Magnolias awakening with the arrival of Spring. March 2025. photo by anne richardson
Hello dear ones,
Magnolias announced Spring a hare’s breath before Japanese and other flowering Cherries in the Pacific NW. Magnolias, holding tight to their magic in fuzzy bud scale-tipped twigs waited until the perfect moment. It was an overnight awakening after a spat of short-sleeved weather that splayed the white-bright petals out like a child’s rendition of a tissue-paper star. Their sweet aroma enticed me to breathe deep. Cherries, not to be outdone, have erupted like small firework displays on their branches. Pompoms clustered like small fists ready to punch wonder into my Winter addled brain.
Songs Sparrows and House Finches, having used late February and early March to warm up their vocals, are now in full frenzy, their voices overlapping in the early morning competition to attract mates. Male House Finches have breast and crown feathers the color of ripe Persimmons…perhaps the closest we west-coasters have to “red birds,” alongside Robins. I am envious of my east coast friends and their Cardinals.
Early Calls of Spring
Sitting at my kitchen table, I watch a male Finch in the now vibrantly budding red-tipped Dogwood casting his gaze around the Landscape and singing as if his life depends on it. I suppose it does. Other Finches and Sparrows join him as well as Black-Capped Chickadees. It is a robust community, at least to my untrained eye. And there are always Crows swooping. Cawing. Diving. Mischief-making.
Robins appeared to be absent this Spring, but recently I heard their bell-clear song in the still dark as I headed out for my morning swim. Last winter, they scrapped by and dotted the cold frozen hill out back with their orange breasts. Until I heard them singing, I wondered if they had found a new home. I had an inkling of feeling bereft at their absence, these winged ones that have been given the responsibility by poets to call in Spring. Hearing their notes lifted my spirits.
House Finches during a mid-February snow fall. I am imagining they are pleased Spring has arrived. photo by anne richardson
Spiritual Practice of Noticing
Noticing Land and Beings where I abide is a spiritual practice for me. A reminder that I am a part of this animate world. The emerging energy of Spring is drawing me out of a malaise I have been feeling these last few months. Normally I love the darkness of Winter. It is my time to nest, rest, restore. I would be one of those people if you moved me farther north (okay, maybe not all the way to Finland) with longer stretches of dark, I would be quite content to forestall Spring. And Summer…the blare of sun long into the evening…is too hot for me. But this year, the ease I typically feel in Winter eluded me after the turning toward light grew in January, February. (I wrote about this in my Substack post (is there ease in being uncomfortable from a place of comfort?) My concentration waned. My words evaporated. I spent most of my time reading and listening to podcasts. Spinning around in my own head.
Leaning Into the Chaos
And so I am leaning into Spring. Its chaotic yet somehow rhythmic energy to help me be with these unsettled times (and yes, these are unsettled times.) So much of what is unfolding makes no sense to me. And in a way it does. Does Spring offer a metaphor? Probably. And maybe not really (and you know I love a metaphor), except to trust that this Earth is a world wrapped in cycles upon cycles upon cycles. And also is always composting and recreating so something new can emerge.
Between Spring rains we’ve had some stunning Sunrises. March 2025. photo by anne richardson
Fist-full of Cherry Blossoms, April 2024. photo by anne richardson
Community as Wellness
Where will this lead? A seer I am not. I do know that being in community is vital for my own wellbeing right now. So I am strengthening my ties to my beloveds…which includes friends, family, neighbors, non-human Beings, the person in line at the grocery store who could use a kind word. An expansive view. I wrote about this too in another Substack, (community, connection, creativity.)
One of the things that gives me the most joy these days is volunteering at my local farmers’ market. Rain, shine, or blustery wind, I leave my shift with a big smile on my heart. As an introvert, it gets me out of my head, involved away from my usual Grief work (which I still have a passion for) and around a variety of people. And the wee ones are so fun to watch! The colors of fresh produce arrayed in the stalls is art!
Is Life Going to Get Easier?
