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The Desert and What Holds Weight

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The Desert and What Holds Weight

Part Three of a Three-Part Conversation with Eric Pennington

There is a particular kind of man who can tell you, without flinching, exactly what a decade cost him — and then tell you, in the same breath, that he wouldn’t trade it. Eric Pennington is that man. I have known him for years now. I have watched him work rooms full of skeptical engineers and rooms full of grieving people and rooms full of executives who didn’t yet know they needed what he was offering. And nothing I have watched him do has prepared me for what it was like to sit across from him and ask him to open the desert back up, on camera, on purpose.

He calls it the desert. Sometimes the crucible — the older, harder word, the one that means the fire applied to ore until everything that isn’t the metal itself burns away. He doesn’t reach for that word for effect. He reaches for it because it’s accurate. The crucible doesn’t ask your permission. It doesn’t negotiate a timeline. It simply burns, for as long as burning is required, and you find out what you’re actually made of only after there’s nothing left to hide behind.

His began in 2006. It didn’t end, by his own accounting, until somewhere around 2017. Eleven years, give or take. I want you to sit with that number for a moment before we go further, because it would be easy to read past it. Eleven years is not a bad quarter. It is not a rough season. It is the better part of a man’s working life, spent not knowing, year after year, whether the ground would ever hold again.

“You can confidently say — yeah, I know I’m in the desert, but I’m sure probably next month we’ll be out of here,” he told me. “And then it’s not. And then you realize after a couple of years: yeah. You are in the desert.” He said it almost gently, the way people describe a wound long enough healed that they can finally hold it up to the light without flinching. But I watched his face while he said it, and I want to be honest with you: there was nothing easy underneath that gentleness. Eleven years of believing the end was near and being wrong, over and over, is not a small thing to survive with your faith intact. Most people don’t. Eric did.

I asked him what the desert took from him that he hadn’t expected to lose.

“A lot of that pride,” he said immediately. No hedging. No softening it into something more palatable. He traced it back through everything we’d uncovered in the two conversations before this one — a childhood where being right felt like the only available form of safety, a corporate career that rewarded the same instinct with money and promotions and the particular drug of applause, a company called Epic Living that he launched half out of genuine vision and half out of an old hunger still looking for its next hit. The desert went after all of it. “It birthed in me what I would say is authentic humility,” he said — and he meant the word authentic as a precise distinction, not a flourish. He has seen the performed version of humility up close. He knows it when he sees it, because he used to wear it himself. What the desert gave him instead was the kind you don’t get to choose. The kind that’s simply what’s left.

And then there were the mirages. I want to dwell on this, because I think it is one of the most honest things a person has ever said to me about suffering. A mirage in the desert isn’t an absence of hope — it’s hope, fully formed, arriving exactly when you need it, and then revealing itself as nothing. “You thought: I’m this close. There it is,” Eric said. “And then — gone. And another lesson to learn.” He didn’t say this with bitterness. He said it the way a man says something he has made an uneasy peace with, after enough years of practice, while still being honest that the peace was hard-won and is not the same thing as the pain having been small.

What grew in that soil, against every reasonable expectation, was something he attributes — without irony, in the middle of an interview about emotional intelligence — to Søren Kierkegaard. The idea of playing for an audience of one. Not performing for the room. Not measuring the work by who noticed it. Doing the work because the one true audience already knows the whole of your story, has already seen you at your most desperate and your most petty, and remains, somehow, still interested. I watched something settle in him when he said it. Like a man finally putting down something heavy he’d been carrying with both arms for over a decade.

This is the thing I most want you to understand about Eric Pennington: he refuses to simplify himself for your comfort or mine. In the span of a single answer he will move from Kierkegaard to the Enneagram to Miles Davis to a streaming television show, and somehow none of it is scattered. All of it is the same man, looking at the same wound from different angles, refusing to let any single lens claim the whole truth.

