“Failure is only an opportunity to begin again more intelligently.” – Henry Ford
My mom said our prayer before dinner on Monday night. One snippet resonated deeply with how I’ve been feeling when I listen to the news these days.
I don’t have her words exactly right but it was something like, “Dear Lord, helps us with the distressing current events.” Then she added something like, “Lord, we trust you are at work in the world. Please help us to see how.”
I’ve come to realize that political failure is a lot like personal and professional failure. There’s a period to grouse about it, at least for a bit. But mostly it’s an invitation to work hard to learn from it and use it as motivation for change.
I realize that when I feel in agreement with my local and national leaders, I’m not very involved in politics. But when I feel like the actions of our leaders are reckless, cruel, divisive, greedy, and/or misaligned with our values, I’m fired up to do something. Whether it’s being of service, contributing where’s there’s need, or reaching out to representatives, I’m far more willing to jump in.
I’m not a fan of failure – but I have to admit it’s a great motivator. I’d love for there to be an easy answer to my mom’s prayer but I suspect that getting involved is one component.
“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” Margaret Mead
I witnessed a short, angry burst of aggression the other day. A driver pulled into an intersection as if to take a free right. A woman on foot with her dog in tow, crossed against the light, rapped on the car’s passenger window to tell the driver that it was “No turn on red.” Then she kept knocking on the window to continue angrily yelling the same thing over and over again.
The funny thing was that the driver had not yet taken a right turn but the woman was so incensed that it was likely to happen that she broke the rules to tell them not to. It would have been comical had she not been so apoplectic.
The light turned green, the car turned right and the interaction was over. But it stuck with me, so I went home and looked up anger in Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown:
Anger is a catalyst. Holding on to it will make us exhausted and sick. Internalizing anger will take away our joy and spirit; externalizing anger will make us less effective in our attempts to create change and forge connection. It’s an emotion that we need to transform into something life-giving: courage, love, change, compassion, justice.
“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day, saying, “I will try again tomorrow.” – Mary Anne Radmacher
I was listening to my neighbor talk about the anxiety she felt this past weekend when her husband took their oldest, a 12-year-old boy, up to Camp Muir on Mt. Rainier.
In her delightful British accent, she said, “It’s not that I don’t trust my husband’s skills, it’s just that if you take the three tallest peaks in the UK, Ben Nevis (Scotland), Scafell Peak (England), and Snowdon (Wales) on top of each other, then you have Mt. Rainier. It’s an American, super-sized mountain.”
Fortunately, the weather held and they had a great time hiking up to and camping at base camp on our super-sized mountain.
It struck me as I listened, that there are many different types of courage in these adventures. To lead an expedition, to join as a team member, and also to stand on the sidelines and cheer for an adventure. All take a unique kind of fortitude.
Cheryl recounted her experience on the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa which is familiarly known as RAGBRAI. Seven hot days of riding, camping, and communing with 20,000 other riders.
Sounds fun, right? But what Cheryl does so consistently is bring the magic. She rides in tandem – both on the bike with her husband, Larry, and also in her writing. She is so good at synchronizing her inner landscape with all that she sees around.
She takes us on this journey from the Missouri River to the Mississippi River. And she leaves Vicki and me in tears about what it all means.
Cheryl is a beautiful writer and inspirational story-teller. She reminds us all what is out there when we face our fears and try hard things.
Pork chops, sunrise, kindness, and courage to name just a few.
I’m confident you’ll love the scenic and beautiful places we explore as we share the power of storytelling.
We know you’ll love it!
Search (and subscribe!) for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Apple, Amazon, Spotify or Pocket Casts OR Listen to it from your computer on Anchor: Episode 86: Tandem Riding with Cheryl Oreglia
“When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say, I used everything you gave me.” – Erma Bombeck
My dad had a motto, especially in his retirement years. “I just want to be useful.” And as a retired pastor, that translated to serving on boards, guest preaching, teaching classes, and family stuff like helping me with my house and yard on Saturdays.
And he was very useful. But his usefulness required a lot of flexibility on my mom’s part.
A month or so ago, my 85-year-old mom asked, “Did you see Eleanor Coppola’s obituary in the paper?”
