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.”
Summer Solstice Newsletter: Wonder, Awe, and Beauty as Spiritual Practice
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.
Winter Newsletter: Preparing Our Hearts For Grief Anniversaries: COVID Edition
As Winter merges into Spring in the Pacific NW, I look at entrances to shops and see faded reminders from four years ago to stand “six-feet apart.” Painted flowers. Foot prints. Circles indicating “6’". Whatever the store thought would be helpful to remind folks to stay separated. Yes, the four year anniversary of the pandemic is close-at-hand. So many shifts in four years!
Perhaps like me your camera roll likes to offer memories, the “before photos,” where we were gathered at sardine-packed events unaware we were likely “at risk.” Then came the “after.” The impromptu masks…scarves wrapped loosely around faces, YouTube videos showing us how to make a mask from old t-shirts, folks digging through piles of material making free masks for healthcare workers, trying to fill a need…weak attempts at protection until we could buy something we thought was better…or at least more comfortable. Hand sanitizer at every doorway and checkout counter. Constant reminders to “wash your hands and not touch your face.” Washing groceries and placing mail in ziplock bags for a day or two (remember that!) And all the closures. The wide berths when walking. The lack of hugs. And ZOOM! Suddenly everything moved to Zoom.
Grief in the Aftermath of a Storm
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?
Autumn Newsletter: Harvesting Rest
In recent years, my local climate has not followed the usual patterns of weaving cool weather into night, to leaves surrendering their green into startling reds and yellows, and flowers dropping to mulch into soil as autumn approaches. Oh, it arrives in some form, but a bit chagrined and with a folder full of explanations. So I was happy, yes happy, to don my rain gear as the calendar officially announced the equinox in my beloved Pacific NW and the Nature that surrounds me magically turned on cue. As one who has lived all but the first four years of her life in this region of the world, the shift in seasons is one way I navigate the spiral of my being. The harvest of rest this season offers, with its lengthening nights and bundling of my body for warmth, reminds me of all the moments I’ve forgotten in the chaos of summer about SLOW TIME. Slow time, something I lean into with more grace as I age. Stepping away from the demands of external clocks (though they still seems to dictate more of my life than I desire.)
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.
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.
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.
Winter Newsletter: Footfalls On The Journey—Shifting Landscapes Shift Perspectives
Ah February in the Pacific NW. Our mild winter faked us out with a few warm spring-like days earlier in the month. This is typical. A few bulbs poke up. Trees start budding and a few have even bloomed some years, though at least this year the cherries didn’t. Wise those cherries. We are giddy with visions of lighter jackets and warmer days.
Then cold swept in with an unexpectedly large gathering of snow in the lowlands. Caught the weather-folk by surprise as well as the evening commuters on a recent Wednesday. Portland recorded 10-12” in some neighborhoods. My higher elevation abode had about 10”. It turned into an icy mess once the snow thawed a bit and refroze. All the headlines read “snowapocalypse”and folks in the midwest rolled their eyes I’m sure. Now this is typical…a “false” spring followed by more “wintery mixes,” but we are a hopeful bunch in the Pacific NW (or forgetful) and think each year will be different.
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?
Autumn Newsletter: Footfalls on the Journey--Nature's Call to Be Still
Autumn arrived later than usual in the Pacific NW. It was late October, well after the equinox, before the rains arrived and the temperatures dropped. Mid-October and I was at a pumpkin patch event in short sleeves and it was over 85º. It felt disconcerting. Even the jack-o-lanterns looked puzzled. The fire danger lingered and the multiple fires that were already raging turned our air quality numbers dismal. Sure the days were shortening, offering a respite from the heat, but my memories of times past where not aligning with the present.
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: Between Times, Kindness, & Grief
Fog shrouds my recent morning walk. Street lights halo both bare trees and evergreens. The moon, on the cusp of fullness, is setting in the west, hidden as day yawns to rising in the east. Despite dense fog, light is waking and crows begin their morning report. Winter chill is still in the air and the empty bench remains empty despite my desire to watch the unfolding longer. It’s not that I have anything pressing on the calendar and the quiet of the holiday lull (Martin Luther King Day) that has settled over the neighborhood almost lulls me into forgetting about COVID and the most recent variant, Omicron. Almost.
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: 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: Isn't Every Loss Worthy of Grieving?
If you have followed me for a while, you have met “The Sisters,” a circle of Big Leaf maples that I visit on my morning walks. A spiritual connection that has deepened since they reached out to me five years ago. They strengthen my rootedness to Earth, helped me prepare for my sojourn in 2019, are a source of wisdom that I share with you. Our relationship is reciprocal—my offering being love, respect, singing them songs, sharing poems and listening.
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: 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.
