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.

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.

Climbing A Mountain Part 6: Leave No Trace

Leave No Trace

A wilderness mantra, it means pack out what you pack in. Including your own waste.

Fun stuff.

The Forest Service provides human waste pack-out bags. One large ziplock bag contains a paper target (think X marks the spot), a brown paper lunch bag containing a small scoop of kitty litter, another brown paper bag, and two (seriously?) squares of toilet paper. The directions are pretty straight forward. Find as much privacy as you can, lay the target on the ground, take aim, and hope you are a good shot. Drop your business into kitty litter bag. Insert kitty litter bag into paper bag. Tuck everything inside the zip lock bag. Take it with you.

Like I said. Fun stuff.

Now multiply that by 8 people and 2 1/2 days.

Everyone’s used bags went into a kitchen size garbage bag. If we’d thought better of it, we would have stowed our own stash somewhere and schlepped it out ourselves. But we didn’t, and digging into that ripening garbage bag to separate out a few for everyone to carry seemed like a very, very, very bad idea. One of our gang offered to take one for the team and carry the bag out.

He deserves a special place in heaven.

We tied the very heavy garbage bag to the outside of his pack, and prayed to the mountain gods that the bag wouldn’t split. A few steps down the trail I remembered the cotton pillow case in my pack. We put the garbage bag inside the pillow case, increasing the chances of the contents staying put.

There was an additional bag of garbage containing the rest of the trash accumulated over the course of our time on the mountain to be dealt with. Someone else volunteered to carry that bag out.

He deserves an almost-as-special place in heaven too.

Heading down the hill, every step the two guys who deserve special places in heaven took was made harder because of the additional weight. Because they were carrying what was not really theirs to carry. It was a visual reminder of something I already think about a lot. We are responsible for dealing with our own shit. For taking care of our own garbage. When we don’t, other people have to deal with it, like it or not.

We are born into the families and circumstances we are, shaping us into the humans we become. No one is exempt from the impacts—good, bad, and sometimes ugly—of those who raise us. We may not be responsible for all that happened to us. However, as we grow up and mature, we are accountable for what we do with what we’ve experienced and who we have become as a result.

This work of becoming healthy, whole-hearted humans isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s hard work, but it’s also good work. Some of the most important we will ever do. I know that because I’m still at it, and hopefully will be until I take my leave. The more work I do, the less I leave behind for others to have to carry.

It wasn’t lost on me that the pillow case carrying that garbage bag wasn’t just any pillow case. It was a gift from my daughters when they were little, with pictures of them on both sides. Whatever we leave unaddressed has a lasting impact. It becomes a burden carried by those around us. Usually those we love the most.

Leave No Trace

Minus The Nitrous Oxide

Between many years that have included many hours of writing, and plenty of trips around the sun, my hands have developed enough arthritis to make it more difficult, and painful, to do many of the things I love. Rather than ignore the pain, mask it with drugs, or wait for it to get unbearable, I decided to take matters into my own hands by turning them over to someone skilled at treating them.

In my initial appointment with the doctor, who specializes in non-surgical treatments for pain management, we reviewed my X-rays and discussed options, landing on Platelet Rich Plasma Therapy— PRP—as a good approach. It uses healing growth components from my own blood to stimulate healing and repair.

Here is my laywoman’s description of the treatment.

Monday morning at 8:30 I arrived at the clinic and checked in for the first of two appointments. During the first appointment a wonderful nurse—who has clearly mastered the art of painless blood draws—withdrew a dozen, yes that’s right, 12 vials of blood, and then sent me on my way for a few hours. At the second appointment, as I happily inhaled nitrous oxide, the doctor, guided by ultrasound imaging, injected my own platelets back into the injured thumb joints. In our post-procedure conversation he reminded me that my pain level would be greater than normal for awhile, and that I wouldn’t be thrilled to have had this done for about 12 weeks. “Will I be pissed off for that entire 12 weeks until I’m thrilled?”, I asked. “No”, he replied. “You’ll probably be pissed off for a few days, and then things will slowly begin to improve.”

The pain was definitely worse the rest of the day, and I was ready for a nap when I got home. Over the course of the next three months I am to avoid taking any anti-inflammatory drugs or the use of ice, both of which would interfere with my body’s natural ability to heal and repair itself. In other words, for healing to take place takes time, and some pain and discomfort is to be expected. Which, in the overall scheme of things, seems like a worthwhile tradeoff.

