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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538148/accidental-adventure-part-3-the-mountain-speaks">Accidental adventure Part 3: The mountain speaks</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p>I may be spontaneous but I am not foolish.  I research things.  Important things.  Like what is the best backpack and what is the lightest sleeping bag. And most importantly what are the </p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_c2787141bd284ef6a4d01e24654e229f~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>best hiking boots to buy when you haven’t hiked in ten years and only have a week to wear them in</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Spoiler alert.  There are none</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But in all my research, which by the way required only “a positive mental attitude and not necessarily good physical condition,” I never checked out the details of our peak climb.  If I had, I would have encountered this factoid:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>This entire trail is 100% relentless uphill. For comparison, hiking from the bottom of the Grand Canyon to the rim via Bright Angel is 5000ft of elevation change over 10 miles. Desolation Peak is 4500ft of elevation change over 4.7 miles. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>No amount of positive mental attitude could compensate for this reality.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>However, I was unencumbered with the burden of this knowledge, and as the sun rose casting rays across the lake, I remembered the night before, when alone with one of our guides, I had confessed that I didn’t know what I was supposed to be learning on the journey up the mountain. She looked at me directly and quietly said, </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The mountain will teach you what you need to know.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Eager to learn that lesson, when we broke camp I announced I wanted to take leadership for this part of the journey, at least for a little while, so I could practice being a turtle.  This was a mountain I would conquer at a slow and steady peace and not burn out before the top. Turning to the trail from the East Bank, I was shocked at the steepness of the trail’s beginning.  After a scant ten yards or so, I was already winded.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Less than a half hour in, She Who Needed to Be First called a team meeting.  She announced right from the start, “My needs are not being met,” and then launched into an attack of my leadership style.  Surprised at the drama, which involved convoluted explanations and further attacks,  I simply said, “The lead is yours.”  No big deal.  I had had my moment in the sun.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_8f60f3452e8f40fc884090ba61562e69~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em>Turtle was tired.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Again, I will spare you the nitty gritty of this trek, but about 200 yards from the top, I hit “The Wall,” which I had read about but never experienced.  As I painfully took each step, I was flooded with memories of my brother Will’s unsuccessful battle with cancer in his forties.  I thought of how every breath he took was so laborious.  I thought of his courage and his determination.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>If he could fight that battle with so much grace, I could do this.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Not sure of how I could keep going, I took my sight off the trail and gazed upward towards the summit. I was not alone.  Another teammate was working her way down the trail after summiting.  She looked me over with great compassion and no judgement,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>You look tired.  Let me take your pack.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It was a statement of commitment and not a request.  For once, I did not have the energy to brush off the offer as I would have done in the past, simply to prove I was competent and could do it alone. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I simply thanked her and began to weep.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I wept with every step of those last few hundred yards. I wept when I summited and gazed over the expanse of beauty too wide and too deep to fathom. And then I collapsed on a rocky point and wept again until I thought not a single tear remained.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I missed my brother.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Over the years my childhood tormentor had become an encourager, a fellow explorer of ideas, and, in the end, a friend.  The image of him lying on his deathbed in the middle of the night begging me to “Get him out of here,” and calling me by my childhood name had haunted me all these years.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Oh, how I missed him.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>One of the instructors came over and quietly asked me if I needed anything.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>No.  I just need to weep.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And I did.  For most of the way down. Every step of the journey down was as excruciating as the journey up.  Somewhere about half way down, my knees gave out and my feet lost feeling.  And still we journeyed down.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When we arrived exhausted back at camp, the leaders told us not to bother about cooking meals or setting up our tents.  First to collapse was She Who Needs to Be First.  Several other younger women joined her.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_1fd80f2651aa46e1b458a5b97a7d33a5~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>But not the elders.  We had all been taking care of the young for years.  In our exhaustion and yearning for rest, we did what all mothers do…</p>
<p>
<em>We took care of the young.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Several women set up the tents while a few of us started a fire and made dinner.  Two of the elders took bandanas and made makeshift napkins and set what would be considered a formal table in the flickering light.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And when it was all done, the younger women hobbled over for our makeshift feast and one of the elders said a prayer of thanksgiving over the meal. I sang a song.   Such a tribal feat required a celebration.  The elders knew this.  And they knew something else as well:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>There is no rest until the work of love is complete,</em></p>
