Laundry Day: A Meditation

A lonely, rusting washing machine rests in our cinderblock carport. After feeding it the prescribed amount of overly sweet-smelling detergent, I pull the start knob and it lurches to life. I lift the lid to confirm that water is slowly trickling into the tub. I am transfixed for a moment, wondering how long it will take to wash a load of clothes at this pace. Then I remember that a watched washer does not clean. I close the lid and walk away, dubious.

Ten minutes later, I realize I haven't heard much from the lonely Maytag. I return to the carport and tentatively lift the lid to discover that the clothes are damp, but there is otherwise no sign of life from the machine. 

"I'm not sure this thing works," I say to Greg.

He peers into the tub and suggests I be patient and remain positive. 

I return thirty minutes later to discover that the clothes are still soaking in the rinse cycle. As it turns out, the lonely washer requires prompting. I move the dial to "spin" and it begins to chug and churn. I smile, feeling a kinship. Like me, the lonely washer requires collaboration and encouragement.  

When the washing machine falls quiet again, I return to the carport to discover that the clothes have indeed been spun. Now for the fun part: Drying.

Our "dryer" is behind the house. Blue cord runs between a tree and the fence posts that help keep the free-range cattle out of our yard. We quickly fill the line and Greg retrieves more cord from his tool box and strings up two more lines. Later that day, he returns from the local tienda with a package of brightly colored clothes pins.

"Happy Birthday, baby!" he says. I will be 59 tomorrow and have come full circle. 

I'm hanging laundry on a clothes line again. Living in a house that doesn't have HVAC. Pulling the screen door shut "just so" to keep the flies out. Driving the dirt roads into town to visit friends and buy groceries — and being awakened to the sound of a cow bell as Bossy grazes outside our bedroom window. 

When I was a teenager, I longed to leave the rural world of my parents' home on the outskirts of Little Rock. Funny that today, the boy (now a 59 year old man) who I met back then has brought me back to the country – although it is a different country. We are living in a small fishing village turned kiteboarding mecca, 45 minutes from La Paz on the Sea of Cortez. Although we have fairly consistent WIFI and mobile phone service, I have been dropped into a much simpler world that requires planning, effort, and intention not required where we live in the US. And I love it. 

There is something completely gratifying about having a very limited selection to choose from at the tienda. There is one brand of yogurt — not 25. The produce is only what is in season and readily available — rather than being shipped in daily from around the world. There are no big-box super, mega chain stores — and Amazon does not deliver here.

Our rental house is constructed almost entirely of concrete — and skillfully so. The two cupolas that ornament the architecture are feats of manual engineering genius and create natural air conditioning as heat rises through their domes. There are no closets for storage, thereby encouraging a limited wardrobe. The kitchen is modern, open and generous in size, but outfitted with only the basics: a range and refrigerator, a few pots and pans, random utensils, four plates, four glasses, a set of flatware for four. At first, this is vexing, but we adapt and find a sense of true satisfaction in "making do." 

Our home comes complete with solar-powered dryer..

I'm not sure if this is how my mother felt when she first set foot in the home my father bought in 1952 for $11,000 on Highway 10 on the outskirts of Little Rock. And yet, she did make do. Making do was just a part of life for my parents. They grew up during the Great Depression and never quite left it behind. 

It used to irritate me that my Mom reused bread bags instead of buying sparkling new Ziplocks. Or that she kept using the frying pan with the broken handle rather than buy a new one. "It's perfectly good!" she would say. And she was right. 

I wanted to toss out the chipped plates and mix-matched cups into the garbage, never considering those discarded items would end up in a landfill. I couldn't understand why my mother didn't buy a new vegetable peeler when the handle fell off of the old one. Now I realize that she kept it —even though it pinched her fingers when she peeled potatoes—because,"It still worked." 

Back then, I longed for the luxury of a disposable world. Now, I see the beauty in my mother's conservation. 

As I retrieve the sun-warmed, crisp, clean-smelling clothes from the line, I am grateful for the wisdom they imparted. Yes, I'm a slow learner, but I'm so very grateful to be here now.

Living in the desert takes more intention and resourcefulness. A truck comes once a month to fill our water and propane tanks. We turn out lights before leaving the room because resources are not as plentiful here. We don't leave the water running when we brush our teeth or wash the dishes. We try to not be wasteful. It's a lesson my parents taught me more than half a century ago.  

Despite the limitation, here in Mexico, we have everything we need —and more. We are embracing this much simpler lifestyle. And I'm sure somewhere in heaven, my Mother is grinning. (She was never one to say, "I told you so.")

Losing My Self

How do you get lost just a few miles from your home? If there's a way, I'll find it — or lose it, as the case may be. But getting lost isn't such a bad thing. In fact, some times getting lost is the best thing that can happen to me. 