Is life going to get easier? Black-Capped Chickadee was bathing in the birdbath. Bob the head. Twirl the body. Looks like joy to me. Song Sparrow swooped in and was not about the share the space (this ill-informed human thought there was room.) They squabbled. Did an air “battle.” Chickadee departed. Sparrow sipped and splashed. Chickadee returned. Tried to share, but nope, Sparrow was having none of it. Chickadee finally flew away as did Sparrow. I try to force an analogy of what is transpiring in the world around me. Then decide to just let it be what it was. Life among birds.
I think of all the birds sitting in Dogwood. They negotiate for their space. Their place in the world. They are all the same size and, perhaps, prey for the Raptors. But still, they have their way of being…and who I am to know the way of birds (though I really wish to be a bird some days.) Is life going to get easier? No. Can I allow space for more ease? More room to breathe? Breathe in the sweet tangy aroma of the Magnolia? Questions I need to sit with as I emerge with Spring. A lot to ponder….
What Has Covid Grief Taught Us?
I would be remiss if I did not mention the five year anniversary of the Covid pandemic. Lives were forever altered, whether it be the death of loved ones, the effects of long Covid that may still be lingering, and the presence still of how we engage in public spaces with caution—our increased awareness of viruses (flu, Covid, and other contagious diseases), and all the other myriad ways Covid seeped into our lives. How it brought Grief to the forefront, at least for a while. What have we remembered? What have we forgotten?
Photos on my camera roll are a stark reminder of those early days. And as my iPhone doesn’t let me forget, neither do our wise bodies. If you feel extra tender these next few months, perhaps it is an echo of those hard hard early uncertain Covid days. Perhaps even being poked at by these current uncertain times. So please, do be kind to yourself and those you meet in your day. It may not cure what ails us, but kindness is soft, like Magnolia petals, now fluttering to the ground as Spring storms blow through.
For Your Reflection
how is your energy as you emerge with the change of seasons? (if you are in the Southern Hemisphere, are you feeling a sense of wanting to withdraw into the dark?)
what do you notice about or how do you engage with the land and non-human beings in your life? (for me it is part of my spiritual practice.)
what are you observing in yourself during these unsettled times? what is useful for you? i read a lot of different ideas from wise folks, so there is certainly no one way to cope. it is often an ongoing process of sorting what works (and then letting one way go after a while and experimenting with a new way.)
where do you find community? how do you define community? are you expanding or contracting your connections to others these days and how does that support you?
folks are grieving a lot of different things right now. loss of jobs. income. sense of security. broken relationships. deaths (of course.) and so much more. what are you grieving? have you taken time to name your Grief(s)? after naming your Grief(s), how are you honoring your Grief journey. do you have rituals that are helpful?
who do you need to tell that you appreciate them? seriously. it might be the person who rings up your groceries. or a friend, or your healthcare provider. or your local bookstore employee (ahem, buy local). we all need extra doses of kindness these days.
as you reflect back on those early Covid days, is there anything stirring you need to name? let go of? are still carrying? if you find doing rituals helpful, is there one you can do alone or with others that would honor your Covid experiences?
usual question: are you treating yourself with kindness and gentleness these days? how does that look? if not, how might you make the shift to being kinder and gentler with yourself? how can you be kinder and gentler toward others?
Recommendations
Podcast
Though I have not read The Grieving Body: How the Stress of Loss Can Be an Opportunity for Healing, I read and found very informative Dr. Mary Frances O’Connor’s first Book, The Grieving Brain. However, I did listen to this podcast: You’re Going to Die, Adaptation with Mary-Frances O’Connor. This I recommend because it is packed full of wisdom and warmth. (And yes, I plan to get the book.)
One thing that has stuck with me from the podcast is treating bereavement like we do pregnancy. Pregnancy isn’t an illness or disease, but as a society we treat it with special attention, offering extra care and interventions when needed, paying attention to the changes in the body. Dr. O’Connor says bereavement should be treated the same way. The grieving individual is not ill. Is not diseased. They have lost, in essence, a part of themselves and their body is responding appropriately and needs care. It is presented so tenderly in the podcast. I hope you take time to listen.