I hadn’t, so we found it and she read me this part, “ ‘There is part of me that has been waiting for Francis to leave me, or die, so that I can get my life the way I want it,’ Eleanor wrote. ‘I wonder if I have the guts to get it the way I want with him in it.’ “
I have a theory – that a lot of women don’t use up all their talent as the quote for this post by Erma Bombeck so beautifully says. That isn’t to say that it doesn’t apply to men, too.
But when it comes to women, it seems that after a lifetime of being flexible for others (relationships, kids, pets), women don’t often get ASKED in the same way that men do. So then it becomes a doubly-hard question about creating life the way as envisioned because it involves crafting the persona, network, and possibly upsetting the status quo at home.
In the case of Eleanor Coppola, it turns out that she died at age 87 before Francis. But she directed her first feature film at age 80. I hope that means she was able to get life the way she wanted it with him in it. In fact, one more quote from her obituary makes me think he was nudging her along:
“ ‘One morning at the breakfast table my husband said, “Well, you should direct it.” I was totally startled,’ Eleanor told The AP. ‘But I said, “Well, I never wrote a script before, and I’ve never directed, why not?” I was kind of saying “why not” to everything.”
As we tune in the deep whisper urging us to be useful and share all our talents with the world, I think we should remember to ask, “Why not?“
‘‘Understand that the hardest times in life to go through are when you are transforming from one version of yourself to another.” – Mysticool
This post was originally published on 3/29/2023. Heads up – you may have already read this.
It’s something that I’ve found again and again in life – when I need to transform, someone or something shows up to be the catalyst. The Universe sends me a guide in some form or another. Here are some of my favorite examples:
When I was bored after a break-up with a boyfriend and I drove around a corner and Mt Rainier was squarely in my view. It started my amateur climbing career.
After I suffered from being stuck and closed down for a couple of years after my divorce, I received an invitation for a mediation class from my friend, Deirdre.
In my 40s when I was working out what was next in life, I would see images of the English Duchess Kate and start to cry. It totally unnerved me since I wasn’t much of a royal watcher and had eschewed having a family until then. And then I finally realized that I wanted to have kids.
I haven’t known all my guides. For example, researcher and author Brené Brown has been my guide towards being vulnerable and whole-hearted simply through the act of reading her books and listening to her.
As my meditation teacher, Deirdre says – transformation is what we need to be our best selves. Yes, it involves change but our spirits are wired to keep growing and finding the balance of all we can be when we need to evolve or simply have gone too far in one direction.
For me this goes in waves, I’ve changed my body to become a mountain climber only to find after years of doing that, my mind and soul needed to also get in shape through meditation. That change helped me open to understanding it was time for me to become a parent. And then I transformed almost completely to become a parent only to find as my kids age, it’s time to transform again to someone who remembers she has an individual, alive part that needs to dance too.
Perhaps this goes without saying, but the other part that I’ve noticed is that I don’t always get the message the first time. When I ignore the call, sometimes it builds into a crisis. In climbing terms, it goes from being a part of a team with a guide at the front to a rescue where I have to flail at the end of the rope.
Some of these changes are inspired from within and feel like evolution. Others come from the outside with disappointment and heart break and feel like erosion. However it comes, I’ve found it easier to take when I bow my head, put aside my opinion on whether I want it or not, and then look for guides.
Because I’ve found is that the Universe hasn’t left me to do this alone. It sends a guide or a catalyst to kick off the reaction. If you don’t believe in any Higher Power, I think that statement could also be cloaked in social learning theory – that all the people around us are walking advertisements for what we can be next. Whichever it is you believe, my experience has shown me that the guide may or may not be in our lives for the duration but they show up to help us over the threshold to what’s next.
“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable but they’re never weaknesses.” – Brene Brown
This post was originally published on 4/19/2023. Heads up that you may have already read this.
On the last morning I saw my beloved dad, he greeted me with a hearty “You look great.”
His untimely death a short time later has permanently etched all the details of that breakfast into my treasure box of memories: the yellow walls of the Varsity Restaurant on NE 65th street, the booth in the open section, the jeans and sweater I was wearing, the cupcakes I gave my parents for their upcoming drive to Arizona, the eggs and waffles, but it is those words that are most precious.
