The House I Hate

I hate my house.

Don’t get me wrong. I love our home and all the life that happens here. We couldn’t live in a more spectacular spot. Mt. Adams looms directly in front of us, offering a staggeringly breathtaking view that is just there for the looking. Our home is a place of hope and healing, a space to grieve and give thanks, and a dwelling where imperfect love, grace, and welcome reside in abundance. This rustic home is a shelter in the storm and a sanctuary in a world that seems to be crumbling before our eyes, threatening to taking us all down with it.

But I still hate my house.

We built it 14 years ago, and it is in need of freshening up. It’s true that most of the furnishings have a fun story behind them. There’s the fantastic $25 couch from the Goodwill Outlet (yes, that’s a thing), a dining room table and chairs from the consignment store next door to Sleepy Monk (our favorite coffee shop in the whole entire world), the matching Woolrich blinds that were still in their original boxes when I found them at another Goodwill, and the coffee table that used to display men’s ties from my days working for Nordstrom. There is a serious lack of floor and table lamps, as those seem to be what little grand boys love to bring crashing to the floor. Nothing goes with anything else, and if I hung sale tags on everything, you would think you’d wandered into a secondhand store with a first-class view. The house is a decorating hodgepodge that has gotten under my skin. And not in a good way.

Given the current economy, this isn’t necessarily the time to invest in a large-scale makeover. Two things are helping me navigate my current aesthetic crisis, and neither one costs me a dime.

The first is a comment from my sister several months ago. She suggested that every time I walk through the house, I should remember something good that happened here. Remember all of the gatherings and conversations and decisions and stories and apologies and connections and celebrations that have happened in this house that I hate that sits under the shadow of that glorious mountain. Recall the tears and hugs and laughter and prayers and meals and toasts and naps that have taken place in front of that beautiful rock fireplace.

So much good has happened here, and it’s had nothing to do with finding the right fabric or purchasing the perfect rug. It’s happened because of the intention with which we built this home, the vision we had for it to be a safe place for all who walk through the door, and our ongoing work to learn how to better love, help, and heal the world that is within our reach. Starting right here. In this house that I hate.

The second source of help came today in the midst of what is always a fruitful monthly conversation with my spiritual director. As he quietly listened to me express my need to get back to writing but not finding my way to my desk to actually write, and my failed commitment to spend regular time in contemplative prayer and meditation, it hit me. I recently took an inventory of the spaces that I actually love in this house that I hate. There are two to be exact. One is my tiny office on the stair landing, the other my meditation space tucked under the eves upstairs. I love everything about these two spaces: their location, the furnishings, the colors, and the way they are arranged. The two places I love the most are also the ones where I need to show up the most.

So many things can get in the way of doing what we most need to do to so that we can be who we most want to be. The fear that stops us in our tracks. The lie that things are so bad that what we each do doesn’t matter. The pain, blame, shame, finger pointing, screaming matches that find their way into our news feeds, email inboxes, and social accounts. The too-muchness of it all can cause us to do too little, and then everyone loses.

Writing is the way I make sense of the world and my place in it. Quiet time in the presence of the Holy grounds me in a world that is spinning out of control. If there are two things that I need to do, these are them. And I haven’t been doing them. And it shows.

My desk and meditation space that I love are waiting for me, right here, in this house that I hate. All I have to do is show up, and the rest will take care of itself.

Like A Begonia

My sister is the gardener, not me. Whether planting a pot, planter, raised bed, or perimeter border, she has a vision to cultivate a beautiful space and create a sanctuary where living things can flourish together.

Not long ago she found a begonia at The Home Depot. It was in a small pot, priced to sell, and clearly on its way out. That sad little begonia in the small plastic pot filled with dried out and depleted soil was probably doomed for the dumpster, had someone, like say, my sister, not spotted it and taken it home.

She planted it in a large pot that sits by the back door, along with a variegated fuchsia, a fern, and some coleus. It had room to grow, good soil, fresh air, sunlight, water, the company of other plants, and a gardener determined to help it thrive. And it did.

The world right now feels much like that last chance rack at The Home Depot. If you are anything like me, it often feels like the pot in which I am planted is too small, the soil dried out and depleted. Looking around, in many ways, it is a sad state of affairs.

And yet.

I can’t help but believe that we are a lot like that little begonia. Individually and collectively we are meant to thrive.

