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?
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.
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.
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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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.
Lessons From My Mentor, Grief: Crossing Thresholds, Honoring the Pause
I rise these days with the sun. The alarm has been set aside. I walk instead of swim. I’ve become reacquainted with my neighborhood. The pulse of spring rife with birdsong flows around me like the water of the pool used to. Daffodils are leaving the main stage and tulips have made their entrance. Two weeks ago, an apple tree with furled cocoon-like leaves and tight, cream colored buds is now a riotous white and green harbinger of late summer delight. Last week I walked to the highest point in our neighborhood to see the pink moon grazing tree tops. No sense of hurry—the moon or I.
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.
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.
Sojourning with Grief-Ancient Wisdom, New Breath
“What can you teach me?” I ask this question to the rocks and stones I meet on my sojourn. To hear even the faintest reply I must slow my inner clock to ancient time. To liminal time. For the souls that reside in the salt-and-pepper speckled gneiss, the chalkboard black slate, the meringue layers of limestone, and pigeon grays of common igneous hued surfaces I tread on, caress, sit and lean upon speak an unfamiliar language. I have felt an intimate connection with rock and stone during this sojourn. In the wild places, I place my hand against a rock face and wait. Sometimes the warmth of sun fills my palm, or the cool of shadow absorbs into my skin. Rough edges prod my fingertips to ask deeper questions. “What edges of yours need smoothing?” Or “Are those rough edges part of a wildness you need to keep?” Many of the rocks have facial features, as if they are trying to communicate in way we can understand if only we would stand still for a moment longer.
Surrender & Trust
Surrender. Trust. Two words loaded with meaning that based on personal experience can trigger the gamut from deep resistance to relief. In the ebb and flow of my own life I have been able to surrender and trust less often with grace than with a dirty stare and a “I don’t think so…I’ve got this covered” stance.
Connections, Disconnections, Re-connections
To say “yes” and not “no” (my usual first response) when offered time away at the beach by a dear friend. Solitude. Dropping down through the curtains of rain, down through the coast range to that sweet point when suddenly (and yes it always seems to take me by surprise) the ocean comes into view. Shoulders drop and my lips taste the salt even with the car windows closed. The sky feels more blue than gray and I turn the wipers off. Instead of driving straight through to Manzanita, I pull over and take photos knowing I can’t capture the magic, but at least I might be able to pixelate the moment into a memory potion one day.
