Sojourning with Grief-Bringing My Mother Home

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.

Sojourning with Grief-Ancient Wisdom, New Breath

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.

Sojourning with Grief-Lessons from Driving on the Left

The organ music echoed against the stone walls and deep into the inner chambers of my heart. I couldn’t pick up my car until noon my first morning in Wales. Always on the lookout for an old cemetery, I wandered to St. Giles’ Parish Church, a couple of blocks from my hotel. What I discovered instead was a 16th century church with a love of today’s community and openness to the stranger. As I wandered the aisles I noticed room for toddlers to play in the back and heard the clanging of dishes and took in the savory aroma as a noontime meal was being prepared. Most likely for those in need. The volunteers that busied themselves were interested in why I was there and shared about the history. And then it began—the organ music. The organist stroked the keys and weighed in on the peddles and the church filled with music. I was privy to her practicing for the 12:30 free Monday recital. I sat and absorbed as many notes as I could before I needed to move on. Little did I know how I needed that music to live within my body the rest of the week.

Sojourning with Grief-Storms & Forget-Me-Nots, C2C Part 2

The breeze off the North Sea while welcoming, held reminders that the ocean has her own mind. One moment it would comfort around my shoulders like the knit scarves I have of my mother’s, the next it would pick up the pace and smack my cheek as if to say, “never underestimate me.” It was the last three miles of this “walk” known as the the Coast-to-Coast across Northern England, which our group of twelve walkers and one guide began thirteen days ago in St. Bees by the Irish Sea and were now completing in Robin Hood’s Bay. Just over 200 miles. Hiking, scrambling, bouldering, striding, climbing, fording streams, and at times, simply walking, we had made it. Most of us exhausted and spent (that was me.)

Sojourning with Grief-Kindness on the Stony Path, C2C Part 1

A journey through loss is full of contrasts, like the first miles walking the Coast-to-Coast. On my left, the Irish Sea thrums the coastline in a constant beat. The day is mild, winds mustering only enough bluster to cool the sweat off my skin. Guillemots and fulmars are hunkering into the stony crags, ready to nest for the season. Those in flight offer their sea song. Strange how sea birds do not have the soft songs of the wrens and robins that wake me back home. Have they developed their sharp sound to compete with the rise and fall of the ocean?

Sojourning with Grief-Sometimes Even Grief Needs a Rest

Derry. Three full days visiting a city and the surrounding countryside that sparked a thirst I didn’t know I had. A thirst to know more about this land, the people who live here, and the stories that lay unheard in the rocks, hills, and river bottoms of the people who inhabited the land long before the Irish settled here (those stories only seen in a few relics.) This final day open for reflecting and resting before I begin the Coast-to-Coast on Sunday. Not much “doing” today. More about being.

Sojourning with Grief-Connections

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.

Sojourning with Grief-Arriving Home

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.”

Sojourning With Grief-Setting Off on the Path

The sojourn has officially begun…sweetly and with whimsy. And with yet a reminder to let go and hold things loosely. When I did my 24 hour pre-check in, my flight no longer existed! Calls to Alaska Airline (I was using miles and going through one of their partners-Icelandic Air) had them searching for answers. I must say I had the BEST customer service, but no answers, and only an old confirmation number and phone numbers to call. All roads finally led to Delta Airlines, where my flight had been rerouted to Amsterdam. Pre-check-in was not available and I would be leaving two and a half hours earlier, but other than that, no major issues. I would just have to check in the old fashioned way: at the airport counter.

Sojourning with Grief-Scars Tell Our Stories

Funny how Grief will turn our heads and hearts toward the past before we step into the unknown. Five years ago: my mother still living, and I, struggling with her fading. Five years ago: still married, the hard decision to divorce loitering in the shadows waiting for courage to arrive. Five years ago: mired in stress, I drew solace in my work as a hospice chaplain. Five years ago: the trees gathered my heart in, knowing I was a sojourner in spirit if not yet in body. Knew I would be returning over and over to them for guidance and healing.

Sojourning with Grief-The Call to Go Home

“I am a becoming.” In philosophy “becoming” means the process of coming to be something or of passing into a state. That one sentence was all that sputtered from my pen the other night as I meditated in preparation for my eight-week sojourn home. I am a becoming. It didn’t make sense. But then much of what has been unfolding in my life the last six months has less to do with making sense and more about letting go. Less about analyzing loss and more about holding Grief’s hand and saying “yes” to the journey.

Grief-Unmoored and Scattered

The last few weeks I’ve been scattered. My focus, my usual gift of staying on task, gone. Blogging at least once a month. Gone. Sitting and reading a book for more than five minutes. Gone. Thankfully being able to sink into music-still here. To find solace in walking and swimming-still here. See, this Friday is the first anniversary of my mother’s death—her “deathiversary.” I know it’s coming. I’ve even planned a ritual for the day. But still the scattering of my thoughts like forest fire ash on wind-soaked days has caught me off guard. I’ve given up on most of my “to do” list, choosing instead to tumble into this day, this week, this moment.

Grief in the Winter Season-A Subtle Move Toward Light

The fulcrum of the winter solstice has passed and the subtle lengthening of days has begun. It is as gentle as a lover’s gaze, this passing between dark and light. Where I live in the Pacific Northwest, we had clear skies and the crowning, full moon was visible as the rains and winds that pounded our streets and drummed our hearts the day before had scampered out of town.

Belonging on the Labyrinth Path

My pace was smooth and measured. I matched my breath to my footfalls. Breath—we all breathe the same air. How does air quality not concern us all? In. Out. Toward center—my interior. Questions arise. What is my responsibility? Long stretch of path on the outer edge—my exterior. How do I join with others? And so it went as I considered the resource of air. And then my feet pressed to the ground. Earth. Our forests. And images of my beloved ocean. Water. Air, earth, water. Three of the vital elements for our lives, all our lives, in order to be sustained.

Seasons: Reminders of Grief & Loss

Autumn is present again in the Pacific NW where I reside. It was generous in allowing summer to take an encore bow and the first week was warm after an initial spat of rain. But cool nights, the need to grab a jacket when heading out, and sound of tires rolling against wet pavement is our autumn norm and droplets of rain wind down the window panes as I write this. I find comfort in the repetition of the four distinct seasons where I live, though no two are identical from year to year. Cyclical yet linear. Moving in a wide sweep. Inhales and exhales. Inching forward through this “thing” we have named time. It is this and more.

Allowing Grief Into An Unhurried Heart

Five months ago. That was my last blog post. Two days before my mother died. I haven’t had the emotional energy to share and process online what has been fermenting in my mind, my heart. Yes, brief Instagram™ posts have popped out, but they are snippets of my internal landscape. Today is my first attempt to take my small, personal experience and offer what has been unfolding—to let you know that your personal experiences matter. That your grief matters.

Sacred Witness

I didn’t expect her journey to last this long. But it has. Three weeks have passed since the heart “event” that tipped the scales in favor of dying “sooner” versus living “longer.” Three weeks of decline with brief rallies. From spending her days in her chair, engaging with company between long naps and eating small meals, to being bed bound. She spends the hours in deep sleep, sometimes restless, no longer outwardly responding to my voice. I accept after each visit it may be the last time I experience her warm skin against mine. But no phone call awakens me in the wee hours...