The reason I both love and need to write, is that it is how I process life. Writing helps me make sense of things, and sometimes, my writing helps other people make sense of things too. Putting words on the page connects the dots of life out in the world. Writing helps me see big implications found in small everyday things:

• Some of the essential matter required for healing is found within.

• Healing usually requires the help of a skilled professional.

• Temporarily masking the pain gets in the way of lasting repair.

• It might very well hurt worse before it gets better.

• Healing takes time, and doesn’t happen without some level of pain and discomfort.

• The healing process will probably piss us off in the short-term.

• And, enduring temporary discomfort for the sake of long-term healing is a worthwhile tradeoff.

What is true for the healing of my hands is true for the healing of our hearts—minus the nitrous oxide.

Growing Pains

  On August 20th I posted about working my way through an injury. As the work continues, I continue to  learn about the importance of listening to our pain. 

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 “Your wound is probably not your fault, but your healing is your responsibility.”

~ Denise Frohman Poet, Writer, Performer

I’ve never lived with chronic physical pain before, and I have a newfound empathy and compassion for those who do. Up until this past year, any aches and pains that I have had have been fleeting. This particular pain however has settled in and made itself comfortable.

It was the pain that first alerted me that all was not well when everyday things like walking, sitting, standing, and sleeping that hadn’t been painful to do before, now were. With the good help of my healthcare team we identified the source of the pain, charted my healing course, and paved a road to recovery. 

My marching orders are to continue to walk with the pain rather than push through it, and listen to the pain rather than silence it with painkillers. This means that I continue to do a little more each day, taking pains to keep the pain at or below its current level. Push through it, and I risk losing my hard won progress. Silence it with narcotics, and I’m in danger of missing the protective signals that pain faithfully sends my way. 

Mine is a marathon, not a sprint. Steady steps result in steady progress, and it is the pain that continues to blaze my trail.

Six months ago I couldn’t walk down our half-mile road much less up a steep hill. Today, I can walk eight miles in a day, and hike up increasingly steep trails. As I stay the course, my healing continues and my strength grows. While not yet free of her, pain has proven to be a faithful companion, and when her work is done, I have faith that she will move on.

When it comes to pain, what is true for my body has proven true for my soul. 

When emotional pain settles in and makes itself comfortable, I am learning to see it as an invitation to step onto another kind of road to recovery. Sometimes it has taken the good help of a professional to help me chart my healing course. My inner-pain asks me to walk with it, not push through it, and invites me to listen to it, not silence it with one of my many chosen painkillers. 

The path to wholeness is a marathon, not a sprint, and steady steps result in steady progress. 

As I stay the course, my inner healing continues and I grow more whole. Pain has proven herself to be a faithful companion, and when her work is done, I have faith that she will move on. 

Music To Our Ears

“Don’t die with your music still inside you.”  ~ Wayne Dyer

Hiking in the forest up above a Bavarian village, I had the sense that at any moment Julie Andrews would burst upon the scene, singing her heart out. When it came to singing, she just couldn’t seem to help herself. She made music wherever she went.

Even though we never caught a glimpse of Fraulein Maria on our hike, the hills were alive with the sound of music, coming from the bells around the necks of the cows grazing all around us. The cows just couldn’t seem to help themselves. They made music wherever they went.

I think we are meant, like Maria, and like the Bavarian cows, to make our music wherever we go.

 Our music is just another word for our life.

The one we are meant to live.

The authentic one.

The wholehearted one.

When the music is ours, it isn’t a performance.

It is an offering.

When we find our music inside of us, we just can’t seem to help ourselves. We make it wherever we go.

The Thread

For months and months my writing had a clear, specific focus to it, as I worked to complete the manuscript for BLUSH: Women & Wine . Daily, and with purpose, I would head to my desk, sit down, and allow the message to find its way onto the page. Some days the writing was harder than others, yet slowly but surely, the thread that wanted to run from beginning to end began to shimmer and weave the words forward into my long imagined book. The thread, I explained to those who wondered, wasn't about the fact that I had long used my nightly wine ritual as a way to distance myself from pain, stress, and uncomfortable emotions and issues. Nor was it about my commitment to changing an unhealthy pattern. The thread ran, and runs, deeper than understanding and changing a habitual coping mechanism. My thread, the one I have attempted (with varying degrees of success) to hold on to over the years, is made of the these three deeply held strands of belief:

1. We are all created in the image of God.
2. We are all called to live as authentically and whole-heartedly as we are able.
3. We are all here to love, help, and heal the world that is within our reach.