<p><em>and love, real love, requires community.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>All of my life, I had valued my solitary competence above all other attributes.  Like a two year old insisting on putting on her own shoes, I had lived a personal mantra of “I can do this all by myself, thank you.  No assistance required.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But self-sufficiency is an illusion.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And what I learned that day on the mountain was that being “self” sufficient does not mean doing it alone.  It requires a tribe of encouragers, in this realm and in the next, who see your unspoken needs and extend the right amount of help at just the right time to get you through.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That night it seemed even the stars shone brighter.  On my back, choosing to sleep underneath those flickering star lights, my body felt heavy as stone, incapable of the slightest movement. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The Turtle had survived.  Slow and steady.  One step at a time. Tomorrow would be another day, and fears of what damage had been done to my body this day started to crowd my brain.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But then, as the sky deepened, the Milky Way began to appear once again across the entirety of the sky. Choosing sleep over worry, I remembered, </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Tomorrow will bring enough trouble of its own.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And that trouble would not discriminate between the turtle and the hare, the leader and the follower, the plan and the unexpected journey.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_053e078a2fc84779ad2fdde420d19a30~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p></div>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-08-29T06:04:04-07:00" title="August 29, 2023 06:04">08/29/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538149/accidental-adventure-part-2-lessons-on-an-ant-hill">Accidental adventure: Part 2- Lessons on an ant hill</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

<div class="post">
  <div class="message"><p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_8579267648de4c6f95fe01b3d61795c5~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em>The honeymoon ended before the second day dawned. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>By the time day one was over, I discovered I was allergic to iodine tablets used to purify the lake water, I had developed heat stroke rowing across the lake to Big Beaver Creek, and I had crossed over into weakest link status in less than 24 hours.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>So proud.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Having met so many milestones in such it short time, day two, it seemed to me, would have to be an improvement.  Trying to repair my battered image, I volunteered to be first for the canoe rescue training, though my water phobia was still in full bloom at this time.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The goal was simple.  Row out into the lake, deliberately flip your canoe, and then, after righting the canoe, put one leg into your canoe and one into the rescue canoe and maneuver yourself back in using the second canoe for support.  Voila!</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Please keep in mind my admitted lack of physical prowess as you imagine the scene.  Canoe flipped. Check.  Canoe righted. Check.  One leg hoisted into my canoe.  Check. One leg in rescue canoe.  Check.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What was supposed to be a quick maneuver failed as my lack of upper body strength prevented me from hoisting my then ample form back into my canoe. Despite the cheering from onshore and my desperate need to reclaim some dignity, every attempt resulted in my falling back into the water with my upper body while my legs remained in two separate canoes. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And then the canoes began to drift apart.  I will spare you the blow by blow battle, but when I finally completed the task, exhausted,  and returned to shore, I dubbed the maneuver “The Gynecologist,” which, given the crowd, did not have to be explained.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Because women understand these things, </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>and women are different.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The difference became glaringly apparent after our lake crossing when the summer sun was high and brutal.  Upon landing, our fearless leaders declared they had a task.  We were led to a dirt clearing and after following instructions to form a circle, we were told to cover our eyes with a bandana.  Then the instructors wound a rope in an irregular pattern through our hands and told us to find a way to unwrap ourselves.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_2d2448f334784ebc97642c829162a6b6~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Voices wove in and out of the task, trying one thing, then another.  Time passed.  No progress.  We were given permission to use our hands to remove the blindfolds.  Still no progress.  And, as luck would have it, our extended presence on the dirt clearing had caught the attention of the hoards of ants under whose control it lay. And, as luck would have it, they were finding the bare skin on our legs too tantalizing to ignore.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Frustrations mounted as ideas flew in the increased ant activity until finally one of the younger members, a woman from India, suddenly snapped and forcefully grabbed the reins of the task.  We were all admonished to be quiet.   In only a few moments, she had untangled us logically, and grateful, we broke ranks to set up for the night.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Later that night, we asked our leaders why we had to endure that task.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It’s because none of you were willing to take leadership</em>.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Normally, in a mixed group, those who want to be leaders emerge quickly, they explained.  My guess was they were mostly male.  But in our group, they noted we kept acquiescing leadership to others and being continually helpful and putting others’ needs first.  So they had put us in crisis mode to force leadership to the surface.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As we sat and watched the flames die out, I couldn’t help but ponder the attributes of my new tribe.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Helpful</em></p>
<p><em>Not demanding of leadership</em></p>
<p><em>Putting others’ needs first.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Sure, it was not a recipe for a quick escape from an anthill, but from my vantage point, these were strengths.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In the flickering flames I could discern the face of She Who Needs to be First and wondered what lessons she had gleaned in the hot sun.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Had I known I would provide her next lesson, I might have tapped out of the experience.  But hind sight is 20-20, and the beauty of the Milky Way painted the night sky with a false sense of peace as I nestled into my sleeping bag to contemplate the challenge of the mountain waiting for us at the dawn’s first light. </p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_01455d3fb40c4d34a3694d690cdb100f~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-08-22T06:41:01-07:00" title="August 22, 2023 06:41">08/22/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538150/accidental-adventure-part-1-turtle-talk">Accidental adventure: Part 1-Turtle talk</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_6b15c162f73a4408a7799ed953ec38eb~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>I use the term accidental adventure a lot. But I realized recently that what I actually encounter are accidental opportunities.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Let me give you a prime example.  In my forties, I was in the doctor’s office waiting for my physical, and there on the table was an edition of Outdoor Magazine.  Now I was seriously under exercised at that point, working full time and raising a family, but outdoor adventures always sounded kind of fun.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>A woman can dream, can’t she?