We are the plant, and, we are the gardener.

It starts with our own garden and grows out from there.

Let’s be gardeners determined to help one another thrive.

The Voice Not To Be Listened To

It’s hard to know how to be in the world right now. How to stay in it, work in it, and remain connected to what matters. My middle of the night thoughts cast doubt in every direction. How did it all come to this? How much more can we all take? Is the world really a lost cause? I’ll be honest with you. There are times when I think it is. And if I stop there, I might as well call it quits and just stay in bed.

But I can’t quit. And neither can you. Each one of us adds to the world what no one else can. We aren’t called to love, help, and heal the whole world. Just the one that is within our reach.

I’m not sure who or what force is behind evil, but I do believe it exists. And one of the things evil would want me to accept is that individual effort doesn’t matter. It does. My contribution matters, regardless of the outcome, and so does yours. Any voice that would tell us otherwise is not to be listened to.

Like I said, it’s hard to know how to be in the world right now. With problems so big, divides so deep, and fear so rampant, who am I to think that I can make one whit of difference?

Actually, I’m the only one who can. And so are you.

Swimming In Circles

“There is so much we can do to render service, to make a difference in the world—no matter how large or small our circle of influence.”

— Stephen Covey

---

Just when it seems it can’t get any worse, scarier, more hateful or batshit crazy, it does. An autocratic bully wages an unprovoked war against a neighbor, a Lone Star governor declares war on one of our most vulnerable populations, and the possibility of finding common ground with our fellow citizens seems like a bridge so too far that we can’t imagine ever finding our way across it to one another.

Given the sorry state of our beautiful but broken world, the temptation for many of us is twofold: Doom scroll through our usual sources of information that keep us solidly entrenched behind our ideological bunkers, and/or turn a blind eye to the world and go about our business, hoping it will be better tomorrow. Spoiler alert. It won’t. Not without our help. As in, all of our help.

So, just what in the hell are we supposed to do for heaven’s sake?

Always a fan of any tool that can help us make sense of complex things—like say, the state of the world—I can’t help but think of Stephen Covey and his model of our circles of concern and influence found in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.

Here’s my take on his model:

Imagine three concentric circles. Better yet, grab a piece of paper and draw them. (See mine below. Fill in your own accordingly.)

Label the outer, and obviously largest one circle of concern. Herein lie all of those things that keep us awake at night. Issues that try as we might, we can’t change, fix, or eliminate. From unprovoked war to extremism of every ilk, global warming to the inflation rate, hunger to homelessness, and oh-so-many-more, all are worries that are out of our control. It isn’t that they don’t matter. It’s that they are beyond our reach.

Time spent here is foolish.

Name the middle one circle of influence. This is where our rubber meets the world’s road. It’s where who we are and how we show up can have a direct impact on the people, issues, and problems we care about. Covey suggests, and rightly so, that as we invest our time, efforts, and resources here, our circles of influence expand, bringing a little more of the world and our concerns within our reach.

Time spent here is fruitful.

Finally, let’s label that small inner space circle of control. Smack dab in the middle of it all, we get to choose. It is up to us, and only us, to decide who we are and what we care about. In here we equip ourselves—body, mind, and heart—so as to bring the best of who we are to whatever time we have left on the planet. Our greatest chance of making a positive difference “out there” hinges on our willingness to take ourselves on “in here”.

Time spent here is foundational.

Every day we have a choice to make. Will we drown in our circles of concern, or learn to swim in our circles of influence? Our shared future hangs in the balance, and we will sink or swim together.

The Corner From Hell

Why does every kitchen have a corner that’s too crowded? The one where attempting to put something into the microwave means reaching over the head of the person unloading the dishwasher. In our kitchen, it’s the corner where pouring a cup of coffee, stirring something on the stove, and reaching for dishes to set the table all converge. Working there by myself is fine. Given my claustrophobia, throw one more body into the mix and it’s the corner from hell.

Defined as an intense fear of confined or enclosed spaces, claustrophobia impacts about 12.5% of us. It is a phobia because the fear is greater than the perceived threat. For me, the mere thought of spelunking, traffic coming to a stop in a long tunnel, the window seat in the last row of the plane on an international flight, or taking the Chunnel under the English Channel makes me start to hyperven… Can we just talk about something else??

