Autumn arrived in a timely manner in the Pacific NW, which is not to say the gnawing appetite of wildfires have been quenched and parched soil is sated. But these mornings request an extra layer of clothing as Sun allows himself a few extra winks before rising. Night lingers layering Earth with a breath that hints of colder days ahead. On the small smidge of Land I am calling home ten months after my initial move, I now feel a sense of welcome and belonging. Welcome and Belonging…something I always seem to be a on quest for. Glancing through old posts, it is a common theme, especially back in 2018-19 after my mother’s death that led to my “Sojourn with Grief.”
Listening to Life's Seasonal Shifts
Autumn has arrived in the Pacific NW. That certain crispness in the air that nips at you when you walk out the door pre-dawn. The crunch of leaves underfoot that creates wildness even in urban settings. And my favorite—morning fog rising like steam from the valley up to The Summit when I take my morning walk. Summer seemed to last f o r e v e r. And even unseasonably hot days continue to float into the forecast and suddenly I’m wearing shorts again for a day or two. But night is overtaking day earlier and cools off the heat with its breath. And I say to myself, “You made it.”
Lessons from the Pandemic: Scattered Hope
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.
Lessons from the Pandemic: My Mentor Grief Shares the Gifts of Winter Darkness
There are stretches on my pre-dawn walk where I turn off my flashlight and stand still. Look up through a clearing. Allow the dark to cradle me. Ambient light on the far periphery (it is never totally at bay in the city.) I can pretend the trees along the path are more forest than park. As my eyes adjust, bare-limbed maples and needle-full Douglas firs texture the darkness. An owl’s call fills the air and I breathe that wondering “who who” question into my body. Even when rain is soaking Earth and the steady drops from merged clouds douse me, these winter walks are gift.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Being with Stillness is Expansive
I am meeting an old friend this week. It has been over seven months since we last connected. I can’t wait until we embrace. AND I am not going to wear a mask! Are you concerned I’ve lost my bearings eight months into the pandemic living in a country where COVID is on the rise?
The friend? The pool where I went lap swimming four, five days a week until mid-March when public facilities were closed. These places of gathering becoming a risk factor that could be controlled while information about the virus was gathered. The facility now allows 45-minute slots to swim, only two people allowed in our three-lane pool at a time—one empty lane between us. I was able to snag four rendezvous over the next two weeks. I am giddy with excitement.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Open to Stillness, Open to Being Brave
Mornings start in the dark. Reflective gear strapped on. Flashlight in hand. I set out with a few stars visible on cloudless mornings and Mars moving toward setting. It is autumn and the air, despite an unusual warm spell during the daylight hours, has the temperament of fall. A hint of chill. Leaves have begun to tumble downward and are crisp under foot. A crimson thread of light stitches the earth to the sky. As minutes pass, dawn opens its arms to me. Trees that were easily distinguishable on summer jaunts, transform from shadow to shape to friend. By the time I reach The Summit, an hour into my walk, day has arrived. My mind is streaming with snippets of poems or pondering an essay or talk I have heard. And I am ready to drop into my daily gratitude practice at the highest point in my neighborhood where outlines of cityscapes and mountains merge in the distance.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Have You Taken Time to Be Still? Invitation to a Workshop: Recognizing & Honoring Life Transitions
Cricket songs offer me a nightly symphony, a sure sign autumn has arrived even as we are set for a hot spell the next week in my Pacific NW neighborhood. Being awash in their chirps grounds me. Brings me back into my body as I sit and breath in and out their consistent thrum, listening for other night noises. It is usually the hum of cars passing by or a drift of conversation from a neighbor, but, occasionally I can hear a tree branch yawing upward toward the moon or flapping wings of a bird out past curfew.
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.
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.
Winter's Lessons on Grief, Expansiveness, and Transformation
The wind has dropped a limb outside my apartment building, blocking a path. Steady rain has floated decaying leaves downstream, clogging drains and creating mini-ponds in parking lots and along roadsides. I have cloistered myself inside most of the day watching the sky move from chalky gray to a black that bounces the remaining ambient lights of Christmas back down on the neighborhood. We are in deep winter in the Pacific Northwest where a week of water-laden clouds may greet us each morning and stay well into the night. For some, it becomes wearisome. Though I tire of the chill in my bones, I welcome the dampening like a trumpeter that mutes the music to soften crisp tones. It is easier to be still this time of year.
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.
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.
Abundance, Milestones, and Loss-Rounding a Corner on the Journey
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.
Sojourning with Grief-Between
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.
