It was an underwhelming hiking trail, by every measure.

The path was mostly gravel; we could see the parking lot nearly the whole distance; and as soon as we entered the "forest" we were subject to merciless dive-bombing but all manner of black flies, gnats, and mosquitoes. But I had insisted that we had to get out into nature before arriving at our destination, and I had found the "hike" on a map, and I had enthusiastically led Dave into the woods, hopeful that we'd find magic and meaning while we summited to a beautiful vista.

So the trail wasn't what I expected. It was hot, buggy, humid and kind of boring.

But I was determined to make something out of this journey that was giving "back of a grocery store parking lot" vibes, I declared that we should make it a Species Walk™, as if this was a normal thing people did. [side note: it's not normal, I just came up with it on the fly and then sold it persuasively as a good idea]. We challenged each other and settled on attempting to discover at least twelve different species.

And then, we experienced a perspective shift. Our constant insect companions became our first four species on the list, followed closely by the spider and her web that we walked through. A few paces later, we caught sight of a fox, then a deer, and then we laughed at our inability to see the usually-prolific squirrel. We stood quiet, listening to bird song to determine if we were hearing two or three different kinds of birds, and laughed at our inability to actually locate a bird in a tree. We stood silent, gaze upward, just...noticing. And with that, our humid and buggy walk did take on a magical shape--not because the surroundings changed, but because our attention shifted.

Musician and composer Pauline Oliveros coined the term "deep listening" to describe the act of paying attention to daily life, nature, your own thoughts, and allowing them to shift your perspective from the constant and scattered bustle of this current age into a posture of participating with the world around us. Call me a mystic, but I believe that God is constantly speaking to us, but to truly hear "deep call to deep" we must cultivate the act of not doing anything but participating in the world around us. In my coaching practice, I call this kind of time your "stare out the window" work---the chance to look away from screens, from to-do lists, even from your Bible and journal, and simply be.

I am growing weary of a world that operates in sound bites, filtered images and lives, and a kind of disembodied existence in which I know more about hundreds of strangers I've never met than the people who live on my block. But that kind of living requires a fierce rebellion of the glitter and trappings of a world obsessed with productivity, progress and "brand." It requires doing nothing, it requires embracing awkward interactions as natural. It requires pushing through the construct of social anxiety and connecting, human to human--the unfiltered, in real life versions.

Some of you may have noticed that my social media imprint has all but disappeared--I feel prey to the relentless and insidious phishing and scamming and ended up hacked and deleted. To be honest, I haven't missed social media at all. But anything that comes up against my "brand" is noticed by those who make decisions about content, and that's put me in a bit of a bind on how hard I'm willing to try and how much I'm willing to pay to get my own name back. I share that with you because although we still are connected digitally here, I consider you my friends, and this is more of a letter from me to you than "content creation" designed to get comments and views.

Today, I start a writing retreat designed to create space to think about the best way to engage with all of you. I would anticipate that might mean some changes to how, what and when I put my work into the world. And I would love your prayers over these next few days, as I get time to stare out the window, to remember, to lament, to hope, and to allow space to hear our always-speaking God who loves to show up in unexpected places.