While not included with the 5 love languages, one of mine is space and autonomy. I’ve worked hard to develop my sense of self and independence, and I feel loved and seen when others recognize that. Becoming strong and capable in my own right has come at a price, and when that gets threatened it elicits a powerful, visceral response I’ve come to recognize as emotional claustrophobia. It gets triggered when someone, (unfortunately usually someone I love) steps in to help me when I haven’t asked for it. It feels like they are hovering over me and attempting to rescue me from something I’m totally capable of handling myself. Left to its own devices, my lizard brain takes over and I find myself in full fight or flight mode. It’s not pretty.

When triggered, most of us don’t respond from our best selves, and I am anything but an exception to that rule. Perceiving a threat where there is none, I’ve hurt the feelings of the people I love with my fear-based reactions and harsh words. To learn to respond from a better place rather than react from an unhealthy one, I’m working to identify the feeling when it occurs. Instead of acting on that inner claustrophobia to protect myself, I describe what I’m experiencing to the person I deem to be doing the hovering and helping. It’s my intent to share that with them in a calm and respectful way, a goal that is still somewhat aspirational. But I’m making progress.

This practice is a way of living from the inside out. A way of bringing to the light what we are tempted to keep in the dark. Disclosing when we are feeling triggered rather than keeping it to ourselves, those long held and often irrational fears begin to loosen their grip. Learning to communicate about our triggers in real time can be a game changer in a relationship. It is a way of holding ourselves accountable to show up differently, and an invitation for others to show up differently too.

By understanding what fuels the unhealthy patterns that show up in our relationships, we have the possibility of creating new healthy patterns together. But only if we talk about them.

Maybe just don’t try talking about it in the corner from hell.

On A Whim And An Audit

A lover of all things language, early in his college experience he declared himself a German major. Already fluent in Danish after living in Denmark for his senior year in high school, and with German under his linguistic belt, he was about to take his first class in Russian. Scanning his horizon, he imagined himself on his way to a life in academia.

But then something unexpected happened.

On a whim, he signed up to audit a geology class.

He’d loved collecting rocks as a boy, and thought, “Heck. Why not? It might be fun.”

And it was.

Before the semester was even over, thanks to a quietly charismatic professor who obviously loved what he was doing, this college sophomore knew what he wanted to do with his life. He would become a geologist.

His professional career spanned 38 years, leading him to become a world renowned expert in his field. As a research scientist, his work often dropkicked him out of the office and into the natural world. He engaged in field work close to home and around the globe, finding himself in circumstances that the world of academia might have had a hard time matching. Stranded on the top of an 18,000’ Andean volcano in fog so thick that the helicopter couldn’t find them, he and his colleagues had to find their way back down on foot. In the Philippines he made his way through shoulder-high grass, home to three different species of cobras, and oh-so-many other poisonous things, and lived to tell about it. Work in anti-American rebel territory in Columbia was done under the protection of a security force armed with automatic weapons. He rafted the Grand Canyon, attended a banquet as the guest of the Sultan of Central Java, spoke at the UN in Geneva, and was momentarily mistaken for the Crown Prince of Japan.

Regardless of where we find ourselves in life, it’s easy to get stuck thinking that in order to find success we have to follow the rules, check off the right boxes, and make carefully calculated decisions. We have to stay the course and follow the route we’ve mapped out for ourselves.

But maybe not.

At least not always.

This geologist would say his professional life was more than he ever could have imagined. And it happened on a whim and an audit. Because of what seemed at the time, an inconsequential decision. It wasn’t a strategic choice, or the next step in a plan hammered out with his academic advisor. It wouldn’t add to his GPA or satisfy a course requirement. He simply thought, “Heck. Why not? It might be fun.”

And it was.

Dr. Thomas C. Pierson a.k.a. the geologist I sleep with

From The Logging Road: Lessons #5

We had a wicked wind storm a week ago, bringing with it all of the usual things. Detours due to downed trees, power outages, and flags, furniture, and fallen branches strewn hither and yon.

This morning was our first foray up the logging road since the storm, and rounding an early bend in the road, a downed pine tree blocked our way.

We had four options. Turn back, climb over, crawl under, or go around. All were viable possibilities.

Turning back didn’t even enter our minds. Arriving at the top, and the hike to get there have become a sacred practice. An intentional habit that anchors our week, fortifies our bodies, and fills our souls. Climbing over was doable, but not necessary, as was crawling under. So around we went. After a short scramble we were quickly on our way again , footsteps falling together on the trail.

