Watching and Waiting for Winter

"Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire:  it is the time for home." (Edith Sitwell)


First things first.  Thanks to all my friends who've sent me kind thoughts and sympathies after reading yesterday's entry about the passing of Buddy.  What you shared with me warmed and comforted me.  I wrote what was in my heart, to both honor Buddy and what he had given me, and also to help me let go of him.  Life, growth, death, happiness, sadness are all just part of the wheel of Life - a cycle we all are a part of.  I also was helped by this excerpt from an article I read this morning from Guy Finley:

Grief has a natural place in our lives. The heart is a beautiful and eternal creature whose wisdom transcends the mind that tries to work its way out of sorrow.  Just as there are seasons on this earth that include the repose and rest of winter, so is there a natural winter of the heart. It is our responsibility to become self-knowing enough -- self aware enough -- not only to recognize the beauty of these seasons of the heart, but to embrace them for the naturally healing, naturally renewing seasons that they are. Sorrow is one of the seasons that we must let run its course.

Just as there are seasons on the Earth, there are seasons in our lives, seasons within our hearts.  There are times when we are green and growing, ripe and fresh; sunny and full of brightness and energy.  And then there are times when we are dry and crisp; dormant and gray; cold and shivering in the dark.  And just as each of the seasons during the year pass, so will these seasons within us, if we work to let them.  To not hold on to the spring of  fresh hopes and plans, or the summer of happy memories - nor to hold on to the autumn of disappointments or unexpected challenges, or the winter of our sorrows and solitude.  It's always good to remember that all of these seasons come and go, inside and outside of ourselves - and if we let them pass, something new can be born.

I loved this little poem.  It summed up beautifully this promise of newness and life within what seems to be cold and dead.

Of winter's lifeless world each tree

Now seems a perfect part;
Yet each one holds summer's secret
Deep down within its heart.
(Charles G. Stater)


Sorrow has run its course.  Time to move on.

But I'm still waiting on that real winter around here.  Still
waiting for some serious snow around here.  Saw a tiny dusting
of it this morning, but nothing like what we had 5 years ago, as
you can see in the picture.

I want snow.  Serious, heavy, "crunch when you walk in it" snow.
Big, fat, flurries of flakes.  White soft blankets of snow, the kind
that make everything look clean and quiet the world like a
celestial librarian..."Shhhh!"

And what would I do with that snow?

I wouldn't throw it or blow it; shred it or sled it.  I wouldn't feel driven to ski, nor would I leap to luge.

I'd be happy just sitting and watching it.  Watching it paint the world all whispery and white.

I hope it comes soon.  No matter how old you are, there's still something exciting about a "snow day" (that is, if you don't have to go to work!)

Izzy and I will be waiting!

A Promise Kept

(Author's note:  I've been carrying these thoughts around inside for a week - just haven't had the time to sit and write them, and perhaps, it was too painful to do so sooner.)

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." (Kahlil Gibran)

Today I said goodbye to a friend.

In many ways, our goodbye was unexpected.  I didn't wake up this morning, knowing it would be the last time I would see you, and I know I wouldn't have ever chosen to be the one to say "It's time we parted".  You were always braver than me.

But you knew it was time.  You had known for a long time.  But you waited:  patiently, courageously, with love, until I also knew, and agreed.

We first met 16 years ago.  You were almost an afterthought at first.  I had my eyes on another, but you had come with them, and we were introduced.  The other asked, "Would you take care of my friend?"  And I promised I would.  I promised to take care of you.  I promised to always give you a home. And I promised that whenever we parted, I would always return - that I would never desert you.   I had never had a friend like you, so I wasn't completely sure what all that meant, but I was willing to learn, and I could sense that there was something special about you.

And though you were young - full of crazy, frenetic energy at times - you also made a promise to me.  Your promise wasn't one of words - since you rarely spoke - but one seen in your eyes, and your actions, day after day, over the next 16 years as we lived together.

