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.

Comings and Goings

Almost before my feet hit the floor I could feel the lump forming in my throat. Standing in the kitchen a few minutes later, the tears started to flow. Sad. Lonely. Discouraged. Those were the companions that greeted me yesterday morning. Feeling the urge to grab ahold of them, I took a slow, deep breath instead. Rather than attach myself to them, I quietly named them out loud. This created a tiny space between me and them. Instead of ramping them up a notch with an old story about what they might have to say about me and my life, I poured a cup of fresh French Press Coffee and took a sip. Tom showed up, poured some coffee, and sat next to me.

Climbing into the red pickup a few minutes later, we headed out to meet a friend at the bottom of the logging road we hike a couple of times each week. I invited my feelings to come along if they wanted, which apparently they did. Twenty minutes later we all headed up the 1.7 mile stretch of hallowed ground found on that ordinary dirt logging road. Three humans and two dogs, my emotions bringing up the rear.

Somewhere along the way my emotional companions must have taken another trail, because when we climbed back into the truck an hour later, they were nowhere to be found.

There was nothing to fix or mend or do with those feelings. They weren’t there to derail my day unless I let them. They simply needed to keep me company for a spell. The tears helped. The deep breaths helped. Naming them helped. Tom simply being there helped. A hike with a friend helped. And coffee helped (duh).

By inviting them along, they were free to take their leave.

Kenosis

Kenosis.

Don’t you just love that word?

Not sure what it is?

Neither was I until I learned about it in a conversation with my spiritual director, and it’s stuck with me ever since.

Kenosis is the act of self-emptying. It’s the practice of using who we are and what we have to offer in order to love, help, and heal the world within our reach.

The best example of this practice is found in the life and times of Jesus the Carpenter, the one I love and attempt to follow. In his short time here on the planet, he did some really cool stuff. He turned water into wine, and healed the sick. He raised his friend from the dead and cast out demons. He gave TED level talks to the crowds that followed him, and then, as if that weren’t enough, he turned a tiny snack of a few fishes and a little bread into a banquet for the masses. And don’t even get me started on his voluntary death on the cross and the mystery that came after.

It’s exhausting just thinking about it all.

However.

All that doing was only half of the practice. The other half is what made all that pouring out of his life possible. Time and again, after giving of himself until he had nothing left to give, he drew away, often into the wilderness, for a time of rest and renewal. Yes, I’m sure he prayed and contemplated and reflected and meditated. But I’ll bet he did some other things too. Like napping.

With a little imagination I can see him eating all of the fish and all of the bread, because a guy’s gotta eat. He’d sip a cup of French Press coffee as the sun came up because, well, he just would. He’d wander along a deserted shore, take a little dip to cool off, and probably vent to his Dad about the sad state of the world to which he’d come.

Give it away.

Fill it back up.

That’s what we’re here to do.

If Jesus had to do it that way, I’m pretty sure that we do too.

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.

Love Is Ridiculous

I’m a flipper-outer.

For example, yesterday morning we were about to head out to meet friends at a nearby wildlife refuge for a lovely summer morning meander, and I was running a little late. The sock in one of my shoes didn’t feel quite right so I had to take it off and start over. The dog’s e-collar was giving me fits. The handle on the fridge needed wiping off so that our friends wouldn’t think less of us if they happened to open the door to grab a beer. I couldn’t find my water bottle. I dropped my phone. It was one of those days when every step of trying to get out the door came with some sort of hitch, and I could feel the inner tension growing. The faster I moved, the worse it got.

Putting a cup of coffee into the microwave I knocked the cup against the side of the door, slopping coffee on the counter………….

Fuck!!!!! I hate having to hurry, I yelled at no one.

Dumping my now hot coffee into the travel mug, I slammed the microwave door. For good measure, I slammed the open cupboard door next to it (because along with being a flipper-outer, I’m also a door leaver-opener). Turning around, Tom was simply leaning against the sink with his cup of coffee, a slight smile on his face. He is unmistakably not a flipper-outer because (A) he simply isn’t wired that way, and (B) I do enough flipping out for both of us.

