The world through a filter-truths about why we see life the way we do.

Photography has been a passion of mine since I took my first photography class as a Junior in high school.  This was back in the day when digital photography was just becoming accessible so I was introduced to photography through 35mm film.  I had an ancient black and white camera Fuji camera that my parents secured at a pawn shop when I took the class.  We always shot on black and white film, it was the easiest to process.  One of the most confusing and interesting assignments I selected had to do with lens filters.  I am no physicist so be aware that my  interpretation of the science may not be close to spot on.

Visible light travels at different frequencies- that is where color comes from.  When you take a picture with a colored filter over your lens, it blocks certain colors while allowing others.  A green filter will let every wavelength of light through except the green ones.  The result on black and white film is that what should appear colored will appear to have no color.  Digging through my old stuff I found a couple of pictures from this assignment.  The one with the trees was shot with a green filter so the leaves and flora appear white.  The one of my friend was shot with a red filter, so his red polo appears white.

Having a filter on the lens dramatically influences what you see in the view finder and even more dramatically influences what comes out in the print.

When it comes to human experience, every interaction is experienced through a filter.  Without awareness of the filter we are seeing the world through, we tend to miss out on experiencing the things that we want to.  Each of our experiences gives us another filter we add to our bag.  The filter we are using is influenced by our mood; and on a happy day we are more likely to see what corresponds with that filter.  If my experience in close relationships teaches me that I will be hurt, criticized, neglected, misunderstood, brushed aside, or devalued, I am likely to see that in most of my close relationships.

It takes work to recognize the filter we are using to experience our lives.  As we collect experiences through our filters, we don't come equipped with an awareness that what we are seeing is distorted.  Perception is reality.  When we tell our stories and become aware of patterns of hurt, nurturing, safety, neglect, intimacy, health, and confusion we become better equipped to select the filter that we need.  If I am experiencing my world through the filter of rejection, it will be very difficult for me to see the acceptance or support that exists in my support systems.  Filtering our experience and perceptions is not meant to  create a pain free or a problem free world.  We have to experience our pain and problems if we are to keep our sanity.  Switching the filter assists in the process when it comes time to seek relief and healing from our pain.  What filter are you looking through today?

Deer Whispering and learning to connect

Since I started writing this blog, I am surprised at how many stories are coming to the surface.  I haven't thought of a lot of these stories in a long time.  At times it feels like I am connecting with old friends.  Some of the time, it feels like I am connecting with old enemies.  Both are welcome- there is only one switch that controls the meaning that is woven into my life.  It is either all on or all off.  I have been surprised at how clearly and quickly the lessons in these stories come to the surface.  The more we tell our stories, the more they instruct us.  They add meaning to life.  Telling my story has validated my experiences and feelings at the same time that it challenges beliefs I was not aware I was living by.  Thank you all for reading and passing these stories along.  I hope that at some point some of my readers will have stories of their own to tell, a good guest post is always welcome.

Sitting in a marital session recently, I was reminded of a camping trip to Great Basin National Park when I was about 14 years old.  My dad was my Scout Master at the time and took a three day weekend to take two van-loads of boys out into the desert to experience Lehman Caves.  We took this trip near the beginning of October, and I remember two things- it was a LONG drive and it was very cold.  

Like any respectable group of teens would do, we found plenty to keep us entertained and distracted from how miserable we could have been.  The first night in the campground, we discovered that the local population of deer was not to shy about approaching humans.  We observed them casually walking through our campground, and true to form, we made loud noises, threw food, and were generally a nuisance (don't worry you animal-lovers, I have changed my ways and realize that my participation in the following was NOT a good way to take care of woodland creatures).  Once we figured out that loud noises made the deer run away, we changed our approach.  We would talk quietly and move slowly.  We would pause as we approached one of the deer and give it time to get used to our proximity before moving closer.

Over the two days at the campground, we became masters at approaching the deer.  A few of us shared our baloney sandwiches and  Doritos with one or more of the deer.  We contemplated putting a leash around the neck of the deer, but our leaders wisely intervened and pointed out our lack of wisdom- a leash around the neck of the deer would certainly cause it to run- with one of us holding on for dear life.