You promised to be my friend and faithful companion:  to always be glad to see me when I returned from work, or adventures far away.  You made me laugh when I felt lonely.  You played silly games with me when I was bored.  No matter what I did, you were always interested in it, and willing to "help".  We shared the bohemian life of "bachelors".  We were roommates.  And we became more than friends and companions.

We became "buddies".

And even when, once again, another came into our lives - someone who I gave my heart to completely this time - you didn't complain or mope.  Even when I uprooted both of us and moved us miles away to a new home, and your room and your bed weren't as "luxurious" as before, you didn't complain.  You settled in contentedly - because you had made a promise to me, and I could see in your steady eyes that you meant to keep it.

Because we were "buddies".  And that's what "buddies" do for each other.

The years passed, and as they did, we both began to change.  I lost hair and got skinnier - you seemed to get hairier and "stouter" (we won't use the "F" word!).  I got involved in many new things:  met new people, pursued new interests, traveled to new places, got busy taking care of a new home and a bigger family.  And you seemed to slow down - became less interested in "gallivanting about"; more of a "homebody"; happiest when you could simply sit and watch the world go by.

But you still always got up to greet me when I came home.  You still were always interested to hear what I was up to; always tried to "come along" with me, even when you could only walk a few steps to the end of the driveway to pick up the newspaper with me.  You always let me know that you missed me.

Because we were "buddies" and that was a promise you took seriously.  It was a promise you had made for life.  It was a promise made out of love.  It was a promise, whose value I didn't realize, until it came time for us to say "goodbye".

I woke up today not knowing we would say "goodbye".  We were just going on a short trip, like we had dozens of times before.  We would chat in the car; you would complain a little.  I would try to make you laugh, tell you the trip would do you good, and I'd promise that I wouldn't leave you and that I would return.  But I think, looking back now, that I was deceiving myself.  I did not want to admit that this might be the last time I saw you.  But a part of me knew.  A part of me saw what it didn't want to see - that you were suffering, and that I now had a promise to keep as well.

I had promised to always take care of you - to always give you a home - to always do what was best for you -  and though I had never said it to you directly until today - to always love you.

And I learned something about a promise made - something that you had taught me.

One never realizes that when they make a promise like that - a promise made from love - that if it's genuine, it will require a cost, a sacrifice, a willingness to give of oneself completely to another.  But you knew that.  You taught me that.

So I took you to where I knew we would be parted.  And I sat with you for as long as I could.  I didn't leave, even when my heart was breaking - even when the pain of saying "goodbye" was so bad it left me shaking and crying.  I whispered in your ear, as you gently went to sleep, one last time:  "I'm right here.  I love you.  You have been a good, good friend.  You have been with me through two lifetimes.  I will miss you.  You've been a good boy. I love you, Buddy."

I didn't leave you.  I stayed with you, as you had always stayed with me.  Even though it hurt.  Even though it meant feeling the pain, and the goodness, of letting you go.

And for the last time, you looked at me with your golden eyes and you let me know, that it was OK.  You were ready to go.  You were at peace.  Nothing had changed between us.  We were still "buddies", and we would always be.

Your promise had been kept.  And so had mine.

Buddy when he was about 2 or 3 in our "bachelor pad" (2000)

Buddy doing what he did best - nap (2005)

"King Buddy" surveying his realm (2010)

"Even in your absence, I can feel your presence.  This is how we know true Love." (Guy Finley)


I love you, Buddy.  I will miss you.  But you will always be in my heart.  I promise.

In Search Of Joy

"People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy." (Anton Chekhov)

"What Are Five Things in Life that Give You Joy?"

That question stopped me in my tracks.  Left me fidgeting and stuttering like a shy teenage boy, calling a pretty girl to ask her out on a date for the first time (Been there - done that!  I wasn't as "suave and debonair" as I'd hoped I'd be - imagine that!)

The question had popped up on my computer, as I was searching around for an idea to write about.  Seemingly, a simple and pleasant topic to play around with.  "Easy peasy", as a tour guide once said to us.  But as I began to list people, places, things, I began to wonder:  Do these "give me joy"?  Or do they simply "make me happy"?  Or feel "satisfied, content"?  And the more I pondered this, the more I realized that my curiosity in this wasn't just a pedantic pursuit in precision.