I asked him directly about the cost of being who he is — an empath, by his own naming, a self-preservation Four on the Enneagram, a man built to feel things at a depth this culture rarely makes room for, especially in men. His answer stopped me. “I’m an alien,” he said. “It feels like an alien.” Not with grief, though grief lives somewhere underneath it. With something closer to ownership. “I say that in recognition that I am here, and I’m here for a purpose.” He told me about a character on a television show he’d recently found himself drawn to — a figure who moves through the world differently than everyone around him, sees what others miss, is somehow both fully present and permanently a step outside. He used the word archetype without my prompting him toward it. He told me that the word “weird” used to land on him as wound, the way it landed on a boy who’d already survived more before age fourteen than most people survive in a lifetime. Now it lands as confirmation. “It added to my confidence and courage,” he said, “to continue to be who I know myself to be.”

I do not think most people get to that sentence. I think most people spend their whole lives running from the very thing Eric has learned to stand inside.

Then I asked him the question I had been most afraid to ask, because I suspected the answer would require more of him than any other question in three conversations: what is actually happening inside you, underneath, in the moment before you’ve found the words for something heavy?

He went quiet. Not an uncomfortable quiet — a deliberate one, the kind a musician takes before the next phrase. And then he gave me an answer I will be thinking about for a long time.

“It’s these notes,” he said. “If you’re familiar with music from a theory standpoint — you have quarter notes, you have half notes, you have whole notes, and then you have pauses that can be in between. That’s probably one of the gifts of music for me. It allowed me to process what’s happening underneath — that depth — and to be present with it. Because I can hold that note, and allow that liminal space to do what it does. And then play another note.” He brought Miles Davis back into it, the way he always eventually does — not the man’s sound, but his restraint. “It’s not how many notes. It’s what notes you choose. And the timing of them.” That, he told me, is the medicine. Not rushing toward resolution. Not explaining the ache before it’s finished teaching him something. Holding the note as long as the note needs to be held.

I have interviewed a great many people in my work. I have rarely heard anyone describe their own interior life with that much precision, or that much tenderness toward themselves.

We arrived, finally, at the question I had been saving across all three conversations — the one I think every other question had been quietly building toward. I reminded him of something he had told me himself: that his desire, underneath everything else, is to create things that will hold weight in eternity. And I asked him plainly: when you look back on this season of your life, what do you hope will have held that weight?

He answered slowly, on three levels, and I want to give you his words as close to whole as I can.

First — that he had been growing, across the whole of his life, into the person God intended him to be before he was ever formed in his mother’s womb.

Second — that his relationships would carry something real. That Jim, and Lynette, his wife, his children, the people he has walked closest to, would be able to say, without exaggeration: you did well there. We were helped. We were enriched by being near you.

Third — that the work itself, the podcasts and the articles and the coaching conversations no one ever sees the other side of, would have made a genuine difference in lives he will never personally know about. People who will never write him a message saying it mattered. He is not asking for the credit. He is asking that the giving was real, regardless of whether anyone ever tells him so.

The Desert And What Holds Weight Reflection Sheet

I have sat across from Eric Pennington enough times now to say this without exaggeration: I believe all three of those things will have been true. Not because he has learned to say the right words in the right order — he is far too honest a man for that kind of performance — but because eleven years in a desert burned away everything in him that wasn’t load-bearing, and what is left underneath is, simply, real. The boy who once watched his own life happen to him from a small distance, who found a lifeline in a hymn and a jazz record at thirteen, who carried a brother’s worst day into a school hallway where everyone already had a story about him, who chased the applause until it stopped feeding him, who walked eleven years of mirages and came out still able to play for an audience of one — that boy became, against very long odds, an extraordinary man. I am grateful to call him my friend. I think, by the time you finish reading this, you may understand why.

Where this meets you: what are you building right now that you hope will still mean something in a room you will never enter?

Peace and every good.

About the Author

Jim Vaive is co-founder of spirit of EQ, where he and his wife Lynette help individuals, leaders, and teams grow through emotional intelligence, the Enneagram, and contemplative spiritual formation. He writes at The Mystical Seeker on the inward life that makes the outward work possible.

Seasons of Life: Plant, Cultivate, Harvest, Rest

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Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter—four words that map to the weather outside, but also to the arc of a human life. About twenty years ago I developed a simple process to explain the changing seasons of our lives, and since then I’ve used it with people at many mile markers: teenagers, young professionals, midlife leaders, retirees. The metaphor is simple and intuitive, and it helps to name where we are and what work is appropriate for that season. Below I walk through each life-season—Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter—describe its character and give concrete examples of how people typically move through them. Wherever you are, the seasons remind you that change is natural, purposeful, and cyclical. Assuming we live to an average age of 80 please follow along below.

