Is there something in the water?

Just when I think I am making stuff up in my head about there being “thin” places, I fall into one again. Frankly, much of this talk about personal energy fields can seem kinda eye-rolling. Except when it happens to me. Hah! Then it seems there might be something to it. Our minds cannot explain all of the unexplainable but we try to anyway. And I do believe that there is more than what water and cells and memory dictate.

Some of what fills a physical space is the life we live and lived in that space. We hold our memories in our bodies, so it makes sense that feelings and memories could be reengaged in us. But also … is there something in the water? What came first: the happy, creative energy and artist communities that can surround these spaces or – the oxygen and soil and the scent in the air? Is there a dance of some sort that opens up spaces for spiritual life and maybe even accesses a deeper world?black-mountain

I am in Black Mountain, NC, outside of Asheville, and it is definitely here, that “thin whatever”. For me. And for many others. I have birthed so many songs out of these hills. Seattle is like this too. And the Colorado Plateau. All places on the “woo woo channel”. But is it in the landscape or just conjured up in my mind? Why isn’t it in Louisville?

People talk about prayer like this. And I have sensed it in cathedrals and in the Selkirk mountains in Washington state. All religions and those with various spiritual proclivities identify these places. A pilgrimage to a place a beloved saint is said to have died. A hajj to Mecca. Jerusalem. Ireland. Catholic traditions have many iterations of this such usually marked by a miracle of some sort.

Mystery. We want to write it off with scientific explanations. But every discipline has holes. Just like mystery. Many holes. We can explain the existence of thin places however we want to and it will be incomplete. But I, for one, am grateful just to be there for it. think-place-man


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When it ended


“The good news is, I’m alive! The bad news is, I fell in a crevasse.” These words came to me while my husband, Doug, was driving down from Paradise base camp on Mt. Rainier to return home. “What?” I asked incredulously. It was past the time I was supposed to call the park service and I had been hemming and hawing for some time. They were probably just later than expected. “I am ok, I will tell you the details when I get home. We are about an hour and 1/2 out.”

I hung up the phone. I suppose I should have been grateful that the call didn’t come from the ice ledge he fell into with a salutation that could have been his last. But I didn’t know whether to cry or get angry. So when he walked in the door of our Bellevue home with a big grin on his face, I succumbed to a stronger emotion: I smacked him on the arm and said, “don’t ever do that again!”

Mountain climbing had long seemed to me a selfish pursuit. Doug was super active and exercised about 5 days/week. When our kids were young, he had joined the Mountaineers and took 2 series of classes that lasted a couple of years, gulping up weekends of climbing, nights of classes, while I held down the home front. I didn’t have a paying gig at the time so my world was cooking, cleaning, driving, wiping, singing to, “time-outing” and otherwise cajoling our daughters. Eventually I jumped into the music scene in Seattle and we negotiated time off to pursue our “selfish” things.

Whatever Doug does, he does with gusto. I used to tease him that he even relaxed with intensity. He would sit down with a book – and burst out with, “Oh yeah – I am so relaxing tonight!!” I found it kind of comical and I tried to keep up with his pace to make him happy, but found that moving at the speed of sound made me anxious and uptight and eventually really put me under for a few years. That and postpartum depression. Let’s just say it wasn’t a pleasant season. I wanted to keep up with him, but was overwhelmed and found that my soul was nurtured with quiet when I didn’t have the kids with me, not climbing mountains or biking 20 miles. It felt like he was in perpetual chatty motion or work, driven by a sense of movement toward goals that I couldn’t grasp. I avoided conflict. He pushed to get a response from me in ways that weren’t the best for feeling close to each other.

We changed so much during those years. We had met while studying theology and I was smitten. I guess he was too. But he waited to tell me he loved me until he had decided I was “the one”. After graduation, we were married: a farmer’s daughter from rural Washington and a banker’s son from Ohio. It was a cool day in June surrounded by a crowd of friends from around the globe that we exchanged our vows. We moved to Seattle to be closer to one of our families.

