Farming

I've been farming lately, or at least I like to think of it that way. I know the more accurate term is gardening. I'm not growing cash crops. I'm not driving a tractor, or a bailer, or a combine. It's just me and my spade and the tiny containers of hopeful shoots and buds - their fate depending completely on my ability to connect them to the life giving earth. They wilt and moan and generally hang their heads with hopelessness as they wait for me to decide where they will go. Days pass. Their heads droop further. Finally I decide. I'm not good at preparing their nest. I don't have the patience. A turn of the spade and they've been dropped into their hole. A good watering. This I have patience for. I count to 20 or 30, or 75 if it's a tree. And then they are on their own. I check in everyday. I watch their progress, trying to figure out what to do if they don't take. Usually they grow. And it amazes me that I can do this.

On Retreat

Not long ago I spent 4 days with my dear friend Lynn in Salt Lake City. Spending time with Lynn is like being on retreat. We have long, deep, authentic conversations. We eat wonderful food and drink delicious wine. We hike in the mornings, soaking up the spectacular mountain views, and spend the afternoons pampering ourselves with massage or yoga or naps. We find lots of reasons to have dessert. We read magazines, share books, go to bed early and start the day again with steaming cups of coffee and tea in the morning light. We both hate to talk on the phone. And neither of us has much time to write. We might not have another meaningful conversation for 12 months, but when Lynn picks me up from the SLC airport next June, we'll start up exactly where we left off. And that is the beauty of our friendship.

Our yoga instructor read this poem by David Whyte at the beginning of class. I've read it every day since I've come home, and so I'll share it with you too.


SELF-PORTRAIT
~David Whyte

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned,
if you can know despair or see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes,
saying this is where I stand.
I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living,
falling toward
the center of your longing.
I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

Two Figures

I’ve been strangely calm these last couple of weeks, like all the craziness of the weeks before have drained my reserves for drama. A water pipe is broken under the building, could cost $10M or more. Really? Too bad. We lose a good client at work. Bad timing. So sorry. I gain several extra pounds over night, and it turns out not to be water weight. Bummer. It all rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. My heartbeat stays slow. No sweaty palms, or racing mind.

Actually that’s not true. An e-mail last week sent me spinning. And that’s when I realized I’d not had that anxious feeling in such a long while.

It makes a difference. The anxiety is cumulative. And so is the calm. Every anxious day increases the chances that I won’t sleep that night. Which in turn increases the chances for more anxiety the next day. Every calm day, increases the chances for more calm days. And so on. And so forth. Forever and ever. Amen.

Sam and I bought a ceramic sculpture at the Brookside Art Fair. Two figures, male and female, looking out over a turbulent ocean. A tiny dingy at the edge of the tide. A white egret perched on its bow. Peace in the midst of struggle. Companionship in the eye of the storm.

Passage of Time

Not so much 40 as now nearly 41.
When did age become so important,
and the date of my birth call forth such intensity?

Today I mourned the death of a man whose phone calls I avoided.
Yet his absence has torn a hole too large to fill.

Twice I’ve called out to his spirit.
In the car, alone, where no one can hear.
"Are you ok?" I’ve asked, to no reply.

I told his daughters he was ornery and they smiled.
I meant that he was abrupt and arrogant.
Or maybe he just knew what he wanted.

Either way he is gone.
"A stinker," his wife said. "Such a stinker."

Not so much alive now, as merely dead and done.
Why did age become so important,
and the date of his death call forth such mourning?

Pushed ...

"The walls came down, it was a fucking disaster."

I said I was sorry.
I am not.

Leaving...

Linda is leaving. Moving to Oklahoma City. Soon. Like, by the end of April. And my life as I know it will be forever changed.

Linda works with me and is my number one reason for getting through the day. Every day. Truly, she has saved my butt on so many occasions. She is the yin to my yang. She remembers where I forget, is calm where I am anxious, and quick when I am slow. She received flowers last week, again, from one of the customers we work together to take care of. Our customers love her. And I love her. And how I will ever replace her, I just don't know.