I have never been a deer hunter, I don't have any desire to hunt.  From what I understand, the goal of the hunt is not to share a sandwich with the prey, it is to sneak up on and overpower the prey.  I often observe people taking this approach in their relationships.  They carefully manage their approach, attempt to downplay intentions or needs with one another in an effort to keep their partner from bolting.  When the desired proximity is achieved. . . BAM! Both parties unload on their relationship and then get disappointed when they find that their partner didn't feel safe and withdrew.  I learned from the deer in the Great Basin that I have to learn how an individual feels safe in being approached.  I have to pursue only in the in a way that feels safe for the person if I am desiring to share a moment.  This includes honesty about my intentions, willingness to pause my approach and observe, and increasing kindness and nurturing as I draw closer.  Even the intervention of the adults teaches a valuable lesson: Don't trap people in order to keep them close, that only makes them run- and when that person runs, you will get bumped and bruised because you will try to hold on.

Kiss it Better

Check it out- my first guest post on one of my favorite blogs:  Kiss it Better: Canffirmations

Gut feelings, compasses, and course corrections just in the nick of time

When I was a teenager, I worked summers at a Boy Scouts of America camp nestled right between Teton and Yellowstone National Parks.  I have always loved the outdoors, so the nine weeks I spent each summer living in pristine forests were heaven.  One of my favorite jobs at the camp was as a back country guide to groups of scouts and their leaders.  We had to be well versed in a lot of skills- group management and motivation, first aid, survival skills, and winging it.  We offered a unique hike that started in our camp and ended 5 miles away on a peak that offered a vantage of the Grand Teton Mountain Range and surrounding areas.  This was one of my favorite hikes.  In the early summer there was enough snow left on Survey Peak to slide on; later in the summer the meadow at the base of the mountain was full of wildflowers. The hike itself was mystical- we hiked through evergreen forests that appeared untouched- trees towering overhead, shafts of light shining through, and pristine mountain streams were to be found everywhere.  It remains one of my favorite hikes, except. . .

. . . it terrified me every time.  There is no trail that leads to Survey Peak from camp.  We got to the peak by taking a compass bearing and trying to stay true to that bearing while hiking through deep forest with no distinguishable landmarks to reference.  If you aren't careful, hiking by compass bearing can get you lost quickly without you realizing it.  When I guided hikes on trails, we would occasionally venture off trail to explore and getting back on course was easy- you just headed back in the direction you came till you found the trail again.  On the trip to Survey Peak, if you got lost, you likely wouldn't know you were lost till hours had passed and you hadn't reached the destination.  We were constantly scanning for landscape features that would indicate our position relative to the camp or the peak, but it was an inexact science to say the least.

On one trip to Survey, I was with a group of other experience staff members.  On our return trip, we got the feeling that we were off a bit in our bearing, but because of the thick canopy of trees we couldn't really verify the feeling by observing the surrounding landscape.  We started paying attention to every clue the landscape could offer- the slope and grade of the ground, clearings in the canopy we could use to get a view of the landscape- anything, but in the end, all we had was a gut feeling that we were significantly off course.  We had guessed that we had been drifting to the east as we traveled from the peak back to camp, but we couldn't be sure- without knowing if we had drifted or by how much we had drifted, we couldn't determine how to correct our course.

Going off the group-gut-feeling-consensus we determined that we would adjust our bearing to compensate for an eastward drift over an estimated distance of 3 miles.  If we were correct, after about 30 minutes of travel we would run into the valley the camp was in, or we would be horribly lost.  Fortune was on our side and we soon emerged on the far end of the valley from camp and were able to get back safely.  Without the course correction- we would have overshot the camp and gone approximately 4 extra miles before we hit the road that would have told us we were off course.