</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As I turned the pages, a full page ad caught my attention. The first ever <em><strong>all woman</strong></em> Outward Bound trip was happening in my neck of the woods, the beautiful North Cascades, in two weeks. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Normally, I would not have considered this trip knowing my lack of conditioning and any equipment related to backpacking and canoeing.  But here’s what caught my attention.  Under the details it said,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em><strong>Good physical condition not as necessary as a positive mental attitude.</strong></em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Well, score on both counts!  Filled with memories of my backpacking days, I did what all idiots of a certain age do when about to embark on a new backpacking adventure in the wilderness.  I bought all new equipment right down to my REI leather boots, telling myself a week would be plenty to wear them in.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_aa0ee6028a4040a18a89973c6dcfd420~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>And then, in the doctor’s office when my blood pressure reading was too high, I asked her to take it a few more times until I could meditate myself into a lower one, and she could sign off for my “physical” for the trip, just another example of my “positive mental attitude.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But there was another adventure that whispered underneath the surface of this physical adventure. It would be all women…no men to immediately assume leadership due to their anatomy.  No loud, rough voices to drown out the dialogues and opinions of the women in their presence.  And no fear of safety, no intrusions into my body space that was mine and mine alone.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And maybe, just maybe, I could learn what it was to be a member of a female tribe, to learn the language and customs of my culture that was as foreign to me as the jungle tribes of the Amazon.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>On the start of the trip, ten of  us gathered from all over the country and boarded a bus to a group campground  near our starting point.  Placing our packs on the ground, our two guides told us to dump everything out.  They were about to teach us what “essentials” meant, and by the end of the lesson, crates of “critical” supplies would be left behind and our packs lightened considerably by the lesson.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We were a motley crew of varying ages.  But one stood out to me from the start.  She was young, athletic, a former Outward Bound leader, and she filled the air with a brash confidence that suggested the rest of us would never measure up.  I dubbed her, “She Who Needed to Be First,” and kept a wide berth.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>My goal was much simpler than hers: to not be the weakest link on the team.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Spoiler alert:  I failed.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_8b22e2944aa94a26bf2f81d9b202f30d~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Dropped off at the top of the trail, I placed myself at the rear of the pack, which I deemed would be best for observation of others and which would position me to not be noticed.   The forest was filled with summer bird sounds and the buzz of insects.  But more beautiful than these was a new sound that filled the air on the rocky path:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The sound of women’s voices.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It was musical and soft and filled with laughter and camaraderie.  It was welcoming and joyful and free.  And it beckoned to me as though an adopted child from another culture, I had finally traced my roots and found home.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>She Who Needed to Be First led the pack, a position each of us would be encouraged to take on during our week of canoeing and backpacking.  It was made clear that none of us would be <em>asked</em> to do the job…we would just have to step up and claim the leadership mantle.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But for now, I was content to just wallow in the voices drifting up the trail. I knew a time would come when the internal pressure to step into leadership on the trail would overtake me, and I made a vow that when it did, I would be The Woman Who Walks Like A Turtle.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Slow and steady</em> would be my mantra.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Slow and steady wins the race.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In the distance, She Who Needed Be First had stopped and waited for the rest to catch up.  Her disappointment at the first hike’s pace was palpable. But it was, as in all adventures, the honeymoon phase.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And something told me </em><em><strong>this</strong></em><em> was going to be a short honeymoon.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_f4af6cf7d8974cb7b96485d9f4058b62~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-08-15T09:48:25-07:00" title="August 15, 2023 09:48">08/15/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538151/accidental-activist">Accidental activist</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<p><em>Human suffering when reduced to sound bites and headlines is easily dismissed.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Perhaps that is why a friend’s lunch guest could announce that the death of a young migrant boy from dehydration was “the mother’s fault” for taking him on the journey.    </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Perhaps that is why heavily armed vigilante citizens roam the back roads of known migrant routes to pour out the water left at critical drinking stations along the way.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And perhaps that is why institutions have systems that create simplistic “solutions” that ignore the cost to human dignity and safety and, all too often, to life itself.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>No one I have met since moving to the borderlands of Southern Arizona moved here to become an activist.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I know I didn’t.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But then something small happened.  And then another small thing.  And bit by bit, those experiences piled on until it was impossible to NOT see the inhumanity and suffering in this beautiful but often inhospitable landscape.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For one, it was the knock on a back door in the heat of summer…a worn face…an unmistakable desire for a cup of water even in an unknown tongue…a thirst that, if not quenched, would lead to death.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For another, it was walking a desert trail in the neighborhood and finding a dusty, worn child’s backpack under an ocotillo, a well-loved stuffed animal hanging from the unzippered opening.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For another, it was driving home from a favorite canyon walk and noting a young man suffering by the side of the road and feeling compelled to bring him to a local Mexican restaurant where the staff could discover his story and help him recover from weeks of walking in the desert alone.</p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>For yet another, it was the trusting hand of a small child in a shelter in Mexico asking without words to come sit under a mesquite in the desert sun and draw pictures together in a brand new coloring book, The Wall at the border visible in the distance.  