There's a trail called Hidden Valley. You climb and climb and climb and when you get to the top, the mountain opens up to this unbelievably beautiful meadow. (In the spring it's covered with bright orange globe mallow blossoms.) If you keep walking along the well-worn path, you come to a rise where Native people drew petroglyphs into the rock — perhaps in the earliest form of social media —chronicling their challenges and triumphs.

Hidden Valley is a very popular hike and, when the weather is nice, you'll meet dozens of people on the trail. On this particular fall day, I decided to make the trek all the way up and over the Hidden Valley trailhead and down to the bottom of Moab Rim. It's a 7.5 mile hike up a mountain, through the valley, and across rocky, desert terrain to finally descend 1000 feet from the canyon rim. I'd hiked up the rim many times (they call it the Stair Master with good reason) but I'd never put the full end-to-end trail together —and I'd never hiked it all alone. Today was the day.

Hidden Valley revealed.

Greg dropped me off at the Hidden Valley trailhead after leaving my truck at the Moab Rim parking lot. I studied the AllTrails map and felt confident I could make the hike in about three hours. It was a straight shot due west from Hidden Valley to the Rim. What could possibly go wrong? 

When I began my hike at 11 a.m., the air was relatively cool. I had everything I needed: a jug of water, a pack of Peanut Butter Toasties, my phone, and a little spiral-bound journal for notes. I slung my lightweight blue backpack over my shoulder and began the ascent. 

While hiking up Hidden Valley trail I met a couple of folks coming down. But once I got to the top, I was alone. It is remarkable to consider how few people have walked this trail in the history of the earth. I am always humbled by my good fortunate to be among those who get to experience this beauty. When I made it to the petroglyphs, I climbed up on some rocks, looked out over the valley, and scribbled some notes in my journal. 

As a kid, I loved exploring the stream and the woods behind the barns on my parents' little farm. It was never this remote or this grand, but sitting on this vantage point, gazing out on the La Sal mountains, I felt like that little girl again filled with wonder of God's creation. 

That's what being in Nature does for me. And I need it. I need that connection, both to my physicality and to the natural world. It's so easy for me to forget that I am part of the earth. I live in my mind most of the time. That's the nature of being a writer, I suppose. My thoughts propel me — and often vex me. So exerting myself up a mountain and across a remote trail requires me to shift from my cognitive go-to to my most basic physical self. 

On my first solo hike in the desert, I became more keenly aware of my surroundings. The first leg of the hike was familiar and very well-worn. No way to get lost hiking Hidden Valley! But after I passed the petroglyphs, I was in fresh terrain. The field turned to slick rock. Discerning footprints was more difficult. I had to focus and look for subtle signs to show me the way.

Signs of early adventurers.

The temperature climbed to 90 degrees and there was no shade. I stopped to chug some water and continued down the rocky path. I knew I needed to keep heading west, but when the trail dropped off into a deep gulley, I feared I'd taken a wrong turn. How? How do you get lost in a place where there are no trees? Thankfully, I saw a cairn left by other hikers which showed me the way. I still had a long way to go and now I was in completely unfamiliar terrain. The town of Moab was just beyond the rim, and yet I'd never felt more alone.

The desert leaves you vulnerable in a way that no other landscape can. It is harsh and unforgiving. Creatures that survive there are hearty and opportunistic: rattlesnakes, lizards, spiders, carrion fowl. The Western movies I used to watch with my Dad often romanticized many details, but they got the desert's cruelty right. Did I mention there was very little shade? Thankfully there was some welcome cloud cover and a breeze that foretold an incoming storm to help break the monotonous heat. 

There were a few sign posts for the Moab Rim trail, which I happily welcomed. But, as it turned out, the one I followed was misleading. It took me to an overlook of the city — not the trail that would lead me to the area where my truck was parked. This misdirection added an hour of hiking to my adventure before I realized I'd followed the wrong path.

My destination: Descending 1000' from Moab Rim.

I was frustrated when I realized my mistake, but there was nothing I could do except back-track and continue my hike. I stopped, drank some water and and ate half my peanut butter crackers before starting off again — this time in the right direction. What I didn't know is that I still had a long way to go. 

I hiked for another hour before I made it to the descending trail on Moab Rim. When I finally arrived at my truck, my feet ached and I was sweaty and sunburned and tired, but I also felt a sense of accomplishment that I had rarely felt before. I made it! I did what I set out to do. Not only that, I got lost in the wilderness and found my way home.

How often do we really get lost these days? 

With GPS and mobile capabilities we can find our way just about anywhere. We have immediate access to step-by-step directions. To be in a locale where I literally have no idea where to turn and the only way to determine the next step is to just keep going and find my way through trial and error is a bit exhilarating. I wouldn't want to do it everyday, but I loved that hike and it will always be special for me. I was in a place where I literally had no idea which way to turn, and I found my way. I followed my instincts and relied on my body —not my mind — to get me where I needed to go. 

