Puddles grow by the hour and rivers swell close to capacity. LED headlights penetrate my windshield, streaking the rain into mini-star bursts and I wonder if I have reached that age where driving at night will soon be out of reach. Perhaps it is the sign I need as Winter veils us in a wet cloak to draw the blinds and stay in these long, dark evenings.
Autumn Newsletter: Harvesting Rest
In recent years, my local climate has not followed the usual patterns of weaving cool weather into night, to leaves surrendering their green into startling reds and yellows, and flowers dropping to mulch into soil as autumn approaches. Oh, it arrives in some form, but a bit chagrined and with a folder full of explanations. So I was happy, yes happy, to don my rain gear as the calendar officially announced the equinox in my beloved Pacific NW and the Nature that surrounds me magically turned on cue. As one who has lived all but the first four years of her life in this region of the world, the shift in seasons is one way I navigate the spiral of my being. The harvest of rest this season offers, with its lengthening nights and bundling of my body for warmth, reminds me of all the moments I’ve forgotten in the chaos of summer about SLOW TIME. Slow time, something I lean into with more grace as I age. Stepping away from the demands of external clocks (though they still seems to dictate more of my life than I desire.)
Weaving Grief Into Our Enchanted Lives
Do you suppose small birds mourn? That, as their wee ones start out as four bodies emerging wet from beige, palest turquoise, and brown speckled eggs, one mouth seeming to crave life from the get-go while the others curl around the deep hearth of nest, waiting to stretch toward light, their parents ready to feed, to nurture, do they begin instinctual hoping? Do you wonder if, as the nest dwindles to one, they search for the lost or keep a keener eye on the ever-open mouth of the one remaining? Do they take time to sing a lament from the bow of the fir for the ones that never flew? And when, one morning after a night of tending, warming, they return for first feed to discover the one gone, no mouth to fill, too soon to fledge, do they weep bird tears? Do they rend their feathers? I wonder. I wonder.
Early Summer Newsletter: In Community With Birds
I guess this ”Early Summer” newsletter is substituting for the never-written-but often-contemplated “Spring” newsletter. It was an odd spring, what with a very wet start, a mid-season hot spell that dissipated into an almost autumnal feel. Oh, we had the occasional mid-80’s day and the tulips, lilacs, irises, peonies, dogwoods, and other seasonal regulars bloomed in color-wheel splendor to remind us Pacific Northwesterners that, yes, the calendar was correct. It was April. May. June. Somehow the writing of the Spring newsletter was waylaid by the enchantment of greening landscapes, creating and fine tuning my recent presentation, and pondering (okay obsessing about) my future “home” options…an ongoing journey I will not delve into right now.
Autumn Newsletter: Footfalls on the Journey--Nature's Call to Be Still
Autumn arrived later than usual in the Pacific NW. It was late October, well after the equinox, before the rains arrived and the temperatures dropped. Mid-October and I was at a pumpkin patch event in short sleeves and it was over 85º. It felt disconcerting. Even the jack-o-lanterns looked puzzled. The fire danger lingered and the multiple fires that were already raging turned our air quality numbers dismal. Sure the days were shortening, offering a respite from the heat, but my memories of times past where not aligning with the present.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Stories Grief Weaves
Spring has begun in earnest in the Pacific Northwest. Daffodils are in yellow and orange abundance. Plum and cherry trees blushing to life. And Daphne’s aroma intoxicating for blocks on end. Blue sky, dry days are joy, sun warming Earth and skin. Rain is gentle, coming and going as tide. We need each drop to recover from a lingering drought. That the rain falling off-and-on this week without a storm’s full-on bluster is gift. No flooding.
Spring’s energy has been rising for weeks and after two years of all the upheaval Covid has wrought, there is a giddiness in the air of hope that the worse is behind us, even as more chapters are being written. At least that is what the birds are singing. Or…it is mating season?
Lessons from the Pandemic: Between Times, Kindness, & Grief
Fog shrouds my recent morning walk. Street lights halo both bare trees and evergreens. The moon, on the cusp of fullness, is setting in the west, hidden as day yawns to rising in the east. Despite dense fog, light is waking and crows begin their morning report. Winter chill is still in the air and the empty bench remains empty despite my desire to watch the unfolding longer. It’s not that I have anything pressing on the calendar and the quiet of the holiday lull (Martin Luther King Day) that has settled over the neighborhood almost lulls me into forgetting about COVID and the most recent variant, Omicron. Almost.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Invitations of Winter & Grief
Winter Solstice is near. Solstice, when Ancients believed Sun stood still. Night pausing before passing into Winter. This turning point from Autumn to Winter is full of silent invitations waiting for my noticing. I walk in the pre-dawn enveloped in Night. When Rain saturates Air, slow rising Sun scarcely brightens Sky. On Star-speckled walks the beam of my flashlight fades to nothing as Sky turns lavender to periwinkle to jaybird-blue well before the appointed “sunrise” time. I wonder at it all. That I should be so blessed to witness this offering.