</p>
<p>For me, it was sitting in a federal court in Tucson with a woman confined to a wheelchair who came nearly every day to bear witness to the tragedy of our legal system as deportation hearings were held.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Young men, brought in chained together like common criminals, were now facing felony charges for what used to be a misdemeanor.  None spoke much English. All had translators who valiantly tried to make sense out of complex legal options being presented to those who were so hungry for opportunity in America, they were willing to risk even this.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Experience, up close and personal, has changed all of us.  We no longer see headlines without being able to put a human face or story behind each.  We can no longer hear statements that dismiss the human suffering around us without sharing our own encounters in the desert.  And we can no longer allow lies to be circulated freely without correction.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>We all do what we can now.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Some hike into the desert carrying the burden of heavy water jugs to supply the thirsty.  Some sit in wheelchairs in courtrooms and are simply present and praying over the lives consumed by the justice system.  Some take the stand of truth in the face of rejection by their own families and in their own faith communities.
</p>
<p>And me?  I listen to stories and commit them to paper and to music and try to put human faces to the headlines.  It feels inadequate in the face of so much suffering, but like the widow in the Biblical story, 
</p>
<p><em>it is the only coin I have left. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=qGBT5b7szF4"><img src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/qGBT5b7szF4/maxresdefault.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" height="720" width="1280" /></a>
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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538152/i-will-die-if-i-don-t-eat">I will die if I don’t eat. </a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<p>As a child, every morning upon rising,  I recall my mother’s first words:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I will </em><em><strong>die</strong></em><em> if I don’t eat something when I wake up.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I think truisms from our youth get absorbed like sun rays on the skin, changing our color into a new shade of desperation.  And so I too became convinced that imminent death awaited those who did not eat upon rising.</p>
<p>Perhaps this self induced anxiety contributed to food issues later in life.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For my own children, though, not wanting to become my mother,  I moderated the declaration:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I cannot </em><em><strong>function</strong></em><em> if I don’t eat </em><em><strong>first</strong></em><em> thing in the morning.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Somehow that seemed closer to the truth for a gypsy mother raising children, which I considered a step up from the wolf mother who raised me.  Lest you find that a harsh description,  bear in mind this is the mother who declared her entire lifetime that she adhered to the parenting practice of benign neglect.  Her pride in having mastered that technique was palpable. The fact that it horrified everyone who ever heard her declare it always escaped her attention.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For some reason, many of her truisms were sustenance related.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>If you drink water, you will get worms. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Every child needs to eat a pound of dirt a year.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When you are young, these truisms get internalized, I think, often in ways too deep to be easily recognized by our daily, conscious, functioning self.  But since I am no longer young, I have been experimenting these last few years testing the hypotheses that have ruled my existence for all of my life.  And here is what I have discovered:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>I do </em><em><strong>not</strong></em><em> die if I don’t eat when I get up.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Every sunrise finds me walking on a coffee fueled adventure, and my dead body has yet to be left on the trail.  I have not had to drag my calorie deprived body down the trail nor boost it into my car.  Some mornings, I manage to hike without even <strong>having</strong> coffee in my system.
</p>
<p><em>The world is full of miracles.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In fact, I have found that I don’t die if my lunch happens at 3 pm instead of noon, or my dinner at 7 pm instead of 5 pm on the dot.  So much anxiety in my youth was fueled by what would happen if meals did not occur on a regular, arbitrary schedule, regardless of connection to actual hunger.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_f66b1b60479e40a2921b2b17c19f4222~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>I might also point out that though I am a copious water drinker, I have yet to be diagnosed with worms. To be fair, my mom did grow up in a time when water purification was not a priority, so this may have been true for her.  But we were raised in a time when a simple turning of a handle on a faucet brought unlimited, safe drinking water.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>The world is full of miracles.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And as for the pound of dirt?  Unless you count the dusty expectations that were never met, or the shifting sands of my own perceptions, I believe I am pretty dirt free.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Of all the truisms, though, that infiltrated my developing soul, the most damaging was this:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Mitchell women are different.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>This was usually uttered when confronted with a woman who seemed put together and strong and confident. Mom would let me know in no uncertain terms that women like this were shallow and not worthy of imitation.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Since everything admirable in other women was met with derision, I stopped observing or emulating to protect myself from her disapproval and thus never learned the language and culture of women until I spent a week in the North Cascades wilderness on the first all women Outward Bound journey.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That is a story for another time, but I will tell you that the most valuable lesson from the journey was simply this:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Mitchell women are </em><em><strong>women</strong></em><em>, </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>part of a tribe characterized by courage, compassion, and grace, and linked forever together by our shared experience in a world that fails on far too many occasions to notice and acknowledge our strengths and our innate competence, individually and collectively.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We are the glue that holds the world together, whether we dress in designer clothes or tattered jeans.  We are the heart and soul of humanity, whether we have monthly pedicures or leave traces of hand clipped toenails on the worn carpets that cover our floors.  And we are the conscience of this human existence, whether we run board meetings or cry ourselves through another diaper change, exhausted and alone.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We are women, regardless of our last names or upbringing, and we are a better tribe when we celebrate each other and lift each other up, disdaining the eye of judgement and embracing the heart of acceptance for our unique abilities and passions.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>So go forth, tribe members.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Eat breakfast whenever you want…or not.  Drink lots of water without fear.  And don’t worry about the dirt.  Leave it where it is on the ground. 