What is it that gives me Joy?  "Great pleasure...intense happiness...", as the dictionary defines it.  Shouldn't there be Joy in all of our lives?  Not just " happiness", "contentment", "satisfaction" - though those are all blessings too.  So I wondered what writers in the past had said about the difference between joy and these other sentiments, and here's some of what I found.

"My heart is as full of sunshine as a hay field in July." (Josh Billings, 1818-1885)
"Enjoy life like a young porpoise." (George Santayana, 1863-1952)
"He is as jubilant as a flag unfurled." (Dorothy Parker, 1893-1967)
"His heart...soared like a geyser." (William Peden, 1913-1999)
"My heart lifted like a wave." (Norman Mailer, 1923-2007)

I loved these literary descriptions of joy!  They reminded me of the things in my Life that I truly love, and that reflect that love back to me.

• My wife:  In just a look from her twinkling eyes, in just the soft, warm touch of her hand; in listening to her read something to me that interests or excites her; whenever I see her enter a room; whenever she tells me how proud she is of me - I feel that geyser, that wave, that warm hay field of joy.  I am that porpoise (or puppy!), "jumping and leaping" in love!
• Our little dog Izzy:  She so embodies joy, each and every day!  Everything that happens in her day is always new and exciting:  getting up in the morning to "read the paper" with me, snuggled into my lap; she bounces with sheer delight whenever Deborah and I come home; we go for a walk every night, but she acts like we're going on a grand adventure, her tail wagging excitedly as we meander around the block.

And then it came to me.  Where is Joy in my life?  It's present anytime that I'm willing to give myself completely to something:  my wife, a walk with Izzy, a day spent working hard in our yard, writing this entry, running a little bit further at the gym than what my mind tells me I can do; when I'm moved by beautiful music, or a challenging or inspirational talk at class.

Joy is found when I'm willing to "jump in" - when I agree to hold nothing back.

"Joy is not in things; it is in us." (Richard Wagner, 1813-1883)

Remembering that I can find joy in my life anytime I'm willing to do that - "jump into Life" - is a "Pearl" worth putting into my pocket when I return to work tomorrow.

A New Year's Wish

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." (Seneca)

One day a rebellion began to brew in Nature. As is often the case, the rebellion began in something very small, and it began with the word "No".

The tiny tadpole, who in seeing its reflection in the pond, had decided that it had no interest in becoming a frog.  "It's too hard of work to learn how to hop.  Croaking is just silly.  And besides, green is SO not my color!"  And so the tadpole declared it was just going to stay a tadpole, small and shiny.

And soon enough, other creatures, big and small, began to join the tadpole, each uttering a similar complaint.

The leaves announced that they were refusing to fall anymore.  "It's humiliating becoming hummus!", they cried.  "We're staying stuck to our branches from now on!".

And the roses rushed to support the leaves and declared a boycott on blooming.  "We're tired of being picked and plucked and sniffed and snuffed!.  We're just staying tight in our buds until further notice!", they said, making a stink.

The grass also presented its grievance against grazing and demanded that the deer "Leave our leaves alone!"

The filberts told the gray squirrels to go find something else to stash, and the squirrels angrily chattered back, "You're nuts!"

The fish refused to swim upstream anymore.  "Who wants to be batted and bitten by burly brown bears? We'd rather hide than hatch!", the salmon sneered and the guppies griped.

The snow frostily declared a freeze on melting.  The logs snapped, "It's unkind to kindle!" and said they were ignoring ignition until further notice.

Even the seasons joined in.  Winter wouldn't wane.  Autumn announced "It Ought Not".  Spring grumbled about growing one more time.  And Summer said it would rather take a break.

And they all marched off, behind the tadpole, promising to return and change, but only when they were good and ready.

What a crazy, impossible world it would be if this kind of "rebellion" was really possible!  If Life could simply say "I don't like change.  I'm not going to change until I'm good and ready"!

