mend. Joints that didn’t hurt yesterday make themselves known today. Checking things out to see what this or that might mean, or not mean, becomes a more common occurrence. One can tire of having to think about, tend to, and tolerate a body that isn’t what it was not so long ago. At least this one does.

However.

Given that getting older is here to stay, there’s a choice to be made about what to do with what we’ve got.

Open our arms wide in acceptance, or shrug our shoulders in resignation.

One is active. The other passive.

To accept is to welcome, receive, and participate in. To resign is to give in, quit, and withdraw from.

Acceptance is about taking life on. Resignation is about letting it go.

Or in the words of Andy Dufresne, “get busy living or get busy dying”.

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?

When Why Gets In the Way of How

In a recent episode of the NEXT RIGHT THING podcast, Emily P. Freeman asked two simple yet powerful questions worth considering as we step over the threshold into a new year. What worked in 2023? and, What didn’t work? As I recall, in the podcast she speaks to the first question, and will be pondering the second in her end-of-the-month newsletter.

Both are great questions worthy of some serious consideration, and I plan on doing a deep dive into each of them. But the one that grabbed me first was actually what didn’t work in 2023. Easy answer: Not having a regular writing practice. I love writing. I’m better when I write. I’m more grounded when I write. I’m less reactive when I write. I’m happier when I write. In short, I’m a nicer human when I write.

These aren’t new insights, and I’ve known this about myself for a long time. So, why didn’t I establish a regular writing practice? Who knows? And furthermore, who cares?

Now, there are times when it is worth diving down the rabbit holes of our inner landscape. Truly. Self-inquiry matters, and I’m a big fan and typically a big practitioner. However, in this case, rather than dig in and figure it out, I’m just going to start writing again. Figuring out why, in this case, would simply be another distraction standing between me and my desk.

Sometimes trying to understand the why keeps us from getting to the how. And in this case, getting to the how is pretty simple. Start writing again.

Is there anything on your mind that doesn’t need an answer to why, but is waiting for you to jump into the how?

(With gratitude to Emily P. Freeman for her always good work!)

We Are Not Alone

On a rainy Thursday morning I unexpectedly found myself alone in a coffee shop. There to meet a new friend, we’d gotten our wires crossed on the time we were to meet. I had at least an hour before an upcoming appointment. Ordering an Americano—with an extra shot of course—I sat down at a table, my journal sitting next to me. It was then that I wondered if the morning wasn’t a mistake after all. If, in fact, I was there to have a date with God. An hour of quiet to sit together, to listen, and to be heard.

Earlier that morning I’d had one of those powerful, messy, raw, and ultimately beautiful FaceTime conversations with one of my daughters. Our conversation wandered through home decorating ideas, upcoming pre-school schedules, parenting challenges, and grocery shopping lists. And then suddenly we found ourselves at the crossroads of her past, the challenges of the present, and her hopes for the future. Which landed us on the painful topic of past trauma and wounding, which then led us to the possibility of generational healing.

Looking through my own lens, and speaking only for myself, ours is a family that has struggled with anger and rage, impacting multiple people on multiple fronts. It was true of the generations before me, and it was a part of my own experience growing up. Add to that the fact that the first time around I chose to marry someone who had his own issues with anger and rage. With good help, I’ve worked to understand those rageful roots, and undo their patterns. My daughter and I talked about how those roots and patterns were part of the soil in which she grew up, and in which her own family is now growing. None of us wants to pass on those parts of ourselves that are unhealed, but left untended, we do. Her pain around anger and its impact on her and now her own family was tangible as we sat together screen to screen. I expressed my deep sadness that she had to experience that in her past, and now has to encounter this same family tendency in her present. I apologized for the part I played in passing that tendency on. Our conversation mattered. My apology mattered. Her need to hear that apology mattered. We ended the time grateful for the safe space we’ve created to talk about scary things.

Sitting in the coffee shop with my Americano, my journal, and God, I picked up a pen and started writing. What does it take to do the hard work to heal from our past? To mend from the uninvited, and perhaps unintended, pain and trauma that make up part of our history? Unintended or not, generational wounding and trauma are inconvenient truths that come with being human. Generational healing is only possible when we encounter and engage with our wounds.