Because both my dad and I both knew that he wasn’t talking about anything to do with my hair, make-up or clothes – he was talking about the light in my eyes. How did I know that it wasn’t just my dad being his effusive self? Let me explain.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned about last lines. As much as we’d like to prepare for them, many (most?) don’t happen how and when we think. Take my dad’s line – neither of us knew that in 6 days time, after arriving and unpacking for a winter in Tucson, that he’d get on a bike, hit a car, and die almost instantly.
That might be an extreme example, but even for the end of a friendship or relationship, the speeches we plan are not what end up expressed. Life, interplay, and random things happen to make things unexpected. So we have to instead do the work to speak honestly and communicate authentically whenever we can.
For me, that work began when three years before my dad’s death when I went on a whim to a meditation class. After 90 minutes of seemingly innocuous visualization and breathing exercises, I spent the rest of the day weeping. It turned out to be just what I needed to start opening all the compartmentalized boxes within and let life flow again. The grief, and shame that came from my recent divorce and that I wasn’t as successful at everything I believed I was supposed to be, came pouring out and I was given openness in return.
So that in the two years before my dad died I was able to choose to broach the subject of spiritual beliefs with him. To talk about what mattered the most to him as a Presbyterian pastor of 40 years. It was a risk because we didn’t talk about religion in my family once all of us kids were grown. Out of respect for keeping things amiable, we’d just stopped talking about our differences.
When we braved the waters of deep beliefs and possible differences to engage in conversation about why he believed what he did and vice versa with me, that meaningful dialogue changed the perception of difference between us and removed the barrier of what we thought were off-limits zones.
Peeling back that veneer of friendly and loving banter in which my dad and I always talked, to delve into deeper issues created a closeness that was precious. My dad knew I was interested in him, I’d spent hours recording our conversations, and I gained relief from my fear that I was doing life “wrong” in his eyes by focusing on meditation instead of theology.
And that is how I knew that my dad’s last line to me was not about the surface details of appearance but instead about a light that had dulled in the last years of my troubled marriage and then divorce. And then through meditation, openness, and vulnerability, that light had been stoked back to its full glow. Sharing that journey with my dad made it possible for him to comment on it.
His death affixed all the details of that breakfast in my mind. But my heart will always remember, “You look good.” It was a gift that started with changing our patterns long before the last line. It’s so hard to talk with our loved ones about the topics that seem most fraught. But in the grief of losing someone, knowing that kinship was there helps.
If we want to have great last lines, we have to risk the vulnerability to be seen.
“You look good.” Which as last lines go, was pretty damn amazing.
My book about our conversations and my journey to find what fueled my dad’s indelible spark and twinkle can be found on Amazon: Finding My Father’s Faith.
“The opposite of faith isn’t doubt, it’s cynicism.” – Billy Bragg
I was telling my kids the other day that my mom used to say to me about my chores, “If you’re going to do a bad job, I might as well do it myself.”
My kids looked at me quizzically, an expression that I’m quite sure mirrored mine as a kid when my mom said it. As a parenting trope, that might be one of the worst.
Because I would immediately think, but not say (after all, this was parenting in the 1970’s), “Go ahead and do it yourself.”
Little did I know that a half century later, I’d come to see that it’s pattern I fight against. I tend to do things myself and not ask for help. It’s a tendency that isolates me – which I mean that I sometimes ignore the bridges others throw my direction.
I recognize that I have two different types of, “I’ll do it myself.” There’s the “It’s okay, I’m good – I’ve got this.” And there’s the “Argh, I’m disappointed with other humans. It’s enervating to just think about communicating my needs to someone else so I’m just going to hunker down and do it myself.”
It’s the second type, the one that’s a little cynical, that I need to watch for. I’m come to think of it as when I get a little heart-sore. It happens when I get tired, when someone is spinning out at work, have watched too much news, or when I’ve tried to say something that matters to someone dear to me and they miss the point.
I’ve come to recognize this state of cynicism because the dialogue in my head starts to run a roll call of my disappointments. When the litany starts to get long, involve old wounds, or last for more than a day, I know I’ve got more than a situation, I’m a little heart sore. It may be imperceptible from the outside but my willingness to be vulnerable goes down and my protective shield goes up.
It’s funny – just like with my mom’s phrase, the only person I hurt when I close in on myself is me. I work better in life when I’m open. It behooves me to recognize when I get cynical and do some movement (the modified side plank pose opens up that space so that I can breath elasticity into the heart space when it’s tight), have lunch with a friend, or write a post about it.