Here is a synopsis of the book from her website: “The follow-up to celebrated grief expert, neuroscientist, and psychologist Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor’s The Grieving Brain focuses on the impact of grief—and life’s other major stressors—on the human body.
Coping with death and grief is one of the most painful human experiences. While we can speak to the psychological and emotional ramifications of loss and sorrow, we often overlook its impact on our physical bodies. Dr. Mary-Frances O’Connor specializes in the study of grief, and in The Grieving Body she shares vital scientific research, revealing imperative new insights on its profound physiological impact. As she did in The Grieving Brain, O’Connor combines illuminating studies and personal stories to explore the toll loss takes on our cardiovascular, endocrine, and immune systems and the larger implications for our long-term well-being.
The Grieving Body addresses questions about how bereavement affects us, such as:
Can we die of a broken heart?
What happens in our bodies when we’re grieving?
How do our coping behaviors affect our physical health?
What is the cognitive impact of grief?
Why are we more prone to illness during times of enormous stress?”
Book #1
Excited to finally have read Sophie Strand’s book, The Body is a Doorway. I have followed Sophie for a few years now, finding her initially through SAND (Science and Nonduality) presentations (she has several available now on their website).
If you know anyone with a chronic illness, have a chronic illness, have felt beleaguered trying to navigate the health and wellness industrial complex even if you are “healthy” in our culture, I recommend Sophie’s book. Yes, it is a memoir (I do like memoirs), but she weaves in in-depth research in mythology, science, and I would say mysticism, alongside her personal narrative. She avoids binary thinking, acknowledging that, yes, we do need to engage with the western medical model while also understanding its exhausting limits. Sophie’s memoir ends, but her story, which continues on her Substack, Make Me Good Soil, is ongoing as she continues to journey with her illness. I have learned so much from following her. As she writes toward the end of the book:
”But I do not want to lie. … I never planned to write about being sick. I worried—still worry—that labeling myself as sick is the kind of self-capture our capitalist culture so readily encourages. Is writing a book about being sick a nocebo? Does it convince my body that it must continue to live into the disease?…But my body is bigger and wilder than even that superstition….
[…]
“I run into an acquaintance in the grocery store as I try to decide what food is not going to kill me today. My safe foods are dwindling again….’Congrats on all your success with you books! You’re really glowing. I’m glad you’re feeling better.’ ‘Thanks…’ I swallow back bile. My pain. I erase the complexity of my experience to pacify someone else’s inability to stay with pain and sorrow. I am not feeling better, I want to say to her. And I may feel worse. But I am feeling every part of me. Can you feel with me?”
Book #2
The other book I was anticipating was Lidia Yukanvich’s new memoir, Reading the Waves. In my Winter newsletter I asked, “What are you carrying?” As if I needed to reflect on this more deeply myself, that was one on the themes that was woven throughout her book. How do we carry our stories? How can we shift perspective? Who do we carry with us?
Lidia writes raw and honest on the page. If swearing, sex, and drug use are difficult for you to read, this may not be the book for you. But if you want a book that is not only memoir, but an invitation (it also written with advice on how to move through a story) to shift perspectives with courage, then the invitation is there. To crack open spaces in your own life and look anew, then this may be the book for you.
The last chapter of the book is titled Solaces. Brief thoughts about how you, I, might engage with what she has offered. Here is one on “carrying” that resonated:
“YOU MAY HAVE to lay some bodies down; you do not need to carry every body forever. We take turns moving the burdens from body to body to dirt to water to sky. Sometimes people who have the bodies for carrying life forget that carrying life is not the only way to be in a body. We have to remind each other there are many ways to carry life, to share life, to transfer life, to let go. Ask the animals. Ask the trees. Ask water.”
