I began writing this Thursday, January 18th before I lost power a second time due to the storms in the Pacific NW. Instead of rewriting in the present tense, I’m going to leave the opening as is: “A cold spell is caressing the Pacific NW like hands just pulled from a freezer. I’m finding it difficult to string more than five words together as a malaise has settled into my bones. This Arctic Traveler didn’t followed the forecast and leave town on the scheduled flight yesterday and is lingering, unwelcome. The trees that thawed briefly are once again coated in a veneer of ice. A hummingbird returns time and time again to the rhododendron outside my window and sits for minutes, shivering. I can see the small heart beating, trying to maintain heat. Someone must be maintaining a feeder, for he does leave and return. Could I go out and cup him in my hands? Would that help?
Weaving Slow Time Into Our Lives
Singing Grief & Loss Into Our Voices
As summer wanes the songs of birds have also waned. I am no longer roused from sleep by the Dark-eyed Juncos’ romancing lilt an hour before the sun rises. Spring desire stirred their songs to life, along with Robins, Chickadees, Nuthatches, and so many more back when Rain still canvased Pacific Northwest landscape. Now the Junco’s nesting season is over, other wee birds stop by for sips from the birdbaths (Juncos understandably did not want to share space while they were parenting and kept other birds at bay.) I welcome the return of the full calliope.
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.
Everything is Connected: Resiliency, Ambiguous Loss, and Mud
Spring arrived in the Pacific NW on the appointed day and week in fine fashion with a few 60º days, rapturous robin songs, crocuses popping out of the ground…and then snow? Not a lot. It soon melted, but it startled. Rain predictably returned. But the mornings have hovered just above freezing, the chill of winter not quite ready to take leave. Spring, like me these days, seems to be struggling to settle into a rhythm. Or maybe the struggle is actually the rhythm with a bit of improv thrown in and if I listen closely enough I can hear the undertones.
Coastal Language of Ambiguous Loss & Disenfranchised Grief
I can sense the relief in my interactions with others these days. It is FINALLY light after 5:30pm! Yes! Folks are smiling again. Hope in the form of longer days in the Northern Hemisphere has arrived. We passed the midpoint of winter February 1st and “suddenly” first light crests the horizon well before 7am and daylight lingers longer. Last Tuesday at 6pm when I set out on my Mazama Street Ramble, there was still a vague hint of light in the west as stars started to bud. A clear night blossoming after a day of steady rain.
Nature takes the seasonal shifts in stride. If I look back through my camera roll, there are photos of daffodil tips poking through the soil in February from years past. Already the hellebore are blooming and if I draw a dogwood twig close to my eyes I can see the beginnings of budding. From a distance the deciduous trees appear to still be slumbering, but beneath their exterior they are awakening. It all feels predictable…or at least variations on a theme. And humans, for the most part, we like predictable.
Noticing & Listening Beyond Words: Invitations to Connect
Ah, 2023 has arrived. What have you noticed in these first days? Me? The weather words: “atmospheric river.” My poetic-self loves imagining what I can create with that. However, California is not fairing well under the weight of the rain these rivers carry and folks and landscapes and beings are suffering. At this writing there seems to be no end in sight.
Weatherscapes are shifting across our planet. Images inundate our social media feeds and from some of my recent readings and webinars, English words (perhaps others, but that is my learned tongue) can lack the deeper meaning needed to convey the urgency behind the shifts. I am not sure what to do with this information yet (except sensing loss and a need to grieve.) I love reading and written words, but there are times written language fails to convey urgency…even my beloved—poetry. So I will continue to explore-expand my connection to the natural world I inhabit. I will take more time when Rain patters on the brim of my hat as I walk and listen to the story Rain may want to share. Those “in-sky” rivers are “raining” down stories. Are we prepared to listen?
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.”
Sojourning with Stillness: Portals
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…
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: 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: You Cannot Fail at Grief
They are back! Crickets’ evening chirping filling every crevice of air from twilight to well after moonrise. Softening as night deepens. It soothes me. The heat of summer has waned for now and fans are off. The constant whirl of blades and the clicking on/off of my portable A/C (to which I offer copious gratitude) entered my inner world as invader not kin. The return of the crickets offers a reminder. Reminder that this long, hot, dry season is moving forward toward autumn, my favorite season.
The unfolding of seasonal change. The monthly moon cycle. Visiting the Oregon Coast and watching the daily ebb and flow of the tide. This is the medicine I need—the reminder that time continues to weave a story beyond my own. Nature helps me step outside my story. Shift perspectives. Return to gratitude. I didn’t realize how much I needed that reminder.
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: 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: Deep Weariness, Changing the Conversation, Asking Beautiful Questions
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.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Lamenting & Gratitude Arise Out of the Same Heart
I love this time of year. The Winter Solstice arriving in less than a month in the Northern Hemisphere. Long nights sometimes crisp with stars and haloed moon. At other times heavy and dangerous in fog. Layers of clothing donned for outings…or even to work at home, cocoon me. Bare-limbed trees holding empty nests seem vulnerable. Low-sky sun barely warms Earth.
The other day when I began my pre-dawn ritual, readying for a walk, I checked in with my body, and it asked ever so sweetly if it could crawl back beneath the covers and rest. A mini-hibernation. My morning walks are part exercise and part meditation, so I am reluctant to miss them. The morning wasn’t rain-soaking or freezing or blustery—a ready excuse. Actually, it would have offered a seductive sunrise. I didn’t argue though. I listened, hibernated, drifting into my imaginal world if only for two extra hours.
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.
