Haystack Rock at low tide with winds whipping up a dessert-worthy foam. Winter at Cannon Beach, Oregon. photo by anne richardson
Settling In To Grief…Again
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.
Unexpected Gift
I arrived yesterday afternoon, driving through downpours which subsided into spats of spit on the windshield to nothing and back to the drenching of coastal rain, grateful to arrive between storms. Clouds lumbered in the sky, stretching up, clearing the way for blue patches. I checked in to my room, winked at the clawfoot tub (a special treat to myself) saying “later darling,” switched into waterproof shoes, and walked to a beach free of the clutter of summer’s strewn towels, fire pits, and crowds.
Winds and tides constantly shift the seascape. This was not the same beach I walked six weeks ago. Cannon Beach, Oregon. photo by anne richardson
“SOMETIMES
Sometimes
if you move carefully
through the forest,
breathing
like the ones
in the old stories,
who could cross
a shimmering bed of leaves
without a sound,
you come to a place
whose only task
is to trouble you
with tiny
but frightening requests,
conceived out of nowhere
but in this place
beginning to lead everywhere.
”
Gathering Threads, Awakening To Dormant Places Within
Growing older can offer the freedom to explore the world, both inner and outer, in new ways. To say goodbye to old habits. To say “no” when one used to say “yes,” and vice versa. As I entered into my sixtieth year I offered myself permission to explore and expand. So why do I keep going back to the same stretch of coast?
In the last few months I have been delving into the work of Sharon Blackie via online classes, readings, and webinars. Much of her work resonates and has awoken a part of me that was dormant. Her work is also in sync with other writers and poets, such as David Whyte, (click here to read the full poem quoted,) I am drawn to during this season of my life, which is no coincidence. I have been yearning for something since my mother’s death.
You may have noticed this on your own journey. How seemingly unrelated threads start to connect until you have a piece of fabric in your hand to add to your life-quilt. “Hmm interesting,” you might muse, and then actively begin engaging with more intention.
Connecting to Where I Am In This Place, Now
Sharon Blackie invites us to get to know the land intimately where we live, even if ancestrally we feel we belong somewhere different. (If you are interested in reading more about connecting to the land, I suggest her book The Enchanted Life, Unlocking the Magic of the Everyday.) If you have read previous posts, you may remember I connect deeply with my ancestral roots in the United Kingdom, which was integral to my Spring 2019 spiritual sojourn, Sojourning With Grief. And yet, I have lived on the western side of Oregon since I was four (Willamette Valley and then Portland area) with frequent visits to the Pacific Ocean coastline. I have a long, abiding relationship with Mother Ocean, as I now call her. In the familiarity of the constantly shifting seascape, we converse. Well, I usually listen.
As my feet move between sand and sea, I visibly connect with the Otherworld, that between space I became intimate with as a hospice chaplain. A space where Mystery abides and I set “knowing” aside. With each push of the wind there is change. Impermanence is the norm. And though I can’t see it, even that stalwart, Haystack Rock, is eroding moment by moment. The coast both grounds me and gives me permission to let go.
Whimsy In the Midst of Storms
The first evening, patchy, golden-blue skies and blustering winds are on the coattails of storms. Last week, farther down the coast, a father and his children were swept out to sea by an unusual King Tide, the two children lost in Mother Ocean’s hungry arms. But I am on the beach as the tide is approaching its nadir and, in relative terms, Mother is calm. And playful. She and Wind have created a strip between the sea and the shore that is shallow-wet. Not tide. Not sand-solid-wet beach. They have spun a fine white meringue and spread it down the coastline. If it were colder, I would think it had snowed. Small tufts of sugar-balls break off and dance parallel like tumbleweeds along the horizon. This is whimsy.