This story comes to mind when I am confronted with the realization that life has been off course, out of whack, unbalanced, chaotic, overwhelming, or otherwise less than ideal.  I frequently see people (myself included) come to this realization and determine: "That was a wasted trip- time to start over from the beginning so I can get it right this time."  If we had taken that logic on the hike, we would have been able to find where to start from again, but there would have been no guarantee of a different outcome.  It's easy to get hung up on the "right", "easiest", or "best" way to do things.  When I am focused on whether or not I am making the journey the "right" way, I tend to discount the value in the ground I have already covered.  A course correction- no matter where it happens in the journey- is a sign that I am paying attention, open to feedback, and in tune with my best self.

Surrender. . . to the River

In working with addicts of all kinds, the question frequently comes up: "What does it mean to 'surrender'?"  The concept of surrender is integral to 12 step programs and when understood and applied can be an extremely potent skill for riding out cravings, managing painful emotions, gaining perspective in relationships, and approaching healing.

When I was about 14, my family, immediate and extended, took a day trip down the Green River near Moab, Utah.  At this point in my life, a half day trip on a river was the coolest thing I had ever been invited to be a part of so naturally, I was going to be on the coolest, most adventurous boat in the group.  As I remember, my boat was filled with my teenage siblings and cousins and my newly-wed uncle and his wife- our guide was also young. . . and inexperienced- it was her first run on that stretch of river.

Near the end of the day, we approached the biggest rapid of our trip.  I don't know how rapids are rated, but I had the distinct impression this would be a pretty intense stretch- there may have even been some mention of people who had died on this rapid earlier in the season because they didn't listen to their guide.  I know now that whether or not that was true it was to serve as a warning- to a boat of young adventure seekers, it served as an invitation to be even more adventurous and wild than we had been.

As we neared the rapid, our guide reminded us again of how important it would be to follow her instructions- we even practiced digging, holding water, and turning in the final moments before we hit the turbulent water.  I noticed as we started into the rapid, we were not going where the other boats were going, instead of riding to one side of a particularly big swell, we went right over the top of it.  There must have been a sink hole on the other side of the crest in the river because I recall suddenly being pulled into the middle of the raft and almost as immediately being flung from the center out.  I had water in my face and was trying to stay on the pontoon. It was beginning to get scared as I saw most of my fellow passengers fly past me into the water.  I later found out that the guide had been thrown from the boat as well.  I don't remember a lot about what I was thinking in the moment, only that as I was struggling to stay in the boat I knew that it was going to be a losing battle- I was eventually going to end up in the water whether I liked it or not.  I tightened my grip on my oar, took a deep breath and leaned back letting myself fall into the river.

That night in the hotel, my siblings and I were re-telling the adventure of the day and when it got to the part about our boat losing all of its passengers, my sister asked, "Jonny, where did you go?  I looked back once and you were there, and when I looked back again, you were gone."  I told her about leaning back and falling into the water and was met with justified laughter all around.  "You mean you just SURRENDERED. . . TO THE RIVER?"

Yes, I surrendered in the truest sense of the word - surrender is not a defeated dive into uncertainty- it is a conscious choice.  In the 12 step tradition, surrender is recommended when triggers are overwhelming, emotions are high, and the future is uncertain.  Surrender does not mean that one gives into unhealthy coping, it is not an invitation to stop fighting for recovery, health, sanity, etc., but it does mean that one stops fighting to keep pain at bay- one surrenders control over the situation and trusts in themselves, their higher power, and their support system and decides to enter the chaos willingly rather than wait to be thrown into it unexpectedly.

Surrendering to the river had some distinct advantages for me.  First, I didn't become disoriented, I knew that for a second or two, my head would be under water but that it would surface again- so often when we fight what we can't control, we are forced to be immersed in it for longer periods of time and to greater intensity than we otherwise would have.  Second, I was able to remember what I had been taught about falling into the river and I did my part in staying safe.  When I surfaced, I didn't try to swim, I leaned back in my life preserver, pointed my feet down stream and watched for rocks.  When we enter into environmental chaos in a personally chaotic state- we are often unable to act according to what we know, instead we act impulsively, recklessly, and regretfully further complicating the impact of the situation.  As I have reflected on this experience and its application to the principle of surrender, I learn that willingly entering chaos that we cannot control allows us to remain authentic- entering chaos because we simply can't fight it anymore leads us to be reactionary and rash in decision making.