Funny thing is that's what we do in Life so often.  We get stuck in ruts.  And then we find reasons to stay stuck, and explanations why it's too hard to get unstuck.  But in all our stewing and stalling while snared in our "stuck-ness", we forget the greatest power we have.

The power to start over.  Anytime, anywhere that we wish to.

Today in class a student shared the following encouraging reminder from Guy from his book Freedom From the Ties that Bind.

The greatest power you possess for succeeding in life is your understanding that life gives you a fresh start any moment you choose to start fresh. Nothing that stood in your way even a heartbeat before stands there now in the same way. It's all new, even if you can't as yet see it that way. (Guy Finley)


I couldn't think of a better thought, a more precious "Pearl" to begin the New Year with:  the wish to remember this power, born out of a simple choice I can make as often as I wish.  


To start over.

"There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth:  not going all the way, and not starting." (Buddha)


Happy New Year in 2012...let the journey begin!

Trying To Sit Still

"All man's troubles come from not knowing how to sit still in one room." (Blaise Pascal)


I've never taken a more difficult course than the one I've had to sit through this week.  An advanced course in the discipline of "Sit-Still-ology".  Never heard of it?  Most people, I think, avoid it like the plague.

The flu has knocked me out for the past 4 days.  I went to school on Monday, but have been home suffering through different (each uniquely unpleasant in their own special way) phases of this seasonal virus, ever since then.  And because of that, I've had a lot of unexpected time on my hands.

At first, that seemed a blessing...a boon...a reward, secretly savored...kinda like this...

My mind tells me:  "Yeah, I know it's no fun feeling achy and blowing your nose every 5 minutes.  But guess what you get to do!  You don't have to go to work!  You get to take naps!  You even get to spend all day fiddling around on Facebook, if you like!"  And at first, that seems fun.

Everyone likes to play "hooky", every now and then!

So I did all of the above.  And I read and read.  And I drank cups of hot tea.  And I said "Thank you veddy buch, Sweedie", to Deborah when she brought me bowls of wonderful homemade soup.  I was the "Emperor of Easy Street", resplendent in my regal uniform - my bathrobe.

But after two days, my "paradise" of ease had begun to turn into a prison.

"The only thing wrong with doing nothing is that you never know when you're finished" (Anonymous)

Wasn't that the truth!  I began to get bored...very bored.  So bored that I was too bored to do anything BUT be bored.

I caught myself pacing around the house, like an animal in a cage.

Sit in the living room...read the newspaper...To the office...check my e-mail...To the bedroom - lay down and read...close my eyes.  Try to nap.  Up to the refrigerator - what's to eat?  Nothing.  Should I take the dog for a walk?  "No - I'm sick".  Back to the office - still no e-mail.  I should sit down and write a blog entry.  Sit.  Get up.  Back to the living room... See if I missed anything in the newspaper.  Turn on the TV.  Nothing on.  Turn off the TV.  Check e-mail again.  None - "Boy - Deborah must be busy at work".  Back to the bedroom.  Close eyes - still can't nap.  Up... And on and on I went.

Looking for something to do.  Looking to "fill time".  Looking for "my purpose".

Since I was sick, I couldn't rely on the usual activities to provide the answers to these quests.  I was left empty.  I was left "alone" with myself.

I knew there was something for me to learn in all of this.  But I could only learn it, if I was able to get myself to just sit still.  You'd think that would be easy, especially if you're sick. But it was quite a challenge.  My mind did not want to be still.  It did not want to linger in the emptiness.  It didn't want to dare to gaze into the "abyss" of a day in which it didn't know itself or what it's "purpose" was.  And it certainly didn't want to see all the empty things it was choosing to fill itself with.

But stop I did.  Finally.  And when I was willing to just sit, and let all the rushing thoughts and impulses just wash by me, like the waves around my feet when I was a little boy, I finally heard what Life was inviting me to do.