Unexpected calm after a stormy day as beauty unfolded like a quilt across the sky. Cannon Beach, Oregon. photo by anne richardson
This wind-whipped meringue-like foam almost looked edible. photo by anne richardson
As I walk, the earth moves in relation to the sun, the sky glowing more golden as minutes pass until it dips into dusk. The clouds, looking like quilts spread across the sky with batting falling out, put on their own show reflecting colors through unspent rain still held aloft.
Look up. Grandeur. Look down. Whimsy. Look outward. Power. Yes, Mother reminds me she is powerful. When I don’t pay attention, the tide, which has turned, approaches within inches and leaves a band of wispy foam around my shoes.
Listening To the Earth
Get to know the land you live on. Talk to the stones, trees, birds, beings that abide there. Co-create your story with me. What does this land where I abide, have to teach me? What does it need from me? These are the portals and questions I am learning to pay attention to. As I sit. As I listen and gestate all that transformed in me last year. And, when I am asked by my ancestral land to return there, I will be open to these same portals and questions. And I also know the “answers” may not be obvious…or even the point.
Grief and Keening
It was not a coincidence that I chose to drive to this beach and keen into Mother Ocean shortly after my mother died two years ago, February 15th. Mother Ocean can hold and disperse our losses into her vastness. Listen to our wailing hearts.
This Friday, January 24th, will be 34 years since I last kissed my father’s cooling cheek. Skin already waxing in the hospital emergency room. Though the sharpness of his loss has lessened, I still miss him.
Their winter deaths and my love of the winter coast. They coexist side-by-side. The stark reality. The warmth of memories that I soak in like that clawfoot tub. The both/and of a sand-shifting, wind-caressing, tide-tugging full life.
My father and mother on their wedding day in 1948.
My Wise Mentor Grief Keeps Me Honest
And those clamoring children, vying for my attention. Well, it seems a blog post raised its hand highest. Like the sound of the rain tapping furiously on the window pane and wind doing its best to peel the paint outside my room today. And if I am being honest, and I do try to be that when I post, going through my old journals is hard but they are the fodder I need to write that book. I’ve picked them up before, began reading, and lost myself in grief. The slipping away of memory that initiated my mother’s decline coincided with the ending of my thirty-three year marriage. Those reflections are intertwined. My ex-husband and I are now friends four years beyond our divorce. AND it is painful to look back at that time in my life even as I have keened that loss and distilled what I needed into life lessons for moving forward.
So, I ask my wise mentor Grief, and all my wise guides to be with me this time as I tiptoe through the pages, that I may listen for the whispers of my mother and our journey together on the page. And what I read pertaining to my marriage? May it rise off the page with the aroma of apple blossoms, reminding me that the fruit has been harvested and there is no more to be gleaned, except for gratitude.
Gift of Healing Through Grief
Grief, oh so wise, reminds me I have healed. I may remember the losses, always. Even keen the songs again if the loss is still lodged somewhere within my body. Or perhaps over time the song morphs into a sweeter melody. My body, I am learning, is a symphony of losses. And a playground for joy. I am discovering the deeper I listen to the Earth, the deeper I listen to my body. My spirit. My soul. The deeper it all connects. The sweeter the music I co-create.
Heart from the sea. Photo by anne richardson
dear Earth
i will dance with you in
slant of rain
whip of wind
amid the meringue of sea foam
keening singing laughing
grateful for all
For Your Reflection
Where do you go to “keen” your losses? (To keen: “the action of wailing in grief for a dead person.” (I would add in grief for any profound loss.)) If you haven’t given yourself permission to “keen,” how might that look for you?
How do you connect with the land you live on? What would it look like to have a conversation with the other “inhabitants” of that land?
What does freedom from “old ways of being” look like to you? How do you determine what an “old way is” and if it still serves you or if you are ready to release it?
Where do you hold losses in your body? To sort this out, consider where you feel aches and pains. Or what memories stir your emotions and how you respond to them viscerally and intuitively? What song would each loss sing if given a chance?
Upcoming Workshop:
Recognizing & Honoring Life Transitions
April 4th, 1-5pm, SW Portland.
Click on link for details.
