The Winter Solstice is newly passed in these northern climes and dawn arrives earlier in minute increments. Those who relish even one, two, three minutes of expanding light in these wakening days in the midst of Winter are exhaling a sigh of relief and scrawl the word “hope” on moist interior windows. As a relisher of the long, dark nights of Winter, I continue to sigh into the dark and appreciate the howl of the wind and rain as it beats against my windows while I sleep. That wind and rain drifting into my dreams…Salmon swimming in puddles going to…where? My dream did not say. Salmon, a powerful totem to the indigenous people of the Land where I live and to people of my Celtic ancestry. Water…a place for both inner solace and movement for my own transformations. A snippet of a dream that lingers days after waking. And I am comfortable with not needing to “know” what it means. Simply paying attention.
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.