 

Spring: Ages 0–20 — Planting the seeds of who we might become then Spring is newness. The air smells of possibility. In this life-season we are discovering tastes, talents, and identity. Curiosity rules: children test boundaries, adolescents try on personas, young adults experiment with careers and relationships. Spring is the time for exploration, learning, and making mistakes—because mistakes are how seeds learn to grow.

Examples:

  • The student who tries math club, drama, and robotics before settling on engineering: each trial is a seed of interest, some blossoming later, some composting into wisdom.
  • A teen who travels abroad for the first time and finds an unexpected love for language and culture: that spark becomes the basis for a major in international studies.
  • The young parent who reads every book on infant sleep and nutrition, building a foundation of practical knowledge that will shape family rhythms for years.

What Spring asks of us

  • Curiosity over certainty. Try things without needing to commit forever.
  • Permission to be imperfect. Early experiments are meant to be rough drafts.
  • Support and scaffolding. Mentors, teachers, and family are the gardeners who provide guidance, not commands.

Summer: Ages 20–40 — Cultivation, hard work, and tending to what was planted then Summer is warm and busy. The seeds and seedlings from Spring now require persistent care: long days of watering projects, pruning distractions, fertilizing relationships. This is the period of craft, career-building, relationship consolidation, and parenting young children. The emphasis shifts from exploration to cultivation—turning possibility into reliable growth

Examples:

  • The professional who chooses a job, enrolls in targeted training, and spends years building expertise: through daily grind and focused practice, they develop the competence that makes them indispensable.
  • A couple who buys a first home, balances bills, and learns to co-manage household stress: their relationship grows through negotiation and shared responsibility.
  • An artist who organizes a schedule to write, paint, or rehearse every morning before work: discipline leads to a body of work.

What Summer asks of us

  • Patience and consistency. Growth is the product of repeated action, not one-off inspiration.
  • Discipline and sacrifice. Summer frequently requires saying no to immediate pleasure to protect long-term gain.
  • Adaptability. Heat brings pests and droughts; similarly, setbacks will require recalibration—not abandoning the whole garden.

Fall: Ages 40–60 — Harvest, reaping what you’ve sown then Fall is abundant and reflective. The work of Spring and Summer begins to yield measurable returns. Careers reach plateaus of influence, children launch into their own lives, investments and relationships show fruit. Fall is both a celebration and a reckoning: we gather the harvest and take stock of what was gained—and what might be missing.

Examples:

  • The entrepreneur who sells a company, realizing both financial reward and a sense of accomplishment: the sale is the harvest of years of risk and toil.
  • The parent sitting in an empty nest for the first time: there’s pride in grown children, and space to rediscover self.
  • The teacher who earns tenure and sees former students’ career-success: the lifetime of small moments culminates in visible impact.

What Fall asks of us

  • Gratitude and stewardship. Harvest is a time to enjoy results and wisely distribute them.
  • Honest assessment. Some crops may not have produced as expected—this is an opportunity for learning and for pruning future commitments.
  • Planning for transition. The abundance of Fall can fund new projects, mentorship roles, or simpler living in the seasons ahead.

Winter: Ages 60+ — Rest, reflection, and sharing the wisdom of a fallow ground then Winter is quieter and slower, but not empty. After decades of sowing, tending, and harvesting, the ground becomes fallow and the pace softens. This is a season for reflection, synthesis, and giving. Wisdom rises to the surface. People in Winter often become mentors, grandparents, community elders, or artists of subtlety. They ask new questions about meaning, legacy, and contribution.

Examples:

  • The retired engineer who volunteers to coach a robotics team, passing on practical knowledge and the ethic of craftsmanship.
  • The grandparent who tells family stories, preserving heritage and values for younger generations.
  • An older person who takes up painting later in life, using decades of observation to create work with depth and patience.