While being physically lost is rare for me, being emotionally lost is far more common. Almost daily I'm wandering around in my head lost in the the stories I concoct about myself and other people. 

The wasteland that is my mind is far more difficult to navigate than any trail. And can be far more dangerous to myself and others — if I am not conscious. 

Without being aware of it, I can so easily take a wrong turn and find myself unable to connect with the people I love the most. It's a very lonely place and yet — like the Valley to Rim route — I'm never actually that far from civilization. It is only a perception that I am separate, unloved, not considered. Why do I go there? And once I'm lost, can my instincts help me return to what is familiar and loving? I need a different type of cairn to show me the way.

Whether it's God or Jesus or the teachings of Buddha or Mohammed or Allah, or the Great Spirit, I believe there is a power greater than the individual mind that can bring me back to sanity, to presence, and to my path of serenity. 

I don't know why human beings — specifically me — struggle so to remain on the path of conscious awareness. It seems like it would be so much easier, and yet, often the trail markers aren't visible to follow. And yet, there's always a way back. Often I have to back track to find the right way. Typically, I have to get to the point where I am ready to give up in order to see with clarity the path home.  

Gardening in the Desert: A Meditation

After living in the South for 58 years, I'm discovering a whole new world in the desert. The dry environment is both unforgiving and breathtakingly beautiful, and I'm only beginning to learn about its nature and how to care for it. That's why I was thrilled when a friend who's a horticulturist came for a visit last month. She intimately knows plants, and understands what will grow and flourish in our arid soil. She sees potential. She also sees the invasive species that have taken root there that will limit that potential. Removing the weeds — the plants that aren't beneficial to the ecosystem — is just as important as planting what will thrive. 

As my friend and I walked around the yard, overgrown tendrils of sticky Russian Thistle (aka tumbleweed) grasped at our legs. She pushed past the villains to show me the heroes in the yard that I had overlooked. The small purple Four O'Clocks and the chocolate flower, the geraniums and showy sunflower all came into focus as the distracting, tangle of opportunist growth fell away. 

I scrawled notes in a spiral binder as my friend ticked through her prognosis: Cut down the dead growth to allow the healthy foliage to use the plant's energy. Uproot the invasive plants. Clear the way for good growth. Make the most of what you have. "No need to purchase a lot of new plants from the nursery," she instructed, "Transplant!" Allow sun-loving flora to have their rightful spot. Give shade to tender plants who require gentle light. Let nature be nature by understanding what each distinct plant wants and needs. 

Slowly, I began to realize that our overgrown yard was filled with treasures that I didn't previously appreciate. 

After my friend left, I gingerly walked outside and peered across the overgrown yard. It seemed a bit overwhelming. I sighed. Where to start? The answer came: 

Start where you are, with what is right before you. Right at your feet.

I looked down and before me were the sticky tendrils of tumbleweed. I reached down and firmly grasped the offensive plant at its base and tugged. To my delight, it came up — easily! I tossed it on the walkway. Beyond it was another and another and another. I focused on pulling up tumbleweed and before I knew it, there was a pile of plants four feet high amassed. It was gratifying to see the bare earth left behind. 

Just one of the MANY loads of tumbleweed removed from the yard.

Now that there was less clutter, I could see the good plants that had been choked out by the weeds. The sunflowers had more room to thrive. The Four O'Clocks seemed to breath easier. The delicate Mexican Hair Grass, Baby's Breath, and Partridge Feather could now receive the sun they craved. Just removing that one invasive plant made a huge difference to the look of the property. 

Why had I been reluctant to garden? There was always an excuse. I was too busy with freelance work. It was too hot. I wasn't sure what to do or afraid I'd do something wrong— so I did nothing. But with the right instruction, all those objections fell away. 

As I slowly cleared the yard of tumbleweed, and saw the beauty left behind, I was filled with a renewed appreciation for all of God's creation. I began to wonder how many other areas of my life have I been reluctant to improve because I was stuck without proper instruction or just plain lazy? 

I'm certainly not the first to make this analogy. Vietnamese Buddhist monk and author, Thich Nhat Hahn, writes extensively about the mindfulness practice of cultivating joy in ourselves and others."We need to organize our daily lives so that the positive seeds are watered every day and the negative seeds are not watered," Hahn says. "We call this the practice of selective watering. We water the flowers, not the weeds, so that the flowers will bloom in the other person. When we make the other person smile, we benefit as well. It does not take long to see the result of our practice."

In this way, gardening (in any climate) can become a meditation. Now, when I'm pulling tumbleweeds, I contemplate how I can uproot fears and cultivate joy. I consider what invasive, negative thoughts and actions I might be watering out of habit. And I become curious about the treasures that I haven't fully appreciated in myself and others because I was so focused on negative characteristics.