Anything that gets in the way of our ability to hold onto our thread is deserving of our full attention. Wine was getting in my way. Thankfully, now it isn't. 

However.

After the book was published, my thread sort of disappeared. Life became about promoting the book, creating buzz, garnering more attention, and increasing sales.

Not. My. Thread. 

In my efforts to promote the book, I forgot about my purpose. When I most needed to remember it, the following piece, written by my good and wise friend David Berry, showed up in my in-box. His words led me back to my thread. My purpose. Which is to help people live authentic, whole-hearted lives, in order that they might better love, help, and heal the world that is within their reach.

I'm feeling the silkiness of the thread in my hand again, and my commitment to hang on to it is renewed. I know it will lead me to the next right steps. As it always does. I'll keep you posted.

Until then, I invite you to pour a glass of your favorite wine, savor David's words, and hang on to your thread.

You Have To Explain About the Thread

JULY 10, 2017DAVID BERRY

“The Way It Is”

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

– William Stafford –

I was captivated this week by the most recent episode of the podcast, This American Life. Specifically, a segment featuring the magicians Penn and Teller describing their process of developing a new trick. Teller, the conspicuously silent partner, has fallen in love with the idea of recreating a classic floating ball and hoop routine. Penn is less enthusiastic, as in not at all. As Teller works and works to make the trick worthy of their show by the standard they have agreed to over 40 years of collaboration he falls short time and again.

A breakthrough comes when they agree that the way to make the trick compelling to both themselves and their audience is to let the audience in on it from the very beginning. The trick begins with Penn’s announcement: “The next trick is done with just a piece of thread.”  And off goes Teller, beautifully and brilliantly manipulating a ball with nothing more than a piece of thread.

What Penn and Teller understood and acted upon – after years of work on one specific illusion – is what William Stafford implores us to do in the poem above: “You have to explain about the thread.” 

I am often in a position to do exactly that. In the classroom or at a speaking engagement I am frequently asked about my own thread. Why do I do what I do? How did I get started? What are the steps I took from there to here? I always respond in the same way, that I knew exactly what I was supposed to do with my life when I was 17 years old. A bright red thread emerged through my experiences in musical performance and student leadership. I was intuitively aware that the abilities developed and practiced in those early settings were the strengths I would call on throughout my adult life. I held onto the thread through the first few years of college but lost it completely once I had to marry my intuitive sense of it to the harshly practical world of “knowing what you want to do with your life.” I didn’t know how to manifest my nascent understanding of my thread into a next step. And I was too afraid to explain about the thread. I wasn’t willing to say, “This is my thread. I don’t know much about it but I do know a few important things, not least of which is that it’s mine. Will you please help me figure out where it leads?”

Instead, I let it slip away. As it turns out, it did not let go of me. We played peekaboo on occasion, a flirtation here and there, but it took over 10 years and an extraordinary confluence (aka, the thread working hard behind the scenes) of people and events to land me in front of a classroom of aspirational leaders. The specifics of that first class are hazy because my memory is dominated by the aliveness I felt at having my hands on the thread once again.

Most recently, my thread has led me to the college classroom and the opportunity to teach and mentor undergraduate students. The thread has a solid sense of humor. It says, “You struggled to claim me as your own. Others struggle, too. Here is your chance to help a few people struggle a little less, to find the thread a little earlier, and to gain the confidence and declare their commitment to hang on.”

There is no “magic.” There is finding your thread and there is holding onto your thread because “while you hold it you can’t get lost.” There is demonstrating to all who cannot see it that what looks like magic is just your commitment to trust where it will lead. Sometimes, like Teller performing for a full house, we hang on with artistry and elegance. Sometimes, like Teller in the early days of practice, we hang on in spite of our fumbling because our curiosity compels us to learn where it wants to go.  And sometimes we don’t hang on at all. But it is there, waiting to dispel the illusion that we can find our way without it.

What is your thread? Where is it leading?
Who have you explained it to? Who have you asked for help?
What makes it hard to hang on?
Is there someone whose thread confuses you?
Will you listen to them explain about the thread?

For further reading, here’s another reflection on “The Way It Is” by Parker Palmer.

DAVID BERRY is the author of “A More Daring Life: Finding Voice at the Crossroads of Change” and the founder of RULE13 Learning. He speaks and writes about the complexity of leading in a changing world.