Ah, I feel better now…
Speaking of great conversations with friends, check out the Sharing the Heart of the Matter podcast this week. I talk with my dear friend and co-host, Vicki Atkinson about the Keys to Collaborative Success. Being open is just one of them.
Also, I’m so grateful to Edward Ortiz from the Thoughts about leadership, history, and more blog to writing a review of my book. I so appreciate his incredibly thoughtful and deep analysis about life in his writings. I couldn’t be more appreciative that he spent the time to read and review my book: Book Review: Finding My Father’s Faith
“One filled with joy preaches without preaching.” – Mother Teresa
A few weeks ago, an author replied to a comment I’d made on their blog post about meditation. It was something along the lines that I practice more than I preach. It was a genial comment totally appropriate for the conversation.
But it set me back on my heels. Do I come across as if I’m preaching? Heck no, that was my dear father who had the credentials, platform, and audience who asked for it.
It sparked some introspection. I feel some sensitivity in claiming to be an expert in anything. Even in my career that I’ve done for 30 years and have achieved some external accolades, I tend to play down my credentials.
When I think about what works for me, specifically meditation, I know how personal it is to me. My conversations with my beloved dad about his faith were all about how my expression of faith and his differed. Those conversations taught me much – including that I’m more comfortable with working out what works for me, and less comfortable assuming I know what works for others.
Writing has provided me the opportunity to mine a deep well of stories about my children. I consider my children as the experts at being unapologetically human and naturally close to the Source, especially in these younger years. I write to capture what they teach me and the ever-present challenge it is to love well and keep growing.
If I had to name what I’m good at, I’d say it’s having a willingness to try. In the last ten years, and I credit both meditation and my children, I’ve been able to cultivate an openness to others and to life that has helped me learn.
So I reached the ironic point in my introspection, because I think the more I practice, the less I preach. The more that meditation helps to create space between me and my ego, the less I need to control. The longer I do it, the less I know, but the more I believe.
When I screw it up, like a dozen times a day, I get to practice returning. But when I’m in that flow, it improves my ability to listen to the Divine. It’s solidified my goals to love bigger, show up more vulnerably, and help more.
Is that preachy? I hope not.
My book about the conversations and my journey to find what fueled my dad’s indelible spark and twinkle can be found on Amazon: Finding My Father’s Faith
(featured photo is of my dear dad at a speaking engagement)
We’ve been riding bikes to school this week. Primarily because it makes four-year-old Mr. D happier to do drop off at his school. Why that is, I’m not sure. Because we get the endorphins flowing? Because it makes him feel strong and successful? Perhaps. It seems that right now he’s realized the world is big and he is small. His inclination is to want to stay home in his safe space. But when we ride bikes to school, the threshold into his classroom doesn’t seem like that big of a deal and he has a great day.
Anyway, the hero of this story is eight-year-old Miss O. She’s been totally game to ride bikes if it helps her brother.
After the first day we did it, I told her it worked to help Mr. D have a great day. She said, “That’s great. But we have to find a different way.” But then she got up ready to ride again the next day.
Sometimes I don’t realize what things are big efforts for my little people, Miss O in particular. In this case, we drop her off first before Mr. D and I continue on to his school. But she rides her own bike while Mr. D rides attached to mine on a third wheel.
We have to get up earlier, it’s uphill for the first six blocks, and she wants to lead, so she’s taking on that responsibility too. It behooves me to remember the things that help me to do hard things: just start, remember to feed and water the body, and to take things one step at a time.
I tend to forget all that if we are running late.
On Wednesday morning we headed off later than usual and Miss O’s bike was rattling. I thought it was just the chain guard pressed against the chain and told her to keep riding. We got around the first corner and she said, “this is really freaking me out.”
I did not want to stop. We were late! But I had her get off her bike and found a section of the chain guard that had bent and was clipping the chain at every turn.
We got back on the bikes. About six blocks later when we’d finished the uphill, Miss O said, “I need a break.”
Oh holy cow, my inner voice demanded. You’ve got to be kidding me. But I remembered the things that help to do hard things and edited that voice before it came out. “Okay, Sweetie. How about a swig of water?”