</p>
<p><em>It was never meant for you anyway.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_2d537e5328ba4beaad969fc0d55ad893~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538153/i-need-a-leash">I need a leash</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_45ca5fe611fd437fb0242b8ec726ba43~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Six months ago we became “people who have a dog to walk every morning.”  Nearly every dawn, from below freezing to over 80 degrees, we have walked at Canoa Historic Ranch because, we tell ourselves, “it’s Zuni’s favorite place to walk.”
</p>
<p>For many months, we were content to let her walk beside us on a leash.  But as her confidence grew, we wanted to train her to be off leash but still on the trail.  It was an easy journey, as she is very content to be with her tribe.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A non-reactive dog, she has been surprised by deer crossing the trail, flocks of birds flying in front of her face…every manner of creature surprising her, and yet she cares not.  She often stares with a bored indifference as she studies the activity like a person would a bug in a jar. She seems to be  content of be “free” but still tethered in her spirit to the trail.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Not so for Ginger, a rescue we would regularly meet on the trail.  We would often catch sight of her bounding through the desert territory with reckless abandon oblivious to the dangers, and her owner, herself accustomed  to the wilds of Alaska, simply equipped her dog with a large bell in order to keep track of her.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I thought of Ginger this morning when Zuni and I walked the trail, sans The Boy.  Taking our normal route, I noted her “alert” body stance and careful sniffing.  We were nearing “Coyote corner,” an area that we walk through every morning.  But never if The Boy is not with us.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_a4234abd92d34e82bfd6ae1020c0566e~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Even off leash, she stopped, turned, and then sat down facing the opposite direction and assumed the “put on my leash” look.  Complying, I then waited until she was ready to move.  When she did, it was away from the dangers she could smell but I could not see.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Moving away from danger, she was confident and quick moving, leading the way as she would do when off leash, but feeling more secure connected by the leash. Her spirit knew that a better choice than moving unhindered towards the danger was moving away, tethered, to safe boundaries.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Oh, how I wish I had learned that lesson earlier in life.  I spent most of my young life living like Ginger, craving absolute freedom, ignoring the real dangers around me, and thinking I could move through life “unleashed” without consequences.
</p>
<p><em>But there are always consequences.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In these reflective years, it is impossible to look back and not see a swath of destruction left in the wake of my “absolute” freedom.  And perhaps of all the ill effects, the most damaging were to my own soul.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Over the decades, I have come understand that true freedom comes from having boundaries, and that being “on leash” is necessary to protect me from my “Ginger” nature.  Living life untethered left too much wreckage in the rear view mirror.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Yes, I still adventure and still lack discernment when it comes to being “off road”.  Thinking through a spur of the moment thought is a skill still in infancy for me, especially when it comes to exploring new places and experiences.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But when it comes to matters of the human heart, being on leash is simply a kinder, gentler, safer way to interact with the world around me.  It keeps me close to my tribe.  It keeps me protected from real but unseen dangers. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And it leaves no trail of regrets.</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_96dcb05098c24d3aaab3e2e941e5b7b4~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-07-26T07:41:45-07:00" title="July 26, 2023 07:41">07/26/2023</span></p>

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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538154/the-other-side-of-fear">The other side of fear</a>&nbsp;
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<p>Having endured the, “just throw her off the dock and she will learn to swim,” philosophy of child rearing,  my fear of water became deeply ingrained after being forced to “walk the plank” on a family camping trip. 
</p>
<p>The lake into which I was tossed, inaccurately named Clear Lake, was in fact a shallow, crappie filled lake which, in summer heat, resulted in a fair number of dead fish floating on the surface. That fateful day when forced off the dock and into the tepid water, upon surfacing I noticed a young boy picking up the chant of the children on shore.  “Look at all the dead fish….look at all the dead fish.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>He turned toward me in the brightly colored inner tube and continued his chant.  It was not until he was fully turned that I noticed the milky, unfocused, eyes.  He was blind.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>From that moment on, panic settled in my veins when around water.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It exploded at odd times.  Once on Lake Chelan, seeing the clear water and telling myself nothing bad was in the water, I attempted water skiing. When I fell and had to wait for the boat, screams engulfed every fiber of my being, and when I was finally pulled in, I was swallowed in paroxysms of uncontrollable sobbing.  When fear finally settled down, embarrassment rushed in to take its place.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That memory made it difficult to consider a family trip to Hawaii, but the family seemed excited, so I reasoned the clear water would make it okay.  The first day, as the rest of the family dove in.  I stood on shore, bile rising in my throat with shame as a chaser.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Left to my own devices on shore, I put my toes in the water and practiced deep breathing until my heart rate settled down.  Then another inch deep and breathing.  Then another and another.  Gradually, I was up to my knees…still breathing and still fearful.  