Doug went back for a third degree in engineering. He is renaissance kinda guy, whose curiosity matches his bounding energy. We were poor in those days, had our first baby on food stamps, and Doug started a consulting business in addition to his full time job.As the kids were growing, I worked in peace, justice and coffee. Meanwhile our spiritual paths diverged and it became increasingly difficult to make decisions together. About anything. This lead to anxiety and isolation for both of us, and more than a little therapy.

Things happened. We kept missing each other. In 2014, after nearly 23 years of marriage, Doug and I decided that every path we had tried to connect hadn’t worked for us on the deeper levels we needed. I needed closer emotional attention and affection. He needed to feel more central in my life. I needed to trust his values, which had shifted significantly away from the ones that brought us together. He needed me to listen better and follow through more consistently. I was fearful of his expressions of anger. He needed me to express my feelings more intensely. It became clear that Doug wanted me to be an equal in our financial relationships which was truly impossible given our different fields. We were a weather system that devolved into torrential storms of rage and fear – of me pulling back into myself and he working every spare minute. We didn’t handle disagreement well. Compromise always felt skewed to me. And likely to him. Our shelter was our kids and we had some sweet times here and there. But over the years, the threads we brought to the weaving of our marriage were so messy with so many holes and out of place loops and unmatching colors that even that was not enough to create the warmth of love we both craved.

Around that time I was called to a position as a “Reconciliation Catalyst”. Yeah, go ahead, laugh. The irony didn’t escape anyone who was privy to our tensions. My primary job was to connect US constituents with the work of global partners doing anti-violence work. Think rape as weapon of war, sex trafficking, violence in the home. Easy stuff like that. I moved to Louisville, KY and traveled about 40-50% of the time learning and growing and calling people to the world in new ways. I came back home a lot. Therapy continued when I was home. It was clarified what felt like the only option. I still grieve writing this, though it is more manageable.

One day as our relationship was shifting to a new incarnation, I was walking through Cherokee Park area of Louisville listening to my footsteps and the birds, absorbing the shifting light falling through the trees and admiring the dark red brick homes that lined the park. A thought crossed my mind. It was, “I wonder if love built those walls…. and I wonder if love is still in those homes.” And then I felt like God reached in a swoosh right between those houses and touched my arm and said, “If love can build a home, then love can tear it down.”

That thought was counter to everything I had been taught about pain and loss and love. Love doesn’t tear homes down, right? That made no logical sense. But I knew in that moment that it could be made true. And I knew that was the only way my marriage could end “successfully”. I felt incapable of anything else. I still loved Doug but his unhappiness was too much for me to bear any longer. At least that is the way I felt it. Now I know it was mine as well. We just expressed it differently.

But this idea that everything could be done with love was something I internalized. I don’t think this is about me being some saint. I won’t be sewing a rainbow suit and scattering fairy dust nor ringing charming Dalai Lama bells any time soon. I am certainly capable of every failure and sin and have partaken in more than a few of them, lord knows, but in that moment I realized a truth that was deeper than the truth I had assumed my entire life.

What if it was true that I was incapable of anything but love with Doug and that our relationship had to change in order for us to be whole and free and loving to each other? What if this midlife crash required us to go deeper into the love we have for each other in order to evolve into something better? What if the path to authentic life and well-being was in truly letting go of what we had created in our weakness and childish fervor? Could it be true that something significant had to break so that we could live in love?

This became our path. With few exceptions. It was something we both wanted. I remember saying, “no one needs to write our book but us”. We have now been divorced a year and 1/2 and are closer than we have been in years. It was not easy. There were some very very bad times before all the paperwork was complete. But ultimately, we are coming out of those years into a new place. Our adult children are learning that they can trust us to be there for them as always. Together and apart. We go out for drinks or dinner when I am home and I sleep at the house now. It can be a little discombobulating sometimes, but it is still very good. And I am so grateful.

When we told the kids (the very worst day of my life), we told the truth. They were 18 and 20. We still loved each other. We created an amazing family. We just couldn’t find each other and were completely exhausted from disagreeing. Being married unhappily for all of those years took a huge toll on our well-being, and it was time to create a different “us”. We would always be family. And we are.