I went for a walk outside.  I enjoyed the crisp, cool air.  And I remembered to bring my camera, so I could take pictures of the beautiful leaves on the trees in the neighborhood.  I had been meaning to do this for weeks! (but had always forgotten to bring my camera and said "Next time").  For once, I remembered.  And here was the reward for finally "sitting still":

"There is nothing as certain as silence, stillness, and solitude to introduce you to the secrets of yourself." (Guy Finley)

I'm grateful for the reminder today to just slow down, especially mentally.  To work to step out of the mechanical race to "find myself" in the constant stream of thoughts, worries, plans, and fears that fill my days.

There's an entirely different and beautiful world just waiting for me if I will.

You want proof?

A picture's worth a 1000 words. :-)

Learning To Be A Student, Again

"Get over the idea that only children should spend their time in study.  Be a student so long as you still have something to learn, and this will mean all your life." (Henry Doherty)


It finally took a full blown case of the annual fall flu:  sniffly snorts and achy aches; weepy eyes and a raspy throat - to get me to sit down and dust off my blogger's pen.  Though the sun outside is bright and cheery this afternoon, I'm inside looking out... and looking in.

A question has been rattling around inside my head for the last week or so, like dried beans inside an October gourd.


Why do I say I love to write so much, but then write so little?

That's been bugging me lately.  I can come up with plenty of "reasons" and "excuses" and lists of "other things I have to do", but the truth is something far different, I'm beginning to see.


I am reluctant to be a student.


I can see that a part of me only wants to write when it has "the perfect idea";  when it's the "perfect time"; when it "knows" that it can please itself (or my tiny band of 6 followers!); when it's able to craft the "perfect piece".


I want to be seen as a talented writer.


But the paradox is I can't actually be that unless I practice the craft.  I can't be that unless I write - and sometimes struggle - and fail in the struggle.  But also LEARN in the attempt.


Jon likes to say that he likes "being a student", loves "to learn".  But I can see that as he's gotten older, the learning has become more and more limited - the ventures into something unknown, or something he might stumble at, rarer.


I love this Guy Finley quote.


"You must learn to stop thinking in terms of beginnings and endings, successes and failures; and begin to treat everything in your life as a learning experience instead of a proving one."


To be a student means to be willing to learn something, not try to prove something about yourself.  Proving only leads to protection.  Protection turns one to the past, not towards progress.  Proving tells us that "pretending" is the same as "possessing".


So, I want to relearn - to remind myself - of what it means to be a student.


When was the last time I truly remember being a student?  It was many, many years ago, when I was learning how to become a basketball coach.

That's me on the far left.  I was the Varsity Assistant coach for the Glencoe Girls' basketball team.  This team, led by my friend Mark Neffendorf, won the Oregon AAA State Championship in 1990.  It was one of my proudest moments as a coach to be part of this team, and Mark's program.  Five years later, I was off on my own.

This was my 1995 team at South Medford.  This team was the 1st girls' team in Medford to win the League championship and go on to the Oregon state tournament.  We didn't win a trophy, but I was also very proud of this team

So, what did it mean to "be a student", learning how to coach?  What did I do then, in pursuit of this love, that I've forgotten?

Being a student of "coaching" meant:

• There was nothing that didn't want to learn about the craft.  I remember having a deep desire to grow, to absorb everything I could, from any coach I met. I coached with boys' coaches, girls' coaches; I talked with football and track coaches.   I WANTED to "know" coaching.
• I was willing to do whatever was asked of me in this pursuit.  I spent countless hours and weeks, and months, and years at summer camps, coaching all-star teams,  in offseason planning sessions, in late night video sessions after games. I didn't care whether I was paid or not. I just knew that any, and everything I volunteered to do, would help me learn something new.   
• I realized, without question, that I didn't already "know it all" when it came to being a successful head coach.  So whatever my mentors (Barry Adams, Barney Holland, Mark Neffendorf) asked me to do, I did.  And even though my long term goal was to become a head coach, I never remember thinking about that goal while I was doing all that I did.  I just wanted to be a "good coach", now.

To be a student means:

• To have a real love for what you wish to learn
• To be willing to do whatever that love leads you to do
• To be willing to surrender the protection and pretense of being perfect already; of "knowing it all"

"I don't think much of a man who is not wiser today than he was yesterday." (Abraham Lincoln)

Relearning how to be a student means to remember that a student is an explorer; a student must be a risk taker.