</p>
<p><em>But I was in.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Each trip to the islands, I repeated the ritual, but made it a little further until I was able to snorkel. Always tethered to a body board “just in case”, Tim had to swim next to me holding my hand.  The next trip it became okay to just hold his shirt as we swam side by side.  Then perhaps just a foot or so away.</p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>One summer at Waimea Bay during calm waters, I started out next to Tim, as was my ritual, so I could feel safe.  But a flicker of movement caught my eye as a sea turtle swam below me near the bottom of the sandy sea.  Transfixed, I began to slowly follow, noting how the flippers cut through the current and how the sun shafts slipping through the water made plaid patterns of light on the shell.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Feeling tired, I came up to clear my mask, and when I turned towards shore, an awful realization hit me.  Tim was nowhere to be found, and I could see the shore a considerable distance away.  Old familiar feelings began to creep up my throat, stalking me with crippling memories and promises of dangers in the deep.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Breathe deep…breathe deep.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Somewhere in the middle of my breathing, my whole body relaxed.  I let my legs hang loose in the deep waters as I soaked in the view of families in the distance on shore.  Tim’s form could be seen far ahead snorkeling around a rock, set free from the tyranny of my fear.  And a new emotion enveloped me.
</p>
<p><em>I was free.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Free of the paralysis of old memories.  </em></p>
<p><em>Free of the fear of the unknown.  </em></p>
<p><em>Free of my inability to find a clear path to joy.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There is an old saying in spiritual circles that you keep moving through doors until God closes one.  But my fear of water taught me a different lesson.  Sometimes the door that starts to close has a large name plate that reads, FEAR, and sometimes we need to stick our foot in that closing door and walk through anyway.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Monsters were not waiting to devour me in the sea.  </p>
<p>Beauty was waiting to engulf my spirit and expand my soul.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>And, as I have been discovering, the rest of my fears have contained the same promise.  </em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_f30c01adac444a2581cf12e6f6e3dc3b~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538155/read-the-instructions">Read the instructions</a>&nbsp;
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<p>While living in the verdant Northwest, I often reflected on how my garden design was determined by what the garden wanted itself to be.  I would study the exposed massive fir tree root to discern where the white rocks that had traveled in our pockets from the shores of Deception Pass should be placed.  Perhaps the moss was better served here.  Perhaps the trailing vine desired a hillside view.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Water was ever present, and sun in short supply, so adopting plants and placing them in nooks and crannies that best seemed to “suit their personalities” was an easy task.  Nearly every plant label said, “partial shade” and “moderate water needs”.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Not so the desert, where water is scarce and sun is plentiful.  It has taken a full year of watching the sun’s travels across the yard and noting the length of shadows through the day before I have dared to start planting.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Because of the harsh desert conditions, I have become a student of planting instructions hoping to give these new garden additions their best chance of success in this often unforgiving landscape.  How much water?  How much sun?  How long before they grow and produce fruit and flowers?  When do they need to be pruned?</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_2b7fd84d0d5f49cbad774f07ad6f52f1~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>This morning, as I studied how water trickled over stone so as to determine the direction of the flow and the best place to plant, I wondered if we might not be a kinder, gentler world if we all took time to read each <em>other’s</em> planting instructions.  To take the time to learn what would help each of us not just grow, but thrive, especially when it comes to our spiritual lives.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As a victim of not having people read my  “spiritual planting instructions” until I was 46 years old, I was led to believe there was an “us” (the saved who walked with God) and a “them” (the “lost” who did not walk with God).</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>     The problem is, it’s incomplete theology. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I say this to the those well intentioned “found” who tried to “save me” in the course of my life but only kept me from embracing my One True Love:
</p>
<p><em>     I was never lost.  </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>God knew exactly where I was.  And He never left my side, even in my darkest hours.  Even when I doubted Him and pushed Him away.  He knew my planting instructions because he created them, unique to me.  He knew what I needed and gave me time to grow until my heart was ready for more.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>To suggest that any of us might not be walking with God seems to defy the nature and character of God.   None of us can ever be out of sight of our Creator.   None of us can ever free ourselves of his relentless love. Even if we tried to get lost, He would drop everything just to bring us close to His side again.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Before my heart was ready for the full faith story, I experienced our Creator deeply in nature.   In creation, I  experienced the grandeur, the creative orderliness, and the deep love of the Creator revealed in the song of every brook, the whisper of every breeze, and the haunting notes of every bird of the forest..</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But while God was patiently revealing himself to me, the humans around me engaged in “ambush evangelism” on on street corners, in school hallways, and in the every corner of my daily life.  And that cacophony was a stumbling block for decades, drowning out the still, small voice of a loving Creator.  Only in creation could I hear my maker’s voice above the noise.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Perhaps hearing. “the good news” shouted out of context in our already noisy, complex world does not sound like good news to some of us. Perhaps assuming there is somewhere God is not is the worst of all misassumptions.   Perhaps it is “the found” who could benefit from a long fast from words while sitting in the Holy deafening silence of a God soaked world in which the human voice is not needed.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_3a5dfdb954e24110bc4c72bac4edd8c2~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Everyone of us is seeking to be placed in an environment that suits our nature…one where we can grow at our own speed supported lovingly by the careful Gardener who tills the soil to ready our hearts for a more complete story.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It is a transformation that will unfold on a time table set by the Gardener’s hands and one that will not be rushed by the intrusion of human desire, no matter how well intentioned.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In the sacred waiting, His song over my life, was sung in the wind’s whispers through clattering aspen, through every sunrise and every sunset, through the love songs from the mouths of birds wrapping themselves around our hearts singing,
</p>
<p><em>    I have summoned you by name; you are mine.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It is a song the Creator sings over all of us, every day, preparing the soil of our hearts like the tender gardener He is. Let <em><strong>His</strong></em> work be done according to <em><strong>His</strong></em> will, and then be released from that burden so as to follow the one instruction common to us all, whether “lost” or “found”.  