I've been awfully lucky to have had the opportunity to work with her these last 2 1/2 years. She's set the bar incredibly high for anyone who dares follow in her footsteps.

I'll miss you Linda.

Twister (or Lucid Dreaming)

Sam and I have different appetites for risk. When we first met he was Captain Cautious, always on the lookout for potential dangers. I, on the other hand, loved adventure and exploration. I loved intensity. Sam loved calm.

Sam worried that Katherine, at age 10, might stick her fingers in a wall outlet next to her bed while she slept. Meanwhile, I was rafting white water and jumping from airplanes.

I teased Sam about his caution. He was aghast at my fearlessness. We were on opposite ends of the “risk taker” spectrum, or so it seemed.

About 6 months into our dating, I came across a magazine article on America’s appetite for risk. The article included a “find your risk quotient” self-quiz. I love taking these types of tests, and I was also eager to validate my superior “risk quotient.”

The first two questions were easy.

Q: If given the opportunity to skydive, would you?
A: Absolutely.

Q: Would you travel to a foreign country alone?
A: Of course.

And then they threw a curve.

Q: Would you use your life savings to start a business?
A: Huh? Um, well, I’d rather not.

Q: When you walk into a crowded room filled with people you don’t know, what is your first instinct?
A: Easy. My instinct is to run and hide in the bathroom.

Q: Would you rush into a burning building to save a stranger?
A: Definitely.

Q: Would you bet a month’s wages at a casino?
A: No way. (not even a day’s wage)

There were 50 or so questions, covering all types of risk, including many (like business and social risk) I had not previously considered. My score was solidly average. Hmmm.

I asked Sam to take the quiz. He also scored a solid average. In fact, our scores turned out to be exactly the same, but as we read through the questions we realized our answers were opposites in nearly every instance.

I embraced physical risk and situational risk, but stayed as far away as possible from social and financial risk. Sam kept a safe distance from physical and situational risk, but was hard pressed to see the risk in the social and financial situations presented. I’m a banker and he’s an entrepreneur. It made sense but it was also fascinating.

Over the years, we’ve adjusted to each other’s sense of risk, but not without some grumbling. More often than not I try to drag Sam along on one of my mini-adventures. The more he resists, the more stubborn I become. Generally he tolerates me and on more than one occasion he has saved my butt.

So the dream I had just before waking Saturday morning in Napa was particularly telling and entertaining. It went something like this…

We are driving down a 2-lane road somewhere in rural America. The skies are dark and menacing as a storm brews. We come to a fork in the road. It is clearly the road less traveled, which means it holds great allure for me.

“Let’s go down this road,” I suggest.

“I’d rather not,” Sam answers dryly.

“Why not!” I demand.

“Because there are tornadoes forming down that road.”

“There are not! Where?”

“Right there,” Sam points.

Sure enough, right there in front of us, but certainly a safe distance away, is a white tornado snaking toward the ground.

“Oh my God!! That is so cool. Let’s try to get closer! Go down that road!” I insist excitedly.

“I would really rather not,” Sam says deliberately and through clenched teeth.

“Come on! Go! Go! Let’s go check it out. It’s not that big of a deal. Hurry!” I am beside myself with eagerness.

Sam turns down the road and the tornado is straight ahead a couple of miles. As I watch, dumbstruck, several more tornadoes begin to drop from the clouds. I suddenly realize there are at least 7 tornadoes on the horizon and they are beginning to encircle us.

“Um, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.” I venture.

Without saying a word, but with a distinct look of “I’ve known this all along, and I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out” Sam pulls hard on the steering wheel, whipping the car back around in the opposite direction. He floors it and I can hear the tornadoes close behind us.

“Oh man! I can’t believe all these tornadoes came out of nowhere! Good grief. Drive as fast as you can – ok?” I instruct him.

“I am!” he answers through a still clenched jaw.

We race down the road, just a mile or so ahead of the tornadoes, which seem to be in hot pursuit.

And then the dream morphs into something else.

I love that I had this dream. It was so perfectly lucid, it's hard to believe I was asleep.