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.
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…
Sojourning with Stillness: From Distraction to Joy
one: i distracted myself. fell into an old habit. this during my first week in Wales where my Welsh friend offered me her Airbnb for the week. kitchen, living area, garden, bedrooms…an abundance of space where i could have spent evenings journaling. blogging. reading. meditating. i chose social media rabbit holes. it was the opposite of Stillness. after a few days, realized the unhealthiness of this. appreciate that Stillness is patient.
Sojourning with Stillness: Collaborating with Kindness
three weeks in. three weeks into this sojourn and. three weeks and a few days into this sojourn and Stillness finally said “you are making this more complicated than it needs to be.” let me back up to where i left off in my last blog post, “Disconnected.”
after i left my West Highland Way (WHW) companions, it took a couple of days to exhale and expand into my own space again. my roommate was lovely. she would make a “cuppa” at the end of every day for both of us. we were both respectful of the space we shared and made a genuine connection (and are remaining in contact)—so perhaps my perception of connection needed to shift? what was i focusing on? at that point on the journey, my perceptions were more like a kaleidoscope shifting moment-by-moment. no wonder Stillness was waiting to offer insights.
Sojourning with Stillness: Disconnected
Stillness is elusive. asking me to disconnect. to strip down to a deeper essence. literally. physically, metaphorically. spiritually. i have found myself astonished by this asking. though i came on this sojourn without expectations…well, if i’m honest, i suppose i had them, even if they were unnamed.
Lessons from the Pandemic: Unsettled Grief—Where do we go from here?
Wee birds have created three nests outside my apartment. Three! One on the wreath attached to my front door. Two are on the deck in hanging pots. Juncos have taken up residency, voicing annoyance with every coming and going. I tap on the door before exiting, tug slowly on the handle and apologize to the small body complaining on the railing, railing at my disturbance. When I return home, I see a small head poking out of the nest. I wave my hand “hello,” and the mama flies out and sizes me up, assess the situation. Will I try to harm her eggs? What tack should she take? Attack? Opening the door, I slip inside. I want to retrieve my step stool and peek at the eggs, but that seems like an intrusion. They need nurturing. Warmth, not peering. So I leave them be, though I can’t resist snapping a quick photo before she returns.
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: 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.