I cannot overstate the blow this has been to our family, especially to our girls who we have wounded more than even ourselves, and I am sure in ways neither they nor we can fathom. I wish there had been a third way, but we couldn’t find it. They are resilient and love each other and us so well. They are finding their way with courage and determination and are able to value both Doug and my quirkiness. They know us better now, as we can be more honest. There is even some humor about our brokenness from time to time that stings, but also feels appropriate and a reminder that healing is a life long process.

I was just in Seattle for the memorial service of my long time mentor and Presbyterian peacemaker, Helen Hamilton. I have been reminded of one of the most important things she taught me: “Sometimes peacemaking is as simple as saying thank you.”  So I want to continue to say thank you to Doug. We have had many private moments asking for forgiveness. But I feel like I want to do this publicly.

Doug, I would never be the woman I am without our nearly 23 year marriage. You have taught me to power through difficult seasons. You have believed in me when I could not believe in myself. You have given me so much humor just by being you: jumping up in the morning chatting away; giving me great quotes like, “if I were a woman, I’d be a lesbian” and singing to Tom Waits music in character; you have pushed me to be physically active for my health’s sake; you have accompanied me through two births and been present to our daughters in a way few men are. You were an excellent provider – far beyond our needs. You have accommodated my woo woo tendencies and forgiven my failures. You have set an example to me of what a man can be in changing definitions of masculinity and gender roles. You have encouraged your family to forgive me and love me even through our divorce. You are a good man and I have been so blessed to spend 1/2 of my life by your side.

Your (and my adopted) beloved Granny told me years ago: “The Beck men make good husbands.” And you were. We worked hard. We were each other’s first lovers and it was a blessed part of my life. We did the best we could most of the time. There was laughter and anger and growing up we did. I will always love you, my friend, the father of our children, and I look forward to loving each other in new ways as the seasons continue to change. I would do it all again, Doug. If time has taught me anything, it is that I would do it all again.

I read recently that if 60% of a relationship is good, consider yourself successful. I wish I had understood that years ago. But now, here we are making our way into new ways of being – and enjoying much of it. For you, for me, and for our family, may the best be yet to be.

*Funny side note: I sent this to Doug before I posted this and he gave it the green light. The only changes were a couple of dates. Which is so like him.

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shotgun house new orleansGently, the sunrise slides through the maples and over the tops of shotgun houses

onto my porch where I sit on red wicker, a coffee to my left

crickets sing under coreopsis,

an over-sized cicada whacks between shotgun houses.

The distant cooing between short bursts of cars en route to work

reminds me that morning comes

that the world is hurried, but nature is long suffering

that we are quick to impress, slow to watch the sun show off

that we have answers, but the earth has good news to share every morning and we miss it

But it is this: every single day, every breath

relies on the persistence and trustworthy laboring of the earth

and the song that patience sings





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Presidents, scissors, and weenie roasts

