Sojourning with grief

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Sojourning with Stillness: Portals

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the return is unsettling. yes, i was ready to come home after 61 days away. to step through one final portal…the doors at Portland International Airport. ready to sleep in my own bed after lying in 24 strange beds while i was away, 25 if you count the Reykjavik Airport row of three seats that was a temporary nest. ready to reconnect with those close to my heart.

i remember this from my last sojourn. in a few days the body adjusts to sun rhythms. recalls how to make the morning smoothie. grind the right amount of coffee. slip into the pool and glide back & forth. however, the emotional & spiritual self hesitates. integration takes time. sifting through memories for old routines and deciding which expand my life. which restrict…

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Sojourning with Stillness: From Distraction to Joy

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one: i distracted myself. fell into an old habit. this during my first week in Wales where my Welsh friend offered me her Airbnb for the week. kitchen, living area, garden, bedrooms…an abundance of space where i could have spent evenings journaling. blogging. reading. meditating. i chose social media rabbit holes. it was the opposite of Stillness. after a few days, realized the unhealthiness of this. appreciate that Stillness is patient.

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Sojourning with Stillness: Collaborating with Kindness

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three weeks in. three weeks into this sojourn and. three weeks and a few days into this sojourn and Stillness finally said “you are making this more complicated than it needs to be.” let me back up to where i left off in my last blog post, “Disconnected.”

after i left my West Highland Way (WHW) companions, it took a couple of days to exhale and expand into my own space again. my roommate was lovely. she would make a “cuppa” at the end of every day for both of us. we were both respectful of the space we shared and made a genuine connection (and are remaining in contact)—so perhaps my perception of connection needed to shift? what was i focusing on? at that point on the journey, my perceptions were more like a kaleidoscope shifting moment-by-moment. no wonder Stillness was waiting to offer insights.

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Lessons from the Pandemic: Unsettled Grief—Where do we go from here?

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Wee birds have created three nests outside my apartment. Three! One on the wreath attached to my front door. Two are on the deck in hanging pots. Juncos have taken up residency, voicing annoyance with every coming and going. I tap on the door before exiting, tug slowly on the handle and apologize to the small body complaining on the railing, railing at my disturbance. When I return home, I see a small head poking out of the nest. I wave my hand “hello,” and the mama flies out and sizes me up, assess the situation. Will I try to harm her eggs? What tack should she take? Attack? Opening the door, I slip inside. I want to retrieve my step stool and peek at the eggs, but that seems like an intrusion. They need nurturing. Warmth, not peering. So I leave them be, though I can’t resist snapping a quick photo before she returns.

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Lessons from the Pandemic: Scattered Hope

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Ah spring. I have emerged from winter as scattered as a bag of wildflower seeds torn open on a blustery day! My thoughts landing here and there. Sprouting with curiosity and wonder. It is a delightful energy to be in the midst of…and tiring, too. It is not my norm to be “airy” and at first it was unsettling, but I have opted to allow myself to play in the energy, much like the spring lambs I encountered and was enamored with on my Sojourn with Grief two years ago.

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Lessons from the Pandemic: Deep Weariness, Changing the Conversation, Asking Beautiful Questions

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In my dreams I don’t wear a mask. No one does. It is not a thing. There is no pandemic. My dreams are still full of disjointed images. Metaphorical and archetypal meaning. But NO MASKS. Even if the dream disturbs me, I don’t want to wake up.

And the other day when I arrived at the grocery store, I had a deep longing to enter without my mask. To have no one wearing a mask. To see smiles and frowns—full faces. To hear unmuffled voices. And that all was “normal.” No bottles of sanitizer at the entry point. No gatekeeper. This longing comes close to consuming me some days. From reading Facebook, Instagram and opinion pieces, I am not alone in my longing.