</p>
<p>It is simply this:
</p>
<p><em>     To love our Creator.</em></p>
<p><em>     To love others.</em></p>
<p><em>     And to love our neighbor at least as much as we love ourselves.   Perhaps even more,</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In that soil, all of us will flourish, growing ever closer to our own embrace of the Master Gardener as we are called to Everlasting Love.</p>
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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538156/small-things">Small things</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_81c5db69d54e4ab8aea4e4d64435850c~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em><strong>It is a small thing.</strong></em><strong> </strong> His father had asked his middle aged son months ago if he would care for mom should anything happen to him.  His son says yes without question, knowing his dad will be around for a long while.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A few months later, his father dies, and his son moves into his mother’s home in Arizona to care for her in this time of transition.  We would not have met, but he now walks his mother’s dog to the corner house each night at 6:15 where his mother’s friends gather with their puppies and have a time of connection.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It is a corner past which we also walk our dog each night, not stopping as the group is boisterous, and our dog is not. But today, they are late, and we are able to meet and hear his story.  I ask him how long he thinks he will be here.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>For the rest of my life.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>He has moved, lock, stock and barrel, to this desert place, leaving behind his life in Oregon to keep his promise to his father and honor his mother.  He will remain until she passes, and then, he imagines, this will be his home now…</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_e1b9596fc21a4a8c98ff9ccddc81d6a2~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em><strong>And it is another small thing.</strong></em><strong> </strong> The young man stocking shelves in the early morning moves his carts to make room for me in the frozen food aisle. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>“You didn’t need to do that…I can walk around you.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>It is the least I can do, he says.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As it is 6 am, I feel a need to explain that the ice cream is for my husband and that since they replaced his main artery that was hardened into concrete, he probably has a few more happy years of ice cream for breakfast.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>My mother had heart surgery too, he says.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And then he goes on to explain about her childhood struggles with rheumatic fever and her knee surgery and how much he loves his <em>familia</em>.  Life has not been an easy journey.  He worries his mother is not getting the best care. But at some point, he fixes his gaze on me, kisses the cross around his neck, points skyward and says,</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>God has watched over us.  We are blessed.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We pass each other later on near the donut aisle, because, well, what goes better with ice cream than a maple bar?  Our gazes meet, and I stop him to say how much I enjoyed our conversation. He points skyward again.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>May God bless you, he says…</em></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_08390315b6ba42b5a1c76c3bbc2277ad~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><em><strong>And it is another small thing</strong></em><strong>.</strong>  The man who is replacing my pavers keeps coming to me to ask my opinion about design.  Every time my answer is the same. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>“Jose, I know nothing about pavers.  You can do what you think is best.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>He continues to ask, and I continue to decline. At one point he says he believes large rocks would be a good anchor for the patio design.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>“Jose, I know nothing about pavers.  You can do what you think is best.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I watch as he meticulously cuts around these beautiful, hand selected stones.  It adds hours to his work.  When he is done, I ask him the new estimate, since these stones have added to his cost for materials, time, and labor.  He says the stones cost $300. and he would add that to the bill.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>“How much is the added labor?”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>Nothing</em>, he says.
</p>
<p>We are, of course, unsatisfied with that answer and calculate on our own, as we have watched him labor each day in the heat.  One day he apologizes for leaving “early” and only putting in an eight hour day instead of his normal 10-12 because he is needed for an event with his <em>familia</em>.   
</p>
<p>Through the heat, through the back breaking work, through a broken hand just now healing, he labors each day not for what he can gain, though of course that is important.  He labors, I think, because of his love for creating careful beauty in the lives of others.  It is a legacy he leaves behind with every nuanced cut of stone.
</p>
<p><em>Small things. </em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Each moment has been a glimpse through a window of a life marked by love.  Not the kind of “love” that screams from street corners or demands headlines.  Not the kind of “love” that has entrance requirements.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>No, this is love as a small thing.  A love that is expressed in daily moments… a son’s promise to his father in a quiet conversation…a young man’s loving concern for his <em>familia</em>…a workman’s love of art expressed through humble service to his craft.
</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>These small things,</em></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>done with great love,</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>marked by sacrifice</em></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>and soaked in blessing.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_68cea0e3f90b4fd3bbc31c3ac25a4402~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p><br></p>
<p>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-06-06T07:19:54-07:00" title="June 06, 2023 07:19">06/06/2023</span></p>

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<h2 class="heading-secondary heading-blog alt-font">
  <a href="/epiloguer-blog/blog/7538157/a-year-of-yes">A year of yes</a>&nbsp;
</h2>

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<p>Almost exactly one year ago, we honored our desert calling and arrived in our new home.  With a deep desire for small town living, we chose a city unknown to us and sought out a home to fulfill a small wish list: no stairs, open, filled with light, and affordable.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We joked a train nearby to remind Tim of the soundscape of his childhood Edmonds home would be a plus, and I secretly wondered if I would miss the mountains. But we knew that clearly this was to be our next destination and moved forward in faith.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Still, it was a nerve wracking process to do online.  But we were blessed with a Zen-like real estate agent who through it all assured us with what has become a new life mantra:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>What’s meant for you is waiting for you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>When we drove into the city for the first time hauling our two cats, two guitars and some golf clubs, we prayed we would like this new place and pledged to be open to whatever God had waiting for us here.  We knew we were done with traffic, big cities and with music, but we turned over the driving and the destination to a Creator who knew what was on the road ahead while we were driving blind.  