Judgmentalism feels like someone (maybe me?) took a big needle and thread and knitted my body too tightly together. Which might be good if it were creating space for oxygen and movement in my gravity-prone body or removing the fat around my heart. But alas, not so.Kitten-Yarn
I need to let go of my rage about Trump being popular and my judgment toward those who support him in any way. It isn’t helping me or the world; spewing all that negative energy everywhere. But I feel such outrage and anxiety about it all. If he were anything other than a white man, he would have been done months ago. He paid off women who he took advantage of; he doesn’t know the basic principles of human well-being outside of financial success (which, btw, were at our expense – his corporations filed bankruptcy 11 times); he over-sexualizes and demeans women; he has no internal vetting device – and no regard for kindness; he bullies disabled people; he is utterly clueless about anything but the U.S. He could, with some off the cuff remark, put the world in a nuclear mess. He is the very worst of U.S. culture – arrogant, childish, selfish and an embarrassment to good men who are trying to be more evolved human beings. And that is just the beginning.
Wow! As a middle child, it feels good to be clear sometimes!
I’m not much of an “unfriender” — I think we should talk with those we disagree with, not demonize them or call them asshats, especially when you love those asshats. This election has brought up more rage in me than even the Reagan election and the 2nd Bush election. Now I am looking back at Reagan (who totally messed with MY Latin America) as just misinformed. And Bush as a dry drunk (which may have been true), but now in kind of a grandfatherly way. Geeez. When Jeb dropped out I thought, “Wait. What?”
Hatred and judmentalism is usually based in fear and a lack of understanding. And it is true, I do not understand Trump nor those who advocate for him. I think I get it that people want change in the political process. One friend said, “it’s time to clean out the swamp.” Agreed. All the cronyism and corruption makes me crazy too. But democracy is still arguably the “cleanest” political system we have and we are making our way through. Have you worked with some of the other countires? Or traveled and listened well enough to hear the realities? Cleaning out the swamp and then throwing in an ogre and his “F*** political correctness” minions will only create a worse mess. AM I RIGHT?
How do we make our way through this jungle?  Maybe a start is to … ignore the media for a while. They overplay everything inflammatory and make it appear larger than life. I suspect there is less extremism than we see. Let’s dissect our visceral reaction to Trump or Hillary over a glass of wine with a trusted friend or partner and get to the root of the problem. And don’t believe everything you read. national enquirer
I think I partly hate Trump because he is unreliable, unpredictable and the kind of human being I have never gotten along with (which may, come to find out, be a lot about me and my history and the stories I have told myself over the years.)  Is it that I you don’t trust Hillary because she is a political player? OK – name it. Is it that she represents the kind of feminism you don’t like? She isn’t nice enough? She is too mean? She kills babies?  Name it. And see if the real issue might be partly yours.
When you finish that, now together, let’s take a deep breath, grab a pair or scissors and cut one of those threads that binds us in our own lives and let’s start allowing ourselves to breathe better. Maybe hand someone you disagree with the scissors. Let’s imagine that we all want to make a living and have a roof over our heads, be healthy, have agency, and be close to people who love us. Maybe we go to the lake and roast weenies. And then we can return with our heads and hearts in wise mode and take this on with more patience.
That’s all I’ve got  – oh and “Love your enemies doesn’t mean you have to like them.”
man floating on a lake
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Don’t raise your arms .. your skirt is too short

DDT is the best insecticide

If you pray hard enough, your prayers will be answered

I like the way you look in black … it slims you

Booze is the only answer

You only have one sister

If you follow your dreams, you will suffer

You are just a farm girl, an underachiever

If you divorce, no one will ever want you

You can’t handle finances

You are selfish, following your music

Women have far more limits. Be happy you have anything

Be nice

Remember to be careful of the male ego

Quit crying; you are fine

No. No. No.







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River toes

When I am ready to give up

on love

and god

and you, dear human

I go to the mountains.

West virginia

Stepping out of my chatter in my head

and onto the earth

where my body leads me to grace

sometimes startling with

those webs of irony and humor


has always been my truth,


Do you know?

wild blueberries are red or purple

pine trees have the most sensuous bark

more contoured and sensuous than any naked body

the sky is perfect with clouds swept through

and it seems

someone painted the toes of the river

in greys and yellows and rusts.









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I hate hurting people. I hate name calling. I hate labels. You know this is true about me. But sometimes a label needs to be used. Say it with me: Donald Trump is as a racist and a sexist! And in my outrage,I  am calling on my denomination, the Presbyterian Church, USA, to join me in saying this publicly. Discrimination based on race is racism. This is not decaf discrimination. It is not racism light. It is the real thing and it is extremely dangerous. And institutions need to name it now.

I say this to my church because, like me, your stifled inward moaning and outrage is just making you ugly, anti-Christian, irrelevant, and lacking in integrity. No more nice. Gradye Parsons, our highest elected official, has made some thoughtful public statements directed to Trump himself. And it is time for the whole community to call his rhetoric what it is. Not gently. But honestly. Racism and sexism and discrimination against other groups of people is unacceptable. Trump doesn’t care, but I still believe that good people in the U.S. do care. My conscience will not let me be silent anymore. Do you want a racist-in-chief?

Trump is a Presbyterian, he claims. Presbyterians believe that our political life is something in which we are called to have Christian integrity. And as a Presbyterian, a humanitarian, an activist, a woman, and an irate sister, I say DONALD TRUMP IS A RACIST AND A SEXIST.

As my favorite New York Times columnists, Charles M. Blow, says: “we will not redefine racism” to avoid labeling Donald Trump. SAY IT! We refuse to elect a racist and a sexist There. Perhaps I can sleep tonight.



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