Spring was on the horizon when I last checked in and now the Summer Solstice is here and the Strawberry Full Moon will rise low in the sky tomorrow evening. The Japanese Cherry blossoms that dazzled in April are a mere memory, as are the pink delights of Dogwoods’ bracts. Rhododendrons and Peonies, always up to the astonishment challenge, too have faded. Fortunately an array of Roses have stepped in, scenting the air with both spicy and sweet aromatics. And my lips are stained red with Farmers’ Market bounty of Strawberries, Cherries, and Raspberries. We have crossed over into a most delicious time of year.
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.
Grief Never Fails Me
Spring finally arrived and it has been so dang frenetic and my still winter-paced body has been in overwhelm. The season was a good three weeks later than last year, as evidenced by my camera roll, with cool mornings and cold rains and lots of mud lingering well past the “April Showers” phase. The greens, as if suddenly alert to the change, are verdant, vivacious, vivid, and a full thesaurus of vibrant adjectives. Then there are the blossoms, the birds and all the wildness of this burgeoning season in full glory. It is so alive. And it isn’t that I don’t appreciate walking in the sunrise light and not having headlight-glare driving in the early evening hours. But, as I noted recently to a friend, as this season of flowing is upon us, I have felt more like ebbing. Finding stillness in the eruption of Spring energy can be challenging. Perhaps I should contact my Aussie friends and go to the Southern Hemisphere for a few months. A recent unseasonable heatwave has compounded the urgency in the air as if proclaiming “Summer is already here!” I haven’t even come on board with Spring. Sigh.
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: When Grief Stirs in the Bones
Those winds that whip the leaves off the trees predictably in November came in mid-October to the Pacific NW this year. You may have heard about the “bomb cyclone” off the Northern Coast of California that brought buckets of rain to soothe the drought for the time being in dramatic fashion. Mega-fire concerns replaced by mudslides and flooding. Yikes! A conga line of storms expanded up the coast to where I live. Yes, this drought parched region needed a thorough watering. But all at once? I promised myself I wouldn’t complain about the steady drip of rain until at least March and so far I’m keeping that promise. Check in with me next month as I seem to return from most walks somewhere between damp and sopping and may soon be growing moss behind my ears.
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: 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.
Lesson From My Mentor, Grief: Sitting With Discomfort While Embracing Beauty
Tulips began erupting from their sleek oval bulbs in April. Long stems hugged by thick winged leaves, one flower per stem. Colors the pastel pink of tongues, the vibrant red of heartbeats, the cream of moonbeams, the yellow of lemon drops held in cupped hands. Tulips surpassing their daffodil bulbed relations with a flourish by month’s end. One completing their laborious cycle, having awakened in late winter with tips barely gracing the earth to now drooping in browned petaled demise, waiting to fall back into dormancy. The other, as their cycle nears completion, throws open their petals with wild abandon, tossing them to the ground one-by-one leaving the stem bewildered, naked for all to see. Daffodils, my heart flower, resonates with the steadfastness that is the root of me. And yet, in slowing my pace during this pandemic time, the allure of tulips is calling to the wild in me. A wild that keeps bobbing to the surface with greater frequency with each passing year.