</p>
<p><em>Thus, we decided to live a year of “yes” to any opportunity God put in our path.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> As we drove up to our new home for the first time, some fear accompanied our excitement. Having bought it online, we knew there was much that could go wrong, but reassured ourselves that it completed the wish list, and that would be enough.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_1887bc08944c45e099000ce66c2f8886~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>Opening the front door, we were greeted with picture windows that revealed an expansive view of the Santa Rita Mountains, where everyday for the next year we would watch the sun rise, the sun set, and the summer monsoon rains develop and disappear.  And the next morning, when the rumble of an approaching train appeared and an engine whistle blew, we realized there was a train across the street that would fill the air twice a day, just like in Edmonds.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>What’s meant for you is waiting for you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Settling in, we knew nothing of what would be our new directions here, but I knew personally that music would not be part of it.  Years of caregiving had made even the two or three concerts a year an exhausting process, and the “business” of music was soul draining,  so we joked that if God wanted us to do music, He would have to make it happen.  It was time to rest.</p>
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<p>The only thing we did was go to a summer open mic mostly to meet people. That was it.  But a small tsunami happened, and by the end of this year, we will have played over thirty gigs in some of the best venues we have ever played.  And more than that, this Tucson area has introduced us to an amazingly kind and gracious community of songwriters, fellow musicians and audience members who have received us like family.
</p>
<p><em>What’s meant for you is waiting for you.</em>
</p>
<p>But as we enter our second year here, a new calling has been whispering to me, a Thoreauvian whisper to once again pull away…not from this geographical area, but from the busyness that has crept in and begun to establish a tyrannical reign once again in my soul.  
</p>
<p>Because of the busyness, there are songs that clamor for a voice and no space in which they can come alive and give voice to another human story. An unfinished novel or two or three are struggling to find space to write themselves to completion.  
</p>
<p>But the deepest whisper of all calls me to a stillness that allows the small things to breathe.
</p>
<p>Because in this busyness, there are beautiful, small moments I am almost missing, and, unlike the T-shirt saying, I do, in fact, sweat the small things.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_f162ab2ef5554c998cfd6ff5cf67131d~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>The Desert Willow blossoms appeared almost overnight and I almost missed their splendor and flexibility in the desert winds.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Watering the new plant from Africa, I almost missed the tiniest of pink star shaped flowers appearing amidst the succulent leaves.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And as I stood at midday in the midst of the patio pavers yesterday staring at the Santa Rita Mountains, a hummingbird flew straight up to me and hovered in front of my face staring right into my eyes, my life…my very soul.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><em>What’s meant for you is waiting for you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I am seventy years old.  I think I should have a better grasp of who I am by now.  I think that I should not have this immense longing for a home I cannot describe or seem to find.  I think I should be “done” trying to figure it all out.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But at 3:30 am, like clockwork, the Spirit who whispers, “Write this,” has a different plan, I guess, and I come to sit in the dark before the dawn in the silence.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I think this new year, perhaps,  will be a year of “living the questions”.   I think this will require a new level of solitude and intense self-examination… a pulling away from activities and groups that distract me from my own path.
</p>
<p>And I think it will be a year to shine a light in the dark corners of my own soul to seek truth, real truth, and not the easy lie that silences the inner voices clamoring for home.</p>
<p><br></p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_3ac5fe0a488c4247a0258f161e784228~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
<p>In myriad ways, the desert has been trying to speak to me of this, and I have been too busy to listen.  
</p>
<p>Again.  </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As the pace has now been slowing in the departure of winter visitors and the arrival of torrid heat, a part of me recognizes that like the snakes who will work their way out of hibernation and leave exoskeletons of their previous lives along the trail, I, too, have an old skin that needs to be shed in the heat of summer.  
</p>
<p>The new skin I hope to find may well feel raw and vulnerable, but this old one no longer fits what longs to emerge.  So I am willing to endure what I know will be a long, slow process of this next year’s journey because, well, 
</p>
<p><em>What’s meant for you is waiting for you.</em></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And, as with all good things,  I believe it will be worth waiting for.</p>
<figure><img src="https://static.wixstatic.com/media/e5b443_478a3bc240d04a0d80e14defd47055ad~mv2.jpeg/v1/fit/w_1000,h_1000,al_c,q_80/file.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" /></figure>
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    <p class="post-info"><span data-time="2023-05-16T04:18:58-07:00" title="May 16, 2023 04:18">05/16/2023</span></p>

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