“Thank you for never (well, hardly ever) making this (me flipping out) into a teachable moment. It feels like you are just watching me thinking ‘God, I love that girl’.”

Pretty much, he said.

And the ridiculous thing is, he means it.

It’s quite a thing to be loved not only in spite of my messiness, but because of it too.

God, I love that guy.

Legit

I have every good intention of having a legit spiritual practice. In my mind this is what that is supposed to look like. Early in the morning I head upstairs, step into the lovely little meditation space I created a couple of years ago, light the candle, settle onto the cushion I purchased just for this purpose, set my Insight Timer app for 20 minutes, focus my gaze on the Buddha statue with the beautiful cross around her neck, take a deep cleansing breath, and sit until the timer goes off. Those 20 minutes are how I am supposed to connect with God. With the holy and the sacred that flows through and around everyone and everything.

That’s what a legit spiritual practice is supposed to look like.

Here’s what mine actually looks like.

Early in the morning I walk to the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, put on a jacket against the chill, and head out to our field. Settling into the chair next to Tom, it’s impossible not to focus my gaze on the mountain in front of our home, take a deep cleansing breath, and sit. No timer. No Buddha. No candle. No cross. Just us, our coffee, and Gracie-the-chocolate labradoodle. We watch the birds, and wait for the sun to crest the pine trees and hit the anthill a few yards away rousing the ants to another day of work on behalf of their community. We read a daily offering from the CAC that lends a holy perspective to our human experience. We talk about everything and nothing at all. We give thanks. We grieve. We complain. We apologize. We laugh. We cry. We do the sometimes hard work of trying to love each other well, or at least a little better. That time, in those chairs, is how we connect with God. With the holy and the sacred that flows through and around everyone and everything.

That’s a legit spiritual practice too.

Almost anything can be a spiritual practice if it helps us to connect, however briefly, to the sacred in the midst of our ordinary lives. It doesn’t have to look like anything other than what it is. A spiritual practice can be as short as our next breath if we notice it, as messy as a toddler’s meltdown if we stay present for it, as scary as engaging a therapist to help us unhook from old stories and heal from old wounds, and as difficult as having the conversations we don’t want to have. Our practice can be as mundane as doing yet another load of laundry, or as miraculous as a few unexpected quiet moments before the rest of the house wakes up. It’s in the presence and the noticing that the practice occurs.

It’s not lost on me that there is a privilege that makes my brand of morning spiritual practice possible. We are both white with all of the advantages that has granted us over the course of our lives. We are decidedly middle class, and generally retired with a bit of time and money to spare. Recognizing that privilege brings with it the responsibility to work for a world that is more just, loving, and inclusive. A world that recognizes the holy and the sacred that flows through and around everyone and everything.

That’s a legit spiritual practice too.

Choose Your Own Adventure

As I approach my 70th birthday it can be hard to know how to think about aging. I live in culture that doesn’t appear to value the passing of the years that show up on my face, around my waist, and oh-so-many-other places. In fact, I live in a culture that is decidedly anti-aging. To be anti-anything is to be against it. To oppose it. Let that sink in for a moment. Anti…aging.

Well, this gray-haired girl is here to tell you that is bullshit.

Aging is the natural order of things.

Aging is the lifelong process of growing progressively older.

Aging is the accumulation of experiences that leads to the wisdom that can only be acquired through the passage of time.

Aging is the gradual letting go what doesn’t matter and holding closely that which does.

Aging is the discovery that old dogs can still learn new tricks.

Aging is the chance to get it right in the places we’ve gotten it wrong.

Aging is the invitation to show up and say yes to life.

Aging is the ticking clock that reminds us that there is still time to give ourselves away to love, help, and heal the world within our reach.

Aging is the ultimate choose-your-own-adventure story.