The trick to surrender is more than intellectually understanding the concept- comfort and competence with such a core healing skill only comes with practice.  As I have observed in countless individuals and myself- practicing surrender is terrifying.  Perhaps another lesson is taken from the river experience- embrace the journey, expect to get wet, and tell and re-tell the story of the adventure.

I was in control. . . wasn't I?

My first real job had me traveling all over Northern Utah.  It wasn't uncommon to spend the whole of the work day in my car endlessly driving from appointment to appointment.  Occasionally, my work took me to Logan which was nice in the summer- a cool drive through the canyon, green everywhere, and lots of drive time. In the winter, it was a different story, I was too stupid to be scared to drive the canyon after a snow storm, I think I operated under the assumption that if the roads were plowed and I didn't drive too fast I would be OK.

One morning after a particularly heavy snow storm, I was on my way to Logan to do some work.  The plows must have been working all night because the roads were clear and I wasn't paying too much attention to the road.  As I was making the final ascent up the pass before the road started dropping into Cache Valley, I found myself in exactly the predicament I would have been nervous about had I been just a little wiser.  I was approaching a significant turn in the road, snow had blown from the roadside onto the road in the shadow of an adjacent hill.  In short, the road was covered in ice for a significant stretch and I was going way too fast.

Remembering some words of wisdom about winter driving, I took my foot off the gas and relaxed my grip on the steering wheel- without breaking or over-correcting I would maintain enough control to slow down, right?  Wrong.  I felt the car start to slip on the ice, I was drifting into oncoming traffic.  I gently pumped the breaks and ever-so-gently corrected the steering wheel.  At that point, what was there to lose, either I risked it in oncoming traffic or I took my chances in my intended lane of travel.  I started to drift away from oncoming traffic.  While this was a relief, my car's increasingly sideways orientation was not.  I started to swerve into my original lanes of travel as the backside of the car swung around the front.  As I crossed the outer lanes of traffic (the car was backwards at this point and still traveling fast) I saw a large black truck headed right for me.

In my mind I saw the impact- it was going to be right in the driver's side door.  I could imagine the intense pain followed by the numbness of shock or death and I was trying to prepare myself for the shock as my car slid completely perpendicular to the black truck.  Fortunately, the back of my car still had some rotation momentum and my car continued to slide out of the way in just enough time for the big truck to pass me without incident.

Unfortunately, it was not time to be relieved yet, I had the cement barrier on the side of the road to deal with.    I was still sliding fast enough that impact would have done serious damage to me and my car.  At that point I remember thinking: "What is there to lose now- if I do nothing I know I'm going to hit the barrier."  I stomped on my brake with both feet while I pulled the emergency break hoping that somehow my car would at least slow down enough to hit the barrier more softly than it was intending to before my intervention.

I was relieved when within a second or two I came to a halting stop in the shoulder, my car facing the wrong direction.  I looked over my shoulder and the cement barrier was inches away from my bumper.

Until recently in the retelling of this story, I pointed out my quick thinking, control, and luck.  In my work I talk to people frequently about moments in their lives where they had no control.  I frequently hear a sentiment along the lines of "That was bad, but I wasn't out of control, I stopped before it got as bad as it could have."  I realize my own denial in my previous telling of this story- as soon as I was on the ice, I had no control.  Just because I didn't crash into an oncoming car, get plowed by a huge truck, or slam into a cement barrier does not indicate that I had control.

As I have been reflecting on this experience, it has struck me that by not acknowledging my powerlessness I didn't have the capability of recognizing the gratitude I owe to God (insert providence, grace, karma, etc. if you wish) for that out of control situation not ending in serious injury.  Powerlessness opens the door to vulnerability which makes it possible to connect with the bigger picture.  Self-assuredness and denial keep us trapped in our narrative without recognizing that it has meaning.