The number one thing I need to do in order to help myself and my kids try hard things is to try not to hurry. If I don’t add time pressure to whatever else it is we’re trying to do, including the things I do solo in the day, it always goes better. I am more patient with others, I have less tendency to want to jump in and do it myself, and specific to my kids, we can enjoy more of their lantern brain where they see and observe everything around them. Like on this ride when Miss O heard a woodpecker in a tree somewhere around block four. Such a distinctive and interesting sound.
The number one thing I regularly screw up is not leaving early. Then I have to swallow my own anxiety about being late in order to help them have a positive experience with trying. Fortunately, I managed to do tamp down the time pressure on this ride and we got Miss O to school on time-ish.
Note to self: Hurrying makes life less enjoyable. Keep trying to leave earlier.
“A man with outward courage dares to die, a man with inner courage dares to live.” – Lao Tzu
This was published previously on 3/22/2023. Heads up – you may have already read this.
Before I left for three-hours the other day, I told my three-year-old son that his favorite babysitter was going to come hang out with him. Because he adores her, I was surprised at his answer and the vehemence with which it was said, “This is dumb. I don’t like her. No, you can’t go.”
It took me a second to realize that the last time I left him with her, it was for four days. I started to explain, “I’m just going to be gone for a few hours.”
He replied, “Mama, I’m scared.”
As soon as he said he was scared, his mood changed from angry to calm. It’s like it popped the bubble of fear so that we could move on.
I said, “Right. I can understand that. But I’m not going on a trip. I’ll be back by lunchtime.”
He said cheerily, “Kay. How bout this deal? I play with her and then we’ll have lunch.”
Deal.
“Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.”
George Adair
I think somehow I missed the memo about acknowledging fear. Growing up in a household with infectiously joyful and confident parents led me to assume they didn’t have any fears. So I’ve blustered through life without admitting my own.
One of the most ironic is that I have a fear of heights and yet I choose mountain climbing and rock climbing as hobbies and tried to just stampede over my fear. I remember a few years back doing a bouldering route at the climbing gym. These bouldering routes 12 -18 feet high and are climbed without ropes in a section of the gym padded with thick mats. I was on a wall that was angled out so I was climbing horizontally, my body almost parallel to the ground, couldn’t see what I was reaching for, and needed to shift my weight carefully to stay on the wall. I was in a position somewhat like I am in the photo below but I wasn’t smiling!
All of a sudden, I felt the full impact of my fear which amped up because I was five months pregnant at the time. I couldn’t move, my arms felt like they weighed two tons, I felt a heat flush all over my body. Then it passed, and I was 10 feet up, completely exhausted and wrung out. I managed to down climb a couple of feet and drop from there, landing on my feet and rolling tiredly onto my back.
I still climb – but not without acknowledging my fear before I get on the wall. It’s like saying “hello” on flat ground so I don’t have to greet it on trickier ground. I also didn’t climb again while I was pregnant. Regardless of all the assurances that babies in utero are fine being jostled, I realized it magnified my anxiety too exponentially.
This incident in concert with becoming more willing to be authentic and vulnerable have led me to understand that there is more room for courage once I let out my fear. That is to say, once I admit I’m afraid, it’s like a full exhale, after which I can take in a deep breath of courage.
“The perfect breath is this: Breathe in for about 5.5 seconds, then exhale for 5.5 seconds.”
James Nestor in Breathe
I bring up the perfect breath as described in James Nestor’s book Breathe because it has a spiritual connection. Nestor also notes that if we recite the Ava Maria or Om Mani Padme Om or the Sa Ta Ma Na (Kundalini Chant) – they all take about the same amount of time of 5.5 seconds.
That ties to the final element to expressing my fear that I’ve found to be at play – the spiritual connection. It isn’t until I own my vulnerability that I can receive help. Sometimes that’s from another person but more often it’s delivered in spiritual and mysterious ways. It’s the element I couldn’t see about my dad – that he didn’t seem to have any fears because he had so much faith.
“Our strength with continue if we allow ourselves the courage to feel scared, weak, and vulnerable.”
Melody Beattie
My lived experience resonates with Melody Beattie’s words. We can’t receive courage until we acknowledge that we need it because we’re afraid. Whether it’s taking on a bully, walking your authentic and individual path, risking to be vulnerable in a relationship, or any of the other million ways we need courage, I’ve found the relief comes much more quickly if we don’t muscle our way through but simply say, as my son did, “I’m scared.”
Surprised By Joy 