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Lessons from the Pandemic: On a Pilgrimage with Grief

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I enter the pool like a love letter being slipped into an envelope. The water sealing my body in coolness the first lap. Back and forth in meditative flow for close to an hour. This was my pre-pandemic ritual each weekday morning. On March 16th, I allowed my body to kiss the water a few extra minutes sensing the pool would be closing for a month, maybe two, as rumors of a statewide shelter-in-place order swirled in the news. Last week I noted the four-month mark had passed since my last swim. Four months and counting since my daily rhythm has shifted. I sighed in recognition that water would not be embracing me anytime soon.

Listening to My Mentor Grief: Breathing as a Sacred Act

I dreamed about my dead mother a couple of weeks ago. She was in a retirement home and I was talking to the administrator about signing her up for hospice. This being a dream, it wasn’t going smoothly. I was wandering down hallways and couldn’t find my mother. Finally, I noticed her lying on a couch in a common area with dingy windows and a scattering of tables and chairs. She was wearing a stocking cap the color of coastal fog, a flannel nightdress covering her legs and a turquoise robe keeping her warm. She was facing the back of the couch, but as I approach, she turns toward me. I lower my face to hers and she blows into my mouth and laughs as if to say, “I gave you life once, I can do it again.” I awake startled.

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Lessons From My Mentor, Grief: Crossing Thresholds, Honoring the Pause

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I rise these days with the sun. The alarm has been set aside. I walk instead of swim. I’ve become reacquainted with my neighborhood. The pulse of spring rife with birdsong flows around me like the water of the pool used to. Daffodils are leaving the main stage and tulips have made their entrance. Two weeks ago, an apple tree with furled cocoon-like leaves and tight, cream colored buds is now a riotous white and green harbinger of late summer delight. Last week I walked to the highest point in our neighborhood to see the pink moon grazing tree tops. No sense of hurry—the moon or I.

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Grief's Dance Card, Loss Reminders, and Compass Points

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Spring is making an early appearance in the Pacific NW and I suppose I am happy about that. The daffodils are starting to bloom and daffodils of all ilk were my mother’s and are one of my favorite flowers. Our winter has been wet, but no bitter cold snaps and snow has remained in the mountains where I prefer it. I’ve relished the long, dark nights and even the endless days of January rain didn’t bother me while many of my friends shared feelings of being sucked into a gray cloud the size of the state of Oregon. So, I guess I’m happy spring is less than four weeks away.

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Gestation, Grief, and Gratitude

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The air has been crisp as a tree-fresh apple this week. My cheeks slipping into redness as my hands dive into my pockets and the morning moon lingers high in the west. The waning moon holding onto night even as the sun rises low in the late autumn sky. I want to hold onto night, too. Want to snuggle under covers and discard the list of “shoulds” that I composed. Want to wane into the new moon of me and hide in the shadow of winter dark. To take a small candle and explore my interior landscape one, small step at a time. Take midday naps. Engage with my dreams. Listen deep for what is next. Hit pause on my commitments. Does this resonate with you? This desire to go inward as days shorten.

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Sneaker Waves-Opening Boxes, Finding Grief

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“Never turn your back on the ocean.” A teaching offered to me as a youngster. Living close to the Oregon Coast where sleeper waves can heave logs on to shore or wash an unsuspecting walker out to sea in an eye-blink, it is a sound piece of wisdom. Even as I connect in my being to the sea as “Mother Ocean,” I was reminded of this on a recent visit when I was knee deep in water seconds after noting the waves were a good 20 feet out and seemed to be biding their time, lapping more than galloping. She wanted my attention—“Daughter, something is stirring.” Something is stirring.

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Abundance, Milestones, and Loss-Rounding a Corner on the Journey

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I invite you to visit a farmers’ market this time of year. The abundance flows from the stalls. I fill my bags with local produce even though I know, I mean I KNOW, I won’t get through everything. I am only feeding one person after all. But the fruits and veggies looked so delicious and autumn is underfoot as the first leaves begin to fall. It won’t be much longer and Sweet Sue peaches, Brandywine tomatoes, and Brooks prunes (reminiscent of my childhood) will disappear until next year.

