Connections. That is one theme that is emerging as day four comes to a close. Making them. Missing them. Connecting with others, self, ancients, ocean, rocks, trees, birds, sheep…the list is long. The more I slow, the more open I am to connecting to who or whatever is presented.
The long flight to Amsterdam was offset by periods sleep. Being able to recline almost to horizontal with a blanket and pillows allowed sprinkles of dreams to dot my inner landscape and I saw dragons flying alongside the plane, watching over us all. The reverberation of the Friday night blessing still lingered in my body and Loreena McKennitt’s song, Ancient Pines, echoed in the background. I was at peace. When awake, Jamie, the flight attendant, would offer a warm wash cloth, snack, or other kindness and I kept saying “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
The sojourn has officially begun…sweetly and with whimsy. And with yet a reminder to let go and hold things loosely. When I did my 24 hour pre-check in, my flight no longer existed! Calls to Alaska Airline (I was using miles and going through one of their partners-Icelandic Air) had them searching for answers. I must say I had the BEST customer service, but no answers, and only an old confirmation number and phone numbers to call. All roads finally led to Delta Airlines, where my flight had been rerouted to Amsterdam. Pre-check-in was not available and I would be leaving two and a half hours earlier, but other than that, no major issues. I would just have to check in the old fashioned way: at the airport counter.
Funny how Grief will turn our heads and hearts toward the past before we step into the unknown. Five years ago: my mother still living, and I, struggling with her fading. Five years ago: still married, the hard decision to divorce loitering in the shadows waiting for courage to arrive. Five years ago: mired in stress, I drew solace in my work as a hospice chaplain. Five years ago: the trees gathered my heart in, knowing I was a sojourner in spirit if not yet in body. Knew I would be returning over and over to them for guidance and healing.
“I am a becoming.” In philosophy “becoming” means the process of coming to be something or of passing into a state. That one sentence was all that sputtered from my pen the other night as I meditated in preparation for my eight-week sojourn home. I am a becoming. It didn’t make sense. But then much of what has been unfolding in my life the last six months has less to do with making sense and more about letting go. Less about analyzing loss and more about holding Grief’s hand and saying “yes” to the journey.
The last few weeks I’ve been scattered. My focus, my usual gift of staying on task, gone. Blogging at least once a month. Gone. Sitting and reading a book for more than five minutes. Gone. Thankfully being able to sink into music-still here. To find solace in walking and swimming-still here. See, this Friday is the first anniversary of my mother’s death—her “deathiversary.” I know it’s coming. I’ve even planned a ritual for the day. But still the scattering of my thoughts like forest fire ash on wind-soaked days has caught me off guard. I’ve given up on most of my “to do” list, choosing instead to tumble into this day, this week, this moment.