"We all have seeds of suspicion, despair, and anger," Hahn says. "Every time a negative seed is touched and watered, we suffer. But we can do better than simply not watering our negative seeds; we can water our positive seeds of happiness, loving kindness, forgiveness, and joy."

Where There's Smoke

I don't know the exact moment the Pack Creek fire started on June 9, but sometime on that day, someone made the decision to leave a campfire burning. The details haven't been released. All I know is that "an unattended camp fire" destroyed almost 10,000 acres of wilderness and it's not contained yet. 

Fires happen naturally in the desert, of course. But this one was caused by neglect, haste, or just plain stupidity. Maybe it was ignorance —not knowing the impact that a single ember might inflict on the dry landscape. Maybe it was purely an accident. Maybe the person (or people) thought their campfire was completely doused and out. Maybe there's someone waking up this morning —in New Mexico or Ohio or Oklahoma who knows where —with a very guilty conscious because they know deep-down that they were the cause of this disaster. 

At least four homes were destroyed, and hundreds of people at least temporarily displaced by the blaze that filled the skies full of smoke. Firefighters and emergency responders risked their health and their lives attempting to quell the inferno. By Thursday afternoon, an enormous plume of smoke obscured the LaSal Mountains — which is quite a feat considering that the LaSals are a presence in Moab, like giant sentinels who guard the desert and its people. 

On Thursday, the wind blew all day from the south making the fire harder to contain. Firefighters on the scene were called back. There was nothing more they could do. When the wind died down early Friday morning, the smoke settled on the town. The heavy stench of charred wood filled our house, permeating even our bed linens and our hair. 

A week after the blaze started, the fire still had not been contained. 

Somewhere in Alabama or Texas or Ohio or who knows where, the person or people who left their camp before making sure their fire was fully extinguished didn't smell like smoke. If they took pictures of Pack Creek earlier that day, they have a record of the beauty they destroyed through their thoughtlessness. We don't know who they are or where they are now. But what we do know is that a single act of carelessness destroyed 10,000 acres of Mother Nature's careful growth. It will take years, maybe decades for that life to be replaced and even then, things will never be the same. 

Some good will come of this tragedy. I don't know what it is, but I know that nothing occurs on this planet that does not have some positive effects. Some plant or animal will benefit because of the burn. A real estate holder may receive a windfall because of insurance money or FEMA support. Maybe a ranger who was supposed to work in the park that day got time to spend with her family or relax and watch a TV show that made her laugh. Maybe it gave a scientist or software engineer a better idea for how to fight fires in windy conditions. We don't know. That story is still being written. In a few months the fire will be mostly forgotten by man, but not by the forest and the desert and the creatures who live there. 

To my knowledge, I've never started a forest fire. I've never walked away from a camp fire without dowsing it (literally) to death. But I'm sure I've caused harm without intending to. I know my actions have delivered consequences that, in their own way, burned for days and caused unnecessary suffering. I try to be mindful of my actions for this reason —because I don't always know the repercussions of my words and deeds. 

In Buddhist terms, this is called karma, meaning cause and effect. A single thoughtless action can yield irreparable damage. It's enough to give me pause before I get out of bed in the morning. And yet, I do get up and go about my day. The best I can do is be mindful of my actions, to move through the world gently, with kindness and deliberation. And I fail — a lot. And I make amends and make a conscious effort to replace my negative habits with positive ones as soon as I realize what I've done. 

The aftermath ...

Somewhere in Arizona or California or Mississippi or who knows where, the person who left that campfire burning in Pack Creek may be waking up to the reality of their misdeed. And if they do, let's hope that I can be as compassionate to them as I am with myself every time I awaken to my own humanity. 

Like a Leaf on the Current

"Avoid the holes!" Greg yells. 

I awkwardly slap the Colorado River with my paddle, effectively turning my kayak — sideways. Ahead is a stretch of fast moving water and beyond that, rapids. I have no clue what he's talking about, let alone what to avoid.

"What holes?!" I shout. 

"See up ahead where the rapids drop? That's a hole! If you get sucked in, you could drown." 

I immediately regret not You-Tubing "river rafting basics" prior to getting out on the water. Now it's too late. 

Thankfully, the stretch of river we're on is not particularly dangerous or fast. The conditions are about as ideal as you can get for learning how to kayak. But there are nuances that would have been helpful for me to know. It looks so effortless when others do it. There are much older, less athletic people paddling down the river this afternoon. Why shouldn't I be able to manage a "ducky"? 

Yes, the rubber kayak I'm paddling is called a "ducky." As if that's not enough to shame me into bravery, there is also the desire to not appear to be a total weeny in front of my boyfriend and my 19-year-old son. Plus, I'm just too prideful to abandon ship and swim to shore, so I slowly move the kayak forward and embrace whatever is coming next on this new adventure. 