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Sojourning with Grief-Between

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Sunday marks nine weeks since I returned from my spiritual journey, “Sojourning with Grief.” As many weeks returned to this home as I was immersed in my Celtic homeland. I want to write something wise or profound about my growth and insights. And there are many insights spinning in my head and heart. But the truth is I am tired and the threads that I try to hold onto are too thin to be woven into any kind of cohesive tapestry. Instead I am offering a few random thoughts.

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Sojourning with Grief-Portals, Stories, and the Slow Process of Unpacking

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My body moves in water more like thick, embroidery floss through a needlepoint canvas than a dolphin crossing oceans. I am not a proficient swimmer but water feels familiar and lap swimming is as much a spiritual practice for me as exercise. Only after completing a restless hour swimming on Monday the 15th did I become aware that day, July 15th, marked three months since I took my first steps on the shores of Scotland. I couldn’t settle into the present moment of water flowing over my shoulders, spilling down my spine, and splashing behind my kicking feet, but I didn’t know why. Instead I was distracted by the pain in my left leg that lingers since I fell hiking over two weeks ago; frustrated I can’t walk this land and reacquaint myself with these trees and hills. Distracted by strands of past conversations that dropped into my head, following them into thickets of brambles that poked and scratched me and serve no purpose but to hurt. Back and forth I swam, trying to release the distractions.

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Sojourning with Grief-Returning

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My half-open eyes see a cathedral in the darkness of my bedroom before I realize I am home. I hear the first notes of birdsong as the light peaks over the horizon and I float with them across the ocean to another land I also call home. What was familiar seems out of place and old routines lie in a jumble on the floor. In my first week home I lost cash, my spare prescription glasses, and my patience while driving. One of the few things that feels grounding is returning to lap swimming. Somehow the fluidity of water settles me. Crossing the threshold home after Sojourning with Grief has brought me into an old place with new eyes. The familiar is now unfamiliar. I am disoriented.

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Sojourning with Grief-Bringing My Mother Home

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Once, when I had a yard, I bought a packet of wildflower seeds, a mix where you scatter them and wait to see what arises from the earth. Poppies, coreopsis, wallflowers, alyssum, phlox, flax…whatever would take hold. And in my garden I had plants I set into the soil with specific intention. Roses, daffodils, lavender. This sojourn has been a scattering of seeds and in the center was the planting of one intention-to return some of my mother’s cremains to the land of her birth. Last week in the company of her two remaining cousins, I offered her back to the land. My mother-a beautiful English rose.

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Sojourning with Grief-Ancient Wisdom, New Breath

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“What can you teach me?” I ask this question to the rocks and stones I meet on my sojourn. To hear even the faintest reply I must slow my inner clock to ancient time. To liminal time. For the souls that reside in the salt-and-pepper speckled gneiss, the chalkboard black slate, the meringue layers of limestone, and pigeon grays of common igneous hued surfaces I tread on, caress, sit and lean upon speak an unfamiliar language. I have felt an intimate connection with rock and stone during this sojourn. In the wild places, I place my hand against a rock face and wait. Sometimes the warmth of sun fills my palm, or the cool of shadow absorbs into my skin. Rough edges prod my fingertips to ask deeper questions. “What edges of yours need smoothing?” Or “Are those rough edges part of a wildness you need to keep?” Many of the rocks have facial features, as if they are trying to communicate in way we can understand if only we would stand still for a moment longer.

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Sojourning with Grief-Connections

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Connections. That is one theme that is emerging as day four comes to a close. Making them. Missing them. Connecting with others, self, ancients, ocean, rocks, trees, birds, sheep…the list is long. The more I slow, the more open I am to connecting to who or whatever is presented.

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Sojourning with Grief-Arriving Home

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The long flight to Amsterdam was offset by periods sleep. Being able to recline almost to horizontal with a blanket and pillows allowed sprinkles of dreams to dot my inner landscape and I saw dragons flying alongside the plane, watching over us all. The reverberation of the Friday night blessing still lingered in my body and Loreena McKennitt’s song, Ancient Pines, echoed in the background. I was at peace. When awake, Jamie, the flight attendant, would offer a warm wash cloth, snack, or other kindness and I kept saying “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

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