We are not meant to live forever, nor stay forever young. We are here for a time, the time we have here matters, and don’t let anyone try to tell you differently.

From The Rooftops

Recently I wrote a review of More Human Than Otherwise: Living & Leading With Humility by my dear friend and most trusted colleague, David Berry.

David’s book is for anyone in leadership, considering leadership, or wondering about leadership. It is a book to give as a gift to someone you know who is seeking to be the kind of leader others would willingly follow. If you are looking for a meaningful graduation present for someone about to step onto the leadership trail, look no further. While you are at it, get a copy for yourself and dive in. After all, you are more human than otherwise too.

After posting the review on Goodreads I noticed a tiny box that could be checked to post my review on a blog, and checked it immediately. Why didn’t I think of that, I wondered, as it’s kind of a no brainer to share good news with as many people as we can, whenever and wherever we find it. In fact, given the state of the world, we should be shouting any and all good news from our rooftops to the world within our reach.

Well, this is me, shouting from my small but mighty rooftop.

David Berry asks us to consider what it takes to become a leader others would willingly follow. It is at once a question and an invitation. It is the question anyone desiring to lead well must not only continually answer but live into every day. Beyond that, it is an invitation to transformation, which is the journey of any leader worth her salt. Because transformation is what happens when we are willing to learn from and be changed by our experiences. All of them, and perhaps most especially, the difficult, painful, and humbling experiences that help us gain more clarity on who we are and how we are showing up in the world as a human being leading other human beings.

One of the many things I appreciate about this book is how David created a safe space for the reader’s own courageous thinking. He does this by modeling a critical element at the heart of leadership. What it looks like to go first. To be the kind of leader that says, “It’s ok. I’ll go first. I’ll show you ‘mine’ (the good, the bad and the ugly) so that maybe you will be willing to show me ‘yours’. He does this by sharing his own experiences, what he learned, and what has changed in him as a result.

It quickly becomes clear that David takes seriously his call to help equip and support the next generation of leaders. Leaders who will be courageous enough to become evermore self-aware. In multiple ways this book reminds us that telling ourselves the truth about who we are is foundational to being a leader others would willingly follow. To do that we need the help of others. Cultivating the practice of seeking feedback on a regular basis, learning in community, and engaging a therapist are but a few of the ways suggested in these pages.

I highly recommend this book for anyone in leadership, aspiring to leadership, of wondering if leadership is for them. To that last point, leadership isn’t confined just to those with the title. To be more human than otherwise is to answer the call to love, help, and heal the world within our reach, which sounds a lot like leadership to me.

Endorphins

It was really hard work this morning as we made our way up the logging road. It’s a steep1.7 mile uphill climb all the way from where park to the top. Hiking it twice a week, it’s our way of training to get stronger. It’s always hard at the beginning as our bodies adjust to the effort. Some days it gets easier as we make our way to the top, other days not so much. This morning was one of those not-so-fucking-much times. With the end in view, we pushed hard for the last 50 yards or so. I sounded a lot like Roy Kent from Ted Lasso as I growled his favorite word with every step.

Head on the stump at the top, I caught my breath, and then gulped down some water. Looking at my watch, we’d shaved another minute off of our time. No wonder it was hard.

And then it happened.

The flood of those magic endorphins that follow vigorous exercise showed up. These miraculous chemicals trigger a positive feeling in the body and brain. It’s like Ellen Degeneres is doing her happy dance on my inner stage.

The thing about endorphins, from my experience, is that they only show up when I’ve exerted myself to the point of it being hard. To get stronger I have to push myself beyond what is comfortable. But those damn endorphins feel so damn good that it’s worth working that damn hard to have them flood me with their silly goodness.

What is true on the logging road is true in life.

Stretching past my comfort zone is where the magic happens. In every aspect of life, the only way I know to grow and get stronger is to stretch a little more, reach a little higher, dive a litter deeper, and risk a little more.

It may be hard at the time, but it’s totally worth it.