I'm 58, and although I was blessed with a healthy body, I've never been particularly athletic or courageous. My previous rafting experience consisted of climbing in an oversized boat with friends and plenty of beer and little threat of danger. In many ways, throughout my life I've avoided all risk of injury and peril. 

I tend to live in my head. But on the river, thoughts can be as problematic as haystacks — if you allow them to consume you. Panicking is the worst thing you can do if your kayak begins careening out of control. Fortunately, I don't have time to panic. All I can do is go with the flow — and pray. 

Within moments, I my ducky is drawn into the swift churning current.  Technically I'm in "white water"  (although it's probably a Class I or II). And yet, its intensity is palpable. There is plenty that could suddenly go wrong. But it isn't the rushing water I need to fear. As Winston Churchill so famously said,  it is "fear itself" that's my worst enemy. 

As I hit the first white capped wave, I receive a sensory-awaking blast of cold water across my legs. The roar of the rapids engulfs me. In an instant, the strong current tosses my ducky sideways. My hands tighten round the paddle as I try to counter the rapid's motion ... and effectively turn the boat in the opposite direction. Now, I'm careening backwards through the current. Great.

The Colorado River is a great teacher. 

My mind races. Greg shouts instructions that are inaudible over the din of the rapids. My effort to paddle only serves to make things worse. For a moment, the boat lists over, taking on more water. 

Then a thought comes to me: "Stop struggling. Let the river take you where it wants you to go." 

I lift my paddle from the roiling water and surrender. I allow the river to toss me like a leaf on the current. I loosen my grip on the paddle along with my fears. The ducky turns sideways again, but at least now I can observe what's ahead. I can see I'm nearing the end of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. 

As the waves lessen, I'm able to straighten the nose of my kayak and paddle to the calm water ahead. I am at once relieved and disappointed that the white water portion is over. There's something humbling and empowering about willingly handing yourself over to forces beyond your control. Nature is a great teacher. I've ignored Her for too long. 

Most of my life, I've managed to remain safely on the shore. And yet, how many times have I been tossed about by life's turbulent waters? Hidden haystacks have sucked me under, leaving me afraid to move forward. 

I tend to live in my head, which can be super helpful when I'm composing a story — and downright dangerous when I'm faced with real physical peril. There have been too many times in my life when I over-responded to hazards and made matters worse. 

Too often when I've relied upon my mind to figure things out, my thoughts have sent me spinning in circles. When I remain centered and present, difficulties tend to wash over me with minimal impact. 

Sitting on a mediation cushion, I've learned a lot about how my mind works. In the safety of the dharma center, I've listened to many wise lessons. But the Colorado may be the greatest guru of all.

Resigned to Happiness

 I loved my work. My supervisors were thoughtful and supportive. My colleagues were smart, fun, and caring. That's how I knew it was the right decision for me to resign. 

It's easy to quit a job that sucks. When you're over-worked, have to contend with jerks, and feel you have no future or purpose, resigning is a no-brainer. The true litmus test of knowing if it's the right move to step away from a job is when you're happy, and you still know deep down in your heart that you need to move on. In other words, you resign when quitting isn't a knee-jerk reaction. 

My decision was influenced by a number of factors, namely: my son's departure for college, a traumatic break-up that led to the start of a wonderful, new relationship, my desire to spend more time writing and traveling with my new beau, and —last but not least — the COVID-19 global pandemic, which altered my work dynamic when travel came to a screeching halt. 

Do we need to resign from ego in order to
 re-sign to what is truest to ourselves

Any one of those motivators would not have pushed me to resign a good job in an uncertain economy. But taken as a whole, my choice was clear: I needed to step away from full-time employment in order to regain balance and live in alignment with my priorities, goals, and dreams. But I didn't just up and quit. 

Because I loved my work and my colleagues, I gave more than a month's notice to provide time to hire my replacement. And that's when something really interesting occurred: As soon as I set my end date, I felt more empowered. 

After I tendered my resignation, I no longer had an agenda. I felt secure voicing my opinion if I felt it served the greater good. I've never been one to burn bridges. I wasn't an asshole, but I felt safe being candid. 

I also found it easier to set healthy boundaries. I didn't get caught up in company politics or gossip. (Of course, many of the convos were around returning to the office, which no longer applied to me.) And I declined extraneous meetings that I would have only attended pre-resignation for fear of being left out of a conversation or opportunity. 

Post-resignation, I stopped working nights and weekends. I still met all my deadlines, but I wasn't obsessed with them. I actually took time away from my computer to eat lunch. I ended my day on time so I could workout at the gym. 

Why hadn't I detached from my work in this way before? In sum: Along with my job, I resigned my ego. Maybe the secret to a happy work-life is to work as if tomorrow was your last day on the job.

Right now, as  our country takes a look at the future of the workplace, I wonder how much more productive, satisfied, and contented we would be if we detached from our ego's compulsions —to be right or perfect, to please everyone, to be better than, to be unique, to have all the answers, to fit in, to gloss over difficulties, to be in charge, or to avoid conflict at all costs. 