Obstacles are inevitable.

The trick is to know what to do with them when they fall across our path.

From The Logging Road: Lesson #4

Ever since the pandemic hit, we have been hiking what we’ve come to affectionately call “our” logging road a couple of times a week. From our car to the summit is 1.7 miles straight up hill, with an elevation gain of just under 1000’.

This morning it was a beautiful winter day. Blue sky, white snow, and bright sun cresting the nearby hills. Typically we head up the road and don’t stop until we reach the summit. Stopping to rest feels like cheating. For the first mile we were able to walk in the large tire tracks, probably left by a local hunter. It was easy going with Yaktrax on our boots to keep us from slipping, our pace steady and strong.

Then the truck tracks ended.

It was no longer easy going. Doable, but harder, requiring more effort with every step. We shortened our stride, lifting our feet high to clear the few inches of snow on the road. Hearts pounding, breathing faster, stopping no longer felt like cheating.

And so we stopped.

Several times before reaching the summit.

While the logging road is a kick-ass workout, she is also wise teacher.

Changing conditions require adjustments.

#ThePostcardProject

On November 6th, I posted a blog titled Dear Us.

I wrote it as a way of passing the time as the election results were still coming in. I knew that regardless of the outcome, there is serious work to be done if we are to redeem our democracy. And yes, it is work to be done by our elected officials, but if there is any hope of success, it is work that must be done by all of us.

In that blog I imagined sending a handwritten postcard to every member of Congress, calling on them to stop blaming those across the proverbial aisle and start working together for the common good. Because that is what I want them to do. I believe the majority of Americans want them to do that too.

Walking down our road the next morning my husband said, “Mol, we should do it. We should handwrite postcards to all 535 members of Congress. I also think you should do something with this idea.”

And with those words, #ThePostcardProject was born.

The idea is to get as many people as possible, from all across the country and the political spectrum to send a clear message to Congress. Stop blaming each other and start working together to build a country that works for all of us. Period.

Today I am inviting you to not only join me in my efforts, but to invite as many others as you can to join in as well. Ask friends. Ask family. Ask neighbors and co-workers, teachers and students, athletic teams and faith communities. Ask any and everyone you can.

The time to come together as a country is now, and #ThePostcardProject is one way to start.

Will you join me?

Waiting Is Hard Work

I’m not much of a rafter. In fact, if I never raft again that would be ok with me.

The few times that I have put on my life jacked, climbed into a raft, and headed down a river, one of the most interesting parts of the experience is when preparing to run another set of rapids. An experienced rafter holds the raft back, paddling and maneuvering against the current to get the boat into the best position to successfully navigate the water ahead. The challenge comes from the constant pull of the current trying to carry the raft forward.

It is a waiting game that takes patience, skill, and hard work. The payoff is that when the time comes to head back into the rapids, those in the raft are ready for the ride.

We are in the waiting game of our lives right now.

The pandemic, which feels like it might never end, is only heating up as the temperatures outside go down. As much as we all long to gather around tables again with friends and families, worship together in our houses of worship, cheer for our favorite teams in packed stadiums, send our children back to school free and unencumbered, frequent our favorite bars and restaurants, join together to honor and celebrate important events, and hug with abandon, we must wait.

The final results of a contentious election, while clear to the many, are being muddied and held up by the few. As much as we’d like to put this all behind us and get on with the hard work of building a country that works for all of us, we must wait.

The economy is at a standstill while our need to support ourselves and our families marches on. As much as we would like for everyone to return to work and get back to business, we must wait.

Waiting can feel like we are doing nothing.

Don’t fall for that notion.

Waiting is not meant to be passive.

Waiting is active, and it takes patience, skill, and hard work.

Like preparing to run the rapids, now is the time to maneuver against the current in order to put ourselves in the best position to navigate the waters ahead. Rapids we’ve never encountered before await us, and now is the time to ready ourselves for the ride.

Learn what can only be learned during this time of waiting.

Discover what can only be discovered during this time of waiting.

Develop the skills that can only be developed during this time of waiting.

When tempted to let go and get back into the flow of life again, let’s hold fast. Let’s do the hard work of waiting. The payoff is that when the time comes to head back into the rapids, we will be ready for the ride.