Like Horatio Nelson Jackson, who with Sewall Crocker (and his dog Bud) became the first man to drive across the United States in 1903.

Here's to remembering how to be a student, and to being willing to "stick my head out the window" a little more often...like Bud! 

I'm going to try to remember that little "Pearl"...and to practice it more often.

Things That Take My Breath Away

"Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to pray in and play in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul." (John Muir)


Three weeks have whizzed by since I last wrote.  How can my days be filled so quickly and completely that they become just a blur?  Thank goodness I have the good sense to seek an "oasis" on Sunday afternoons, and to find some beauty, some healing and strength in just being still.


I recently read another blog where the writer had written an entry titled "Things That Take My Breath Away".  I enjoyed reading what they shared so much that I thought I'd use it myself.  So, let's go "wandering", and see what we see...


Things That Take My Breath Away

• Views that seem to go on forever.  When I'm reminded that I am really just a very, very small part of a very big world.  And that all my scurrying and worrying really doesn't do much to change that world - but being willing to be a part of it, always changes me.

 View from Cape Perpetua, near Florence, Oregon

• The pure, unadulterated (what a perfect word!) joy of children playing and exploring.  Kids are natural "masters" at this.  Why as we get older do we forget how to do this?  Too much to protect?  Too afraid to fall?  I want to keep remembering how to play - and that a "skinned knee" is just a "boo-boo", not the end of the world.

Our granddaugher Marley on the slide

• The courage of one, standing for something true, inspite of what opposes them.  I was reminded today in class of the need for that kind of courage.  Not a courage born of strength and resistance, but a courage that because its roots are in humility, can see that in any moment of challenge all that's ever required is to take one small step.

"Tank Man" - Tianamen Square, Beijing China - 1989

• Morning glories.  Every year we plant some in the front of our house, and I love them because of their beauty and shy optimism - always reminding me to "turn towards the light".  This year I didn't plant any.  But a half dozen plants came up anyway - and taught me an additional lesson about persistence!

Our morning glories

• Sunrises and sunsets.  I can sit and look contentedly at them, anytime, anywhere.  Funny how I can feel so at peace with nature's daily "beginnings" and "endings", yet be so stirred up at times when I'm faced with a "beginning" (Monday morning, a new project, something unexpected) or an "ending" (a good time ends, something has to be fixed, I make a mistake).  Life's full of beginnings and endings - all can be used - for the good.

Sunset at the Franciscan Lodge, Lake Tahoe CA (a favorite spot of ours!)

A sunrise above the hills of Grants Pass, OR

• A simple act of love.  Deborah and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary yesterday.  We had a wonderful evening at a fancy restaurant in Ashland:  ate the finest food we've ever had, were treated like royalty by white-shirted servers.  We enjoyed it all, but I also know that our love for each other has been expressed in ways smaller and simpler - but all the more divine, because they were uncomplicated and absolutely pure. 

A note Deborah left me - made with paper dots - while cleaning my office

• The joy I feel in sharing my life with Deborah.  What a wonderful, magical mystery Life's "mathematics" are!  That "One" + "One" would = Something Far Greater than Two.  In the last six years, we have shared big adventures (Italy), painful moments with people close to us, busy times, and like today, quiet, sleepy afternoons.  All of them have been special to me.  Why?  Because they also remind me, just as a majestic oceanside view does, that I am not meant to live in a world just of, and for myself.

Deborah on a hike with me this summer.

"The most beautiful view is the one I share with you."

"Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything that is beautiful; for beauty is God's handwriting - a wayside sacrament.  Welcome it in every fair face, in every fair sky, in every fair flower, and thank God for it as a cup of blessing." (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

So what't the Pearl I walk away with this afternoon?  Nothing new - but something I easily forget, or drop, as I whiz through my days.  Stop and find moments of stillness - not "whenever I can" - but deliberately, intentionally - each day.  There is beauty all around me - just waiting for me to stop and let it touch me.