I wonder what would happen if we worked as though we had just tendered our resignations? 

River Rules

I've been spending more than a little time in the West these days. It's an amazing landscape and the ultimate playground for those who love being in the wilderness. But this brand of nature can be rugged —and even turn deadly in a heartbeat. I've come to appreciate its power and beauty.

Last weekend, I floated on a raft down the Colorado River for the first time. My boyfriend, Greg,  and a gang of our friends packed lots of snacks and beer and prepared for a fun afternoon. All were veterans on the river, except me. 

 
As we prepped for the excursion, the weather turned out to be a little different than we anticipated. Gusting headwinds blew in and made conditions challenging. But my companions assessed the situation, made a few adjustments, and forged ahead with our planned "float."  

Feeling the wind whip up the canyon, I was grateful to climb into a large raft commandeered by two of my new friends, Emily and Lauren, who are professional environmentalists and river guides. As Emily began to row against the wind, I eyed the turbulent water warily. "What do I need to know?" I asked. "What are the rules of the river?" 

Emily and Lauren laughed and then provided me with the four River Rules they've learned in their collective years of experience as water-women. 

River Rule #1: Always stay with your boat/watercraft.
On the river, your vessel carries you from point A to point B. To abandon it prematurely can cause you —and other people — a lot of harm. There are submerged rocks and debris in the rapidly moving water. It might seem like a good idea to jump in and swim, but that craft is going to keep floating. Pretty soon you'll literally “be up a creek without a paddle.” Oh, just in case you do tumble out, never take off your personal floatation device (aka life vest) while in moving water. 

River Rule #2: Keep up with your stuff.
When you're in a boat, and need your paddle or a carabiner or a rope or a beer, it's really helpful to know right where it is and how to lay your hands on it quickly. Sometimes you don't have a lot of time to scramble around and find that thing that's going to keep you from capsizing. 

Also, allowing your stuff to get underfoot can trip you up — or send other people toppling. A raft doesn't have a lot of floorspace to begin with, so allowing your beer cans or provisions to roll about on the floor can cause all sorts of havoc. 

River Rule #3: Don't be an asshole. 
Being an asshole on the river might include, but is not exclusive to the following actions: throwing trash in the water or violating nature in any way; being loud and obnoxious; creating big waves or a wake that could adversely impact smaller, more vulnerable vessels; enacting any behavior that compromises someone else's safety, well-being or enjoyment of nature. 

River Rule #4: Always pay attention.
Yes, you're there to have fun and enjoy the beauty of nature, but being on moving water requires vigilance about whatever lies ahead. The river is unpredictable. There's a fine balance between remaining in the moment, truly appreciating nature's beauty, and anticipating what's coming up around the bend. The river demands that you hold both presence and vigilance in equal esteem. 

No matter how many times you've been on the water, it's never exactly the same river twice. Hazards can come at you without warning, so paying attention —even while you're partying and having a great time — is essential. Rocks, debris, flotsam and jetsam of all varieties can appear quickly. Other boaters and their stuff (see Rule 2) may create unanticipated issues as well. If you become too distracted by someone else's crap, you can lose your balance —or your way — in an instant. 

At first, I thought my friends were simply imparting etiquette about how to behave on this wild and often unpredictable force of Nature. But then it hit me: These are rules that apply to all of life. 

Life Rule #1. Stay with your boat. 
Ego might tell me that I'm strong enough to make it through life without a Higher Power, without a vessel to protect me from unseen hazards, but that's foolish to believe I can exist without Universal assistance. There have been many times when I jumped out of my metaphoric boat and was too foolhardy to ask for help. I didn't drown, but I was carried off by currents that didn't serve others or me very well. 

The good news is this: If I realize I need that vessel, I might just find it waiting for me in a tranquil eddy. I've had to swallow my pride (and set aside my Ego) more than once and admit that I was in over my head and needed a hand. And there have been times when I've been washed up on shore, seemingly abandoned —only to discover that I was exactly where I needed to be in order to (eventually) move forward. 

Life Rule # 2:  Keep up with your stuff.
In life, my stuff has often gotten in my way, tripped me up, kept me from meaningful purpose. On this journey, I'm learning to leave what isn't necessary on the shore. I want to carry only the essentials necessary to sustain me and others. And I need to keep those things in check. I don't need to allow my misdeeds to roll around underfoot. My experiences in life shouldn't create an obstacle course for other people either. My actions are mine to own and (hopefully) learn from and use to become a better human being.

Life Rule #3: Don't be an asshole. 
This one seems obvious and I hope doesn't need any explanation, but just in case it isn't clear, here goes: Avoid any action that's selfish, dishonest, self-centered, inconsiderate, or harmful in anyway to
others, to nature, or to yourself.