What Winter asks of us

  • Acceptance of limits. Winter invites us to appreciate what remains possible rather than mourn what’s past.
  • Generosity. Sharing accumulated knowledge, time, and resources can be among the most fruitful acts in Winter.
  • Curiosity reignited. Although the pace is slower, curiosity can still lead to deep learning—reading, community work, or spiritual exploration.

Seasonal transitions: fluid, non-linear, and deeply personal and one useful feature of the seasons model is that it’s not rigid. People don’t all move in lockstep with their birth year. Life events—immigration, illness, career changes, late parenthood—can shift us into a different season. An entrepreneur in their fifties may still be in a Summer of building, while a young person who experiences early loss may enter a reflective Fall earlier than peers. The model’s strength is in naming patterns: the energy you need to cultivate, the harvest you can expect, and the rest that’s owed.

Examples of non-linear journeys:

  • A 55-year-old who starts a new company after selling their previous one: their season is an energetic Summer nested within a chronological Fall.
  • A 30-year-old who becomes a caregiver for an aging parent: their Summer includes intense caretaking that often resembles Fall’s harvesting responsibilities.
  • A person who experiences a major spiritual awakening in their forties and shifts priorities from accumulation to meaning: their internal season moves toward Winter even as biological age sits in Summer.

Practical ways to honor your season

  • If you’re in Spring: cultivate curiosity. Try internships, travel, and varied learning. Build habits more than plans.
  • If you’re in Summer: protect your daily rituals. Keep a balance that allows for growth without burnout. Prioritize long-term commitments over short-term applause.
  • If you’re in Fall: catalog your achievements and gaps. Delegate, mentor, and think strategically about legacy and impact.
  • If you’re in Winter: simplify. Share stories, mentor, and focus on relationships. Consider how your resources—time, money, knowledge—can serve the next generation.

A final note on beauty and dignity in every season Each life-season has beauty and challenge. Spring’s zeal can be naïve; Summer’s busyness can be myopic; Fall’s harvest can bring unexpected loss; Winter’s quiet can feel lonely. Yet every season also brings opportunities uniquely its own—a first discovery in Spring, a mastery in Summer, a tangible harvest in Fall, and distilled wisdom in Winter. None is superior; all are necessary.

So, as you read this, consider what season you’re in. Name it. Ask what work that season requests of you. Tend your life with the attention appropriate to the season—plant with curiosity, cultivate with discipline, harvest with gratitude, and rest with generosity. When you treat life as a cycle of seasons rather than a single, linear race, you give yourself both grace and a roadmap: the right action at the right time, and the confidence that change is not failure but natural rhythm.

Redefining the people that have walked with us

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I have been talking about this subject the last few blogs and although some folks use a very narrow definition of the word ancestor, I use the word as an indicator of legacy and interconnections. The ancestors are elders who pour their lives into the community and family as a testament of love and commitment. They live and die well, and when they transition, hopefully they are lucky enough to do so in full connection with an engaged community. We believe they then dwell in the spaces carved out by our spiritual and cultural expectations. They may be in another life dimension, but they connect with us in dreams, in memories, and in stories.

I want to take this  profound perspective a little further, inspired by one of my favorite authors, Barbara Holmes, which got me thinking about my own journey with people from the past. How do I define an ancestor? Must they be people directly related to me? Do they have to be individuals I knew personally? And how have these people, whether known or unknown, helped me on my own journey?

For some, the idea that our ancestors are with us right now might seem a bit mystical or “woo woo.” However, the concept of epigenetics offers a fascinating scientific perspective on how the experiences of our ancestors can influence us today. Epigenetic’s is the study of changes in organisms caused by modification of gene expression rather than alteration of the genetic code itself. While I do not know what all of it means it does suggests that the life experiences of our ancestors, such as trauma or triumph, can leave a biological imprint on future generations. This means that the legacy of our ancestors is not just a spiritual or cultural phenomenon but also a biological one.

Historically, many cultures have revered their ancestors, believing that they continue to play an active role in the lives of the living. In ancient Egypt, for example, (taken in part from the book of the dead) the practice of ancestor worship was integral to their society. The Egyptians believed that the deceased could influence the fortunes of the living, and they often made offerings to their ancestors to ensure their favor. Similarly, in many African cultures, ancestors are seen as guardians and guides, providing wisdom and protection to their descendants.