Grief Poem on a Podcast
Grief and honoring the dead has been around for millennia. It is not without merit to say it predates our evolution back to our Neanderthal relatives. The podcast Poetry Unbound is hosted by Pádraig Ó Tuama where he reads a poem and then offers some explanation, then reads the poem again. The poem “Neanderthal Dig” by Don McKay, was already touching, but Pádraig’s expanding on it with his sharing of a personal experience (a father burying his young son), along with knowledge about the author of the poem sunk the poem deep into my heart and I wept each time I listened. And yes, I listened more than once. I invite you to click on the link and take the 14 minutes to listen.
Here are the first lines: “When we dug up the grave/we found a child’s bones/ laid on a great swan’s wing.”
Offering: Reminder
Spiritual Direction/Companionship:
Spiritual Companionship is the heart of my practice. I offer the gift of coming alongside and providing deep listening. This allows one to hear their own wisdom. Their own stories. To connect with their Source as they define and have experienced Mystery in their lives. To hold space to reflect on beliefs with curiosity without judgment. To be in the midst of their Grief & Loss and have someone simply be with them, taking time, all the time needed/desired to allow the journey to unfold. To celebrate joys. And more.
I meet with folks from diverse beliefs and spiritual backgrounds and practices. Different ages and genders. All are welcome. Yes, my writing reflects my unfolding curiosities and path. So yes, I am on my own journey, but I have a director that I sort through my “stuff” with, so I won’t be trying to nudge you over to my ways of thinking.
To find out more about my philosophy, background, training and “tools” that we can use in a session, check out my website. I follow the ethics of Spiritual Directors International., where I am a member.
I have space available. I meet with folks in-person or via Zoom. Please reach out if you have questions about how a session might unfold.
I always appreciate referrals!
Final Thoughts
Third week of April I’ll be heading out on a another UK sojourn. These seem to roll around every three years. In 2019 I was “Sojourning with Grief” which centered on grieving my Mother. 2022 was “Sojourning with Stillness” which reflected more deeply on my ancestral roots. Both of these sojourns are in the blog archives. This sojourn’s “title” is still bubbling, though will likely be focused on wildness, tenderness, (see my Winter Newsletter) and my father will fold in there somewhere.
My father’s presence has been stirring since January 2026 will be the 40th anniversary of his death. Forty years. What do I remember? My memories are as faded as a newspaper bleached by the sun. I read a Substack called Memoir Land. One a few weeks ago The Memoir Land Author Questionnaire was with Rebe Huntman, writing about her mother thirty years after her death and the questions she used to maintain her focus. The questions, the intention, the length of time. It struck a chord with me. And so I copied the questions and have started a separate journal…one that looks different from my other daily journal to engage with my father, to stir memories, our relationship, and more. I’ll bring him, and the journal, with me and see what arises.
As part of my actual journey I’m walking St. Cuthbert’s Way the first week with a friend. Next visiting my Scottish cousin on my paternal side for a couple of days. Then seeing where my wild spirit leads me around Scotland. No concrete plans. This is out of my comfort zone (I am one who usually plans in detail) and I’m excited to see where the wild lands of Scotland lead.
Assuming I don’t get swallowed by a bog, you’ll get a “report” in my Summer Newsletter.
Until then, please take tender care of your hearts. And let me know how you are being.
With gratitude,
anne
PS. April is National Poetry Month (yay!) Way back in January Tiny Seed Literary Journal posted my poem, dry. Always grateful to Tiny Seed. Head on over to their website and find poetry nourishment this month.
dry
before the rain returns i
want to remember skin
peeling on my lips,
hands rubbing rough
against my arms on
cooling nights. i
want to remember
leaves veined brown
like rivers naked with
stale silt; spinning on
rusted clotheslines rustling
like taffeta skirts. i
want to remember the
season where there was
an abundance of
lacking. where the
wounds had no energy to
to scar. remember before storm
grates become masked in amber,
scarlet, sienna, creating pools knee
deep that tidal with
each passing car, threatening
to pull me under. i want
to remember grass pinpricking
against my sweat drenched body
as i gaze at morning
stars, salt beads sliding to
earth, a feeble offering of dew.
i want to remember
before i forget and grow
weary of oil slick streets,
clouds outpouring rivers’
fluted songs, when
abundance shifts to
another lack.by anne richardson