Life Rule # 4. Always pay attention.
Thich Nhat Hahn, Eckhart Tolle and many other other esteemed gurus write about the importance of remaining in the moment and taking life as it comes. Life requires the same balance of presence and anticipation as required when floating a river. It can be difficult to allow events to unfold with appreciation and knowledge that shit can and will happen and you have to keep going. 

Just like floating down the Colorado River on raft, life involves going with the flow. You can anticipate the rapids, but you will never be able to manage or control them. The best you can do on the river and in life is to be conscious of the hazards, prepare yourself for the inevitable, and keep moving forward. And of course, it's always a good idea to stop every now for a cold beer and a snack to makes the journey that much more enjoyable.

PS: Need help planning your own adventure in the southwest? Check out my friend Emily's awesome Southwest Jeep Adventures for trip planning services or camper Jeep rentals! 

The Do-Over Life: How I Got Over FOSO

On December 27, 2019 I found myself starting over ... again. In an instant, my carefully curated life tumbled like so many Jenga blocks and my eight-year relationship ended. 

And yet, even in the initial days as the waves of shock, humiliation and sadness rolled over me, I felt a glimmer that the Universe knew what it was doing even if I did not. I read somewhere that when a relationship ends abruptly "God is doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves." Deep-down something told me this breakup was for the best even though I was not bold enough to have initiated it. 

The truth was this: For years I'd ignored the problems. My partner had many fine qualities (top of the list was the kindness he showed my son), and yet, we weren't evenly aligned. By that I mean there were many aspects of our personalities that didn't fit together. And yet, I stayed in this relationship. Why? 

Well, first and foremost, my son loved this man and looked up to him. There were plenty of times when my son liked him better than he liked me. (I was Bad Cop.) It's hard to disappoint a kid who'd already lost one father. But there was a bigger, more selfish reason: I liked the idea of having companionship, of sharing my home and my life with someone, and (harder to admit) I experienced fear of starting over, or FOSO. 

I doubt I would have ended our relationship if the Universe hadn't stepped in and sent me a text meant for my ex's OTHER girlfriend. (Ouch!) Even then, starting over was rough. 

Thankfully, I have a spiritual practice. I jumpstarted my journaling, meditation, and mindfulness practices and re-engaged my therapist. I took up strength training as a physical outlet. I also enrolled in the spiritual direction course that I had postponed for various reasons. And I reconnected with my network of friends. 

While the pandemic made starting over a challenge, I made a conscious effort to remain curious about what might happen next. And on nights when I felt lost and lonesome, I focused on gratitude to combat resentment and self-pity.

Within a few months, my life was remarkably happier and lighter. My son, although saddened and disappointed by the turn of events, showed a maturity, grace and resiliency that far surpassed his 18 years on the planet. Indeed, my world did not end when my ex moved out. In fact, it opened up to possibilities that surpassed my wildest, idealistic daydreams. 

FOSO no mo'!

A year later —almost to the day — I found myself falling in love with a remarkable man who shares my upbringing, principles, ambition, and positive outlook on life. This would not have been possible if I had not let go of my bitterness and leaned into that early glimmer of hope. There was really nothing to fear. In fact, surrendering to this abrupt do-over gave me the confidence to live in greater alignment with what is truest and best in myself.  

And the Do-Over wasn't over ...

Last week, I resigned my full-time job and jumped back into freelancing. Yes, at age 58, I'm in embracing a Big Do-Over in both career and love and I'm happy to report that taking a leap of faith is life affirming. The good news is that at my (e-hem!) age, I've lived through enough disruptions to know that change yields tremendous opportunity for growth and learning. 

Today, I'm grateful, so very grateful, that the Universe pulled the rug out from under me. And I'm grateful that I didn't immediately try to plant my feet firmly on the ground. "The only time we ever know what's really going on is when the rug's been pulled out and we can't find anywhere to land," Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron writes in her book When Things Fall Apart. "We use these situations either to wake ourselves up or to put ourselves to sleep." This opportunity to reside in "groundlessness", as Chodron calls it is the place where personal growth occurs. 

Humans by our nature want the sure thing. We want people, jobs, cars, electronics and economies that we can rely upon. And we are often disappointed. People are unreliable. Employers are fickle. Cars need repairs. Electronics quit without warning. Economies rise and fall. Nothing is permanent or fixed. As much as we try to deny it, loss is part of life. And when loss occurs we have a choice to start over or become stuck.

Perhaps the way to get unstuck is to not look life as having a start or a finish. Starting over connotes that there was a definitive end. There are never really "endings" —there are only next chapters. 

Today, I'm optimistic about what the future holds. I'm no longer complacent about any aspect of my life. I've also learned an important lesson: There's no such thing as stability when you're standing on a rug! Maybe if I remain groundless in what is truest and best in myself, no floor coverings will be yanked out from under me ever again.