In my own life, I have found that connecting with my ancestors, whether through family stories, historical research, or personal reflection, has been a source of strength and guidance. I remember sitting with my grandmother in the kitchen on Rosemont Ave right off of 7 mile in Detroit as she recounted tales of her parents and grandparents, having come from the French speaking areas of Canada,  painting vivid pictures of their lives and struggles. I did not know that some of my cousins were lumber jacks, I was very surprised to learn these stories were more than just family history; they were lessons in resilience, love, and perseverance.

But what about those ancestors we never knew personally? Can they still impact our lives? I believe they can. Consider the stories of historical figures who have inspired generations. Figures like Harriet Tubman, Mahatma Gandhi, and Nelson Mandela have become ancestors to us all, their legacies transcending bloodlines to touch the hearts and minds of people worldwide. Their courage and commitment to justice continue to inspire and guide us, much like the ancestors in our own families.

Have you ever tried talking with those who have gone before us? Whether they were people close to us or individuals we only read about on the front page of the family Bible, reaching out to our ancestors can be a powerful experience. This doesn’t necessarily mean holding a séance or engaging in spiritual rituals, although those practices have their place in many cultures. It can be as simple as reflecting on their lives, writing letters to them, or visiting places that were significant to them.

By doing this, we open ourselves to the wisdom and guidance they have to offer. We may find answers to questions we’ve been pondering or gain new perspectives on challenges we’re facing. Our ancestors, whether known or unknown, have walked paths similar to ours. If we ponder how they have faced adversity, celebrated triumphs, and navigated the complexities of life, we might get answers that have eluded us.. By connecting with them, we tap into a wellspring of experience and insight.

Moreover, acknowledging our ancestors helps us understand our place in the world. We are part of a continuum, a tapestry woven from the threads of countless lives. Each of us is a link in a chain that stretches back through time and will continue into the future. Recognizing this interconnectedness can be both humbling and empowering. It reminds us that we are never truly alone; we carry the hopes, dreams, and wisdom of those who came before us.

As I said on Fridays blog post, with today’s fast-paced world, it’s easy to lose sight of our roots. We become so focused on the present and future that we forget the past. Yet, our ancestors are an integral part of who we are. They have shaped our identities, influenced our values, and laid the groundwork for the lives we lead today.

So, how do we honor our ancestors and keep their memories alive? One way is through storytelling. Sharing family stories, whether around the dinner table or in written form, ensures that the lessons and legacies of our ancestors are passed down to future generations. Engaging in cultural traditions and rituals can also help us maintain a connection with our roots. One of the things I am going to start doing is writing down some of the stories I have heard to remind me and encourage me.

Another way is through personal reflection and meditation. Taking time to contemplate the lives of our ancestors, their struggles, and their triumphs can provide us with valuable insights and inspiration. We can also explore our family histories through research, uncovering hidden stories and connections that enrich our understanding of who we are.

Our ancestors are more than just names on a family tree. They are a living legacy, a source of strength and wisdom that continues to influence our lives. By embracing our connection with them, we honor their memory and ensure that their stories and lessons endure. Whether through spiritual, cultural, or scientific lenses, recognizing the impact of our ancestors enriches our lives and deepens our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

Embracing Our Ancestors: A Living Legacy of Strength

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In the confusion that many of us find ourselves in modern life, it’s easy to become disconnected from the past. We often find ourselves so focused on the present and the future that we forget to look back and appreciate the rich tapestry of history that has shaped us. Yet, as Steven Charleston, Choctaw elder and retired Episcopal bishop, points out, our ancestors are not just figures of the past; they are a living source of strength and wisdom that can guide us through the challenges we face today.

Charleston’s words remind us that the struggles we encounter are not unique to our time. Our ancestors faced their own battles—fear of illness, heartbreak, family conflicts, and the looming threat of war. They lived in a world where corrupt politicians held power and natural disasters struck without warning. Despite these challenges, they persevered, driven by love, faith, and an unwavering determination to carry on. You can know this to be true, as you are here now, smile.

This resilience is a testament to the human spirit. Our ancestors walked through life’s storms with courage and grace, refusing to succumb to despair. They found ways to navigate their grief and struggles, drawing strength from their communities and their beliefs. Their ability to endure and overcome is a powerful reminder that we, too, can rise above our difficulties. But, please make no mistake, they were not always happy, they had lives just like ours.