Our unhealed pain always reveals itself, and when it does, that is the moment of invitation…

“Will you meet me head on?” it asks. “ Will you confront me? Will you look me in the eye? Will you put your forehead to mine so that together we can find our way out of this cage of your past that imprisons us both? I want out of here as much as you do, because our freedom, and the freedom of the generations to come are inextricably linked. Know that you are not alone in this quest for wholeness. It is the path all are called to walk if they have the courage to do so. You are not meant to navigate such difficult terrain alone, so seek wise traveling companions, and ask for their help. ”

Closing my journal and heading for the car, I was reminded that we are not alone in our brokenness. None of us make it through unscathed. Our pasts are some combination of the good, the bad, and sometimes, the seriously ugly. Our healing begins when we are courageous enough to look that truth in the eye, and discover what it has to tell us. Because only the truth can set us free. Us, and the generations to come.

Amen.

May it be so.

The Sliver

As soon as my feet hit the floor this morning I could feel it. There was a sliver in my left foot. But it was so tiny—as in the size of a grain of pepper— that my husband could hardly see it even with the help of a headlamp and a magnifying glass. After he made a few gnarly attempts to get it out we decided that a trip to the doctor was in order. To get the sliver out, and to protect our marriage.

Hobbling into the doctor’s office, I felt a little silly. How could something so small hurt that much? Who knows why, and for that matter, who cares. It hurt, and it was going to continue to hurt until it was gone. It took the doctor less than 10 minutes to get it out, and the second I put weight on that foot, the pain was gone. As in gone-gone.

Left to its own devices, that little pepper-sized spec would have burrowed a little deeper, gotten infected, and made my situation a whole lot worse . It wasn’t fun getting it removed, but the relief was worth the price of admission.

What was true of my foot is true in life.

Left untended, a sliver of resentment can splinter a relationship, a scrap of fear can shatter a dream, and a fragment of shame can fracture a soul. That tiny sliver reminded me that noticing and tending to painful things early is the quickest way to the other side. The side where healing happens, wholeness returns, and the ground is firm beneath our feet.

I once had a friend tell mm that I’m always looking for a lesson to write about. And I think that friend was right. Not because I have so many things to teach, but because I still have so many things to learn.

A Lifelong Mentor

What is the emotion you are most familiar with? The one that has been your traveling companion since almost before you can remember. Perhaps the one that you’ve spent your life trying to avoid.

Mine is loneliness. Hands down. No question.

Wikipedia defines it as “an unpleasant emotional response to perceived isolation”. How fun does that sound?

However.

Loneliness has helped me become who I am today. She has served as a wise and kind mentor, helping me learn early on to cultivate a friendship with myself. To feel comfortable in my own company. To this day, time alone is a balm, which means I am never without a friend.

She led me to books from my earliest years, introducing me to the multitude of friends that are found in those pages. My favorite Christmas present was, and is, a new book. Books offer their friendship without hesitation. Pick me up. Read me. I’m always here for you.

My love of reading led me to a love of writing. Words on the page are my way of finding meaning in lived experience. Mine. Yours. Ours. Words on the page connect writer to reader and back again, creating friendships with people we may never meet, but come to know intimately.

Writing led me to speaking. Who knew a shy, introverted, sometimes-lonely girl would love standing on a stage, but she does. Speaking is simply a way to embody the words on the page and bring them to life in the presence of others.

I’ve always been one to forge fewer but deeper friendships. While I still wonder if it might have been better to cultivate more, I wouldn’t trade the depth and connection of those on my friend dance card for one with more names on it.

In conversation with my wise spiritual director, Dane, I was reminded again that the gift of loneliness is intimacy. It invites us to forge deeper connections. With ourselves, others, and the natural world. Often when we’re lonely, we aren’t longing for other people as much as we are for our true self. The one we were created to be, and sometimes leave behind, in an attempt to please others. Loneliness isn’t due to a lack of friends, but a lack of connection to oneself.