#dooverlife, #fearofstartingover, #FOSO

Post-Pandemic Unpacking

I like to think of life as a journey with guideposts along the way that give us a chance to evaluate, take stock, and regroup before moving along. There are choices to be made before we continue—belongings to pack and unpack. What will we carry with us? 

If ever there was a time to take stock before moving forward, this is it. What will we carry with us? What will we leave behind?

In February 2020, as rumblings of the Corona virus were bantered about by the media, it still seemed a distant threat. Reports from China and Italy were bleak, but I thought, "It can't hurt us here!" (As though US Citizenship makes us immune.) It was foolish and vain. I was in a bubble and that bubble was about to burst. 

Leave it to Thich Nhat Hahn to remind me of reality. 

My good friend Margaret and I planned to attend a retreat at Hahn's meditation site, Magnolia Grove in Batesville, Mississippi. We were both recovering from traumatic losses. Spending four days eating amazingly delicious vegan food, sitting in meditation, and practicing mindfulness seemed just the thing to help us heal. So when an email arrived from Magnolia Grove cancelling the treat due to the pandemic threat, I was incredulous. I thought the good monks and nuns were just being conservative because people traveled from around the world to visit this monastery and they didn't want the liability. 

Foolhardy and a bit desperate for a getaway, Margaret and I kept our date. Instead of spending time at the monastery, sitting in noble silence, contemplating emptiness and meditating, we met in Oxford, stocked up on snacks and wine and held our own private respite. 

In the four days that followed, we watched as the world slowly folded up its doormat and made its own retreat. By the time I returned to Birmingham, the company I worked for had ceased all travel. A few days later, my colleagues in the office were asked to gather up their laptops and go home until further notice. 

Since I already worked remotely, this edict didn't effect me, but it did have an impact. Suddenly EVERYONE was working from home and a thing called "Zoom" became the primary means of communication. Previously, I could write undisturbed for hours on end. Now, my computer sounded like a pinball machine, chiming every few minutes with group Teams messages and endless streams of GIFs. I had to put on make-up and clothes (other than a bathrobe) to attend the video meetings that took the place of good ol' conference calls (remember those?!) 

And when I did venture out to get groceries, I could drive from one end of town to the other without being deterred by traffic. The world was much quieter. There was less airplane traffic and even the interstates were relatively still. The air was markedly clearer and cleaner. What did become congested was my beloved Vulcan Trail, where I walked almost daily. Once a deserted path where I could stroll alone at almost any time of day, was now the town's most popular pandemic activity. 

The hardest part was that we didn't know how long sheltering-in-place would last. There was no precedent for how to navigate a pandemic. As the months went by, the novelty wore off. People finally stopped stockpiling paper goods and ceased hoarding flour and yeast! (Really people, what DID you do with ALL that bread!?) 

And now, a little more than a year later, here we are —spit out into a post-pandemic world. 

As the post-global pandemic world opens up, it might be easy to forget what it was like when we were shut down —for better and for worse. 

A recent excursion to the Saturday morning farmer's market revealed that many people are no longer wearing masks. I assume that the availability of the vaccine has emboldened them. But it seems odd to simply throw down that little strip of cloth that, just a few days ago, was grasped like a binky. Life is returning to the way it was, but is that a good thing? 

Am I ready to leave the mask behind? 

I am looking forward to hugging people with abandon and not being afraid to shake a stranger's hand. I'm looking forward to being unmasked when I go into the grocery store or a restaurant. I'm looking forward to going to the movie theater again and traveling to Europe. But there are many practices that I hope I carry forward long after the threat of this virus has subsided. 

I hope I remember how fragile our eco-systems and economies are and that we are ALL interconnected. I want to remember the feeling I had in the first days of the shut-down as I realized that this disruption that would change the way we did business. There are still so many opportunities to correct unhealthy practices that we've embraced out of laziness. For example, do I really need to fly across country to meet in-person for business? Do I really need to jump in my car and drive to the mall because I'm bored? 

During the height of the pandemic, a greater awareness developed around how our actions impacted other people's health. As practices loosen, it's already hard to believe that Americans were as compliant as we were staying home, donning face masks, shutting down businesses, and curtailing unnecessary travel all because of an invisible (and often deadly) threat. 

There was also social upheaval that —hopefully —left us with a greater consciousness around the issues of race and inequity in our country. Will we remember that, and what we learned from those very dark days? I hope so. 

In many ways, there was an elevation of consciousness when the pandemic was still viewed as a major health crisis. But now that COVID is becoming mundane, will I leave my global concern behind? Will I set aside my appreciation for spending quality time at home with my family? Will I abandon my genuine concern about how my actions directly and indirectly affect other people? Or will I carry forward my gratitude for my health and our earth, and realization of how fragile humanity really is? As I prepare for the next leg of my journey, it's time to decide what to pack.