Lessons from the Pandemic: When Grief Stirs in the Bones
Those winds that whip the leaves off the trees predictably in November came in mid-October to the Pacific NW this year. You may have heard about the “bomb cyclone” off the Northern Coast of California that brought buckets of rain to soothe the drought for the time being in dramatic fashion. Mega-fire concerns replaced by mudslides and flooding. Yikes! A conga line of storms expanded up the coast to where I live. Yes, this drought parched region needed a thorough watering. But all at once? I promised myself I wouldn’t complain about the steady drip of rain until at least March and so far I’m keeping that promise. Check in with me next month as I seem to return from most walks somewhere between damp and sopping and may soon be growing moss behind my ears.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Where's the Grief?
An invitation. A plea. Please, what ever you are doing in this moment—stop. Take a minute. Two. A half-hour. More. Breathe deeply if you are able. Too much? Then shallow, light breaths. Pants. Sips of air. If that is all your body can handle—take that in and then let those molecules slip out between your lips, one-by-one. Slide back in. Slow yourself down. Please. No hurry to read the rest of this blog. Set your phone down. “Sleep” your computer. Take time to nurture your soul. My words will be waiting. Step away for a spell and I’ll reconnect with you in a while…
Lessons from the Pandemic: What Does Hope Look Like These Days?
In the Pacific NW come February, early March, we get our annual spring preview. Clouds practice social distancing, the Sun teases us with a splash of warmth and we shed at least one sweater layer as light streaks through the blue expanse. Some even brave laying on the grass—arms, feet and legs exposed. Sure, it will be below freezing in a few days, but the reprieve is luscious. The trees know it is temporary and keep bud tips closed except for the cherries. Their vulnerability is our delight. Sure enough, the rain returns with a winter bite. But the first rain after “preview” offers a promise. As I step out my door and inhale, the aroma of daffodil and daphne odora saturates the air. It is a shift from a winter rain, reminding me of when Grief makes that shift from deep, early loss. The pungent scent has traveled in the droplets. Little Hope sacs splashing at my feet.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Isn't Every Loss Worthy of Grieving?
If you have followed me for a while, you have met “The Sisters,” a circle of Big Leaf maples that I visit on my morning walks. A spiritual connection that has deepened since they reached out to me five years ago. They strengthen my rootedness to Earth, helped me prepare for my sojourn in 2019, are a source of wisdom that I share with you. Our relationship is reciprocal—my offering being love, respect, singing them songs, sharing poems and listening.
Lessons from the Pandemic: On a Pilgrimage with Grief
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.
Lessons From My Mentor, Grief: Crossing Thresholds, Honoring the Pause
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.
Lessons from Sea Stars: Loss, Resilience, Hope, and Love (Plus a Free Offering)
Ah, this post. It feels like it has gone through twenty iterations. It started at the coast. Now I am home and still wandering through my words, culling, rephrasing, discerning. I want to share that Mother Ocean offered heart after heart on my journey to Cannon Beach, Oregon. She is sending you love. It was as if she said, “Daughter, that needs to be the core message.” And so, perhaps previous drafts were for me and not you. To navigate my own response to Covid-19 before returning to my center. Balanced. What remains goes out from my heart to yours. As always, take what you need and leave the rest. And if you read (or skip) to the end, I am offering a free service, a gift, my way of being of service during this time.
Grief's Dance Card, Loss Reminders, and Compass Points
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.
Grief: On Keening, Honesty, Healing, and even a bit of Whimsy
The rain has settled in for the day as I settle into the beige velvet chair of my hotel room—laptop open, journals in piles, scattered papers, and iPhone camera roll close at hand. I have returned to my favorite retreat during the winter months—the Oregon Coast. Cannon Beach. I have come to write. Take time to focus on what is becoming a persistent poke at my heart. Actually, it is more akin to having several toddlers gathered around my ankles all vying for my attention. “Write me!” “No, work on me!” Poems. Non-fiction prose. Blog posts. That book about my spiritual sojourn and weaving it into the journey through my mother’s Alzheimer’s. How grief became my mentor through that journey. That area where from my training and experience I am an expert, so I have something to offer, right? They are all clamoring for my attention.
Gestation, Grief, and Gratitude
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.
Shattered: On Loss, Grief, and Growth
Perhaps a year after we moved into our home and furniture finally made an appearance in our living room, my ex and I purchased two pieces of art. It was a stretch for us, but both pieces brought us pleasure over the years. One piece was a large, glass-blown plate saturated with turquoise, navy, pearl, rose, and fuchsia elegance. Heavy, it sat upright nested in a plastic holder on the console table behind the couch where on bright days it would retain the sun’s heat. The plate witnessed birthday parties, holiday gatherings, graduations, and close to three decades of life passing by. If you believe, like I do, that even inanimate objects can soak in the energy of a home, this one held love and loss, sadness and acceptance, disappointment and relief…and bundles of laughter. That plate appeared in a myriad of family photos as it remained in the same spot for over 27 years until we sold our home and divorced four years ago. It absorbed our stories as much as it absorbed the heat of the sun.
Sneaker Waves-Opening Boxes, Finding Grief
“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.