In many cultures, honoring the ancestors is not just a quaint tradition but a vital part of daily life. It is a way of acknowledging the sacrifices and achievements of those who came before us, recognizing that their experiences and wisdom continue to shape our lives. By connecting with our ancestral roots, we gain a deeper understanding of who we are and where we come from. Consider that many people are very interested in the genealogy websites that track your roots. What can we find out about those investigations?

I wanted to see where I came from so my brother and I with our families traveled to the upper peninsula of Michigan to a little mining town called Copper Harbor. We found graves from when the area was first settled after the copper ore was found. We stopped to see the frame homes that the boards which made up the outside skin of the home. It seemed to lack the ability to form a seal to keep the frigid wind out. With no insulation, and a small potbellied stove to warm that 3 room home. Snow from lake effect sometimes was 345 inches a year. We then went down into the mines where the copper was pulled out of the earth with little more than hand tools in the beginning. I had no idea of those roots of my heritage; I was stunned into silence. The air closed around me as I thought thinking, feeling, grateful for the heritage that was my past. I knew that those miners, and the women who supported them were all stronger than I ever understood and that strength was in my blood, yes, in my blood and I know now, without a doubt that I have the strength to live my life on my terms. Thank you, Ancestors!

The stories of our ancestors are woven into the fabric of our identities. They are the foundation upon which we build our lives, providing us with a sense of belonging and continuity. When we take the time to learn about their lives, we discover the values and lessons that have been passed down through generations. These stories offer us guidance and inspiration, helping us to navigate our own paths with confidence and purpose.

With this knowledge I am proud to talk about where I came from and what it means to be a Vaive.

In today’s fast-paced world, it can be challenging to find the time to reflect on our heritage. However, doing so can be incredibly rewarding. By exploring our family histories, we can uncover the rich tapestry of experiences that have shaped our families and communities. We can learn about the triumphs and trials of our ancestors, gaining insight into the resilience and strength that have been passed down to us.

One way to connect with our ancestors is through storytelling. Sharing stories about our family’s past can be a powerful way to keep their memories alive and to pass on their wisdom to future generations. These stories can be shared around the dinner table, at family gatherings, or through written accounts that can be preserved for posterity. By keeping these stories alive, we ensure that the legacy of our ancestors continues to inspire and guide us.

Did you know that most things we read from long ago were first passed along to each generation as a story told, most often around tables while eating? That narrative is the most engaging way to share information.

Another way to honor our ancestors is by participating in cultural traditions and rituals. Many cultures have specific practices that are designed to honor and remember those who have passed on. These rituals can provide a sense of connection and continuity, linking us to our past and reminding us of the enduring strength of our heritage. Whether it’s lighting a candle in memory of a loved one, participating in a traditional ceremony, or simply taking a moment to reflect on the lives of those who came before us, these practices can be a meaningful way to honor our ancestors.

In addition to personal reflection and storytelling, we can also draw inspiration from the broader historical context in which our ancestors lived. By studying history, we can gain a deeper understanding of the challenges and triumphs that shaped their lives. This knowledge can provide us with valuable insights into the resilience and determination that enabled them to overcome adversity. It can also help us to appreciate the progress that has been made over time and to recognize the ongoing struggles that we must continue to address.

As we reflect on the legacy of our ancestors, it’s important to remember that their strength and resilience are not just relics of the past. They are qualities that we can cultivate in our own lives. By embracing the lessons of our ancestors, we can find the courage and determination to face our own challenges with grace and resolve. We can draw on their wisdom to navigate the complexities of modern life, finding hope and inspiration in their enduring spirit.

Like my brother and I going up to Copper Harbor we found that our ancestors are a living source of strength and wisdom that can guide us through the challenges of today. By honoring their legacy, we were able to see a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the world. We can draw inspiration from their resilience and determination, finding the courage to face our own struggles with hope and faith. As we navigate the complexities of modern life, let us remember the enduring spirit of our ancestors and the lessons they have to offer. Together, we can carry their legacy forward, finding strength in their timeless wisdom.