Loneliness is an invitation to come back home to myself. And you are always welcome to join me there.

What To Do With It

It’s almost impossible to overestimate the impact of the past few years. We’ve muddled our way through a worldwide pandemic, lived in isolation from one another, and divided ourselves into political bunkers. While the pandemic may be behind us, we are still flailing around in its wake, and it’s hard to know what to do with all of the detritus. Where do we put the flotsam and jetsam that comes out as anger, frustration, fear, contempt for those we deem at fault, and judgment of those we disagree with or don’t understand?

It all has to go somewhere. And it does. We weave in and out of traffic at high speed, hang up on the customer service agent when we don’t get the answer we want, refuse to let another car merge into our lane, pound our fists on the desk, throw our cell phones across the room, scream at the chatbot, numb out on whatever we numb out on, and when all else fails, we take it out on whomever is close at hand, including ourselves.

There has to be a better way for us to manage all of this bottled up backwash.

This past Sunday a Zen Buddhist monk visited our church. He began by leading us in a Metta Loving Kindness practice We placed our right hand over our heart, covered it with our left, and then offered this blessing to ourselves. May I be well. May I be happy. May I know love. May I know peace. The practice doesn’t stop there, but is repeated several times towards others. Someone easy to love. Someone hard to love, Someone who has less than us. Someone who is our enemy.

We are, each of us, all of those people to someone. To some I am easy to love, to others not so much. I am a stranger to some, have less than others, and, yes, I am someone’s enemy.

We are all in need of this blessing. We all long to be well and to be happy, to know love and to know peace. Including the driver who won’t let us merge, the developer of the chatbot that doesn’t seem to be artificially intelligent enough to understand our predicament, the stranger on the other end of the phone who can’t—or won’t—give us what we want, the erratic driver on the freeway, those on the other side of the political aisle, and the person at the freeway exit with the sign who we are sure is taking advantage of the system.

What if, when that familiar urge to take it out on something, anything, someone, anyone rises up, we just don’t. What if instead, we quietly, silently, offer the blessing found in this practice, and then let it all go.

May you be well.

May you be happy.

May you know love.

May you know peace.

Can’t hurt. Might help.

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.

America The Jazzy

My friend Tim is a jazz musician. Sunday, July 2, he played his own jazz rendition of America The Beautiful as a part of the service at our open-and-affirming-all-are-welcome-at-the-table church. It was a gorgeous musical offering as we sat looking out over the spectacular Columbia River Gorge, Mt. Hood looming tall and jagged and proud in the distance. Tim’s take on this classic American song had a beautiful but subtle dissonance to it. Dissonant describes noise that is out of harmony. It paints a picture of things that are in stark disagreement.

We are out of step with our fellow citizens, our voices out of harmony, and our ways of dealing with the issues we all face often in stark disagreement. What if jazz has something to teach us about how to be better Americans together as we wake up this Fourth of July, 2023?

Not being a jazz aficionado, a quick search turned up the following: Jazz has its roots in the African-Amercian communities of New Orleans in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and is often characterized by improvisation and syncopation.

• To improvise means to perform without rigid preparation, and to work with what is at hand. Improvisation is an invitation to let go of the notes on the page and be led instead by your ear and your heart. It isn’t about doing it the right way but about finding your way to new, possibly-never-before-heard music.

• Syncopation means stressing the normally unaccented beats. Those that are typically the strong ones take a back seat, stressing the beats that are generally not emphasized.

What if we began improvising a new America? One in which we let go of the rigid ways of thinking and doing that got us here in the first place, and let ourselves be led by our hearts and not the party line clamoring for our vote and our dollar.

What if we began to shake up the American way? Stressing the normally unaccented beats, and not suppressing the voices that have so much to contribute to our collective music.

Improvisation can be scary as hell, with notes that occasionally hurt the ear. But if we keep going, it can bring forth music more beautiful than any we could imagine. Syncopation catches us off guard. It can knock us off of our comfortable well worn course, which is our only hope of ever finding a new one.

America The Beautiful isn’t a proclamation.

It’s an invitation to sing a new song.

Together.

May God shed her grace on all.