Acceptance

Upon rising each morning, I wander, I stop.  I sit.  I listen to the silence of the house.  I get up and I walk quietly from room to room and I look out each window.  I sit again, not moving, in the silence.  Am I hungry?  I’m not sure.  Thirsty?  Maybe.  Tired?  Usually. Tired enough to sleep? Well, I just got up.  “Just try,” I tell myself, “to sit a while longer, breathe deeply, clear your mind, listen to what your body is saying to you…you are actually okay in this moment.”

I hurt.  My body hurts; my stomach.  My heart aches.  My mind is restless.  I am sad. When I lay down at night to sleep, I hear sirens, far off in the distance.  I roll to my side and pull a pillow over my head.  I still hear them.  I travel in time and through space to that night, to that place where Dannica passed from her body.  Tears come.  I can’t breathe comfortably.  It hurts. Who met her?  Her grandmother?  My grandmother?  That was my job….to meet her from the other side when she passed from this one.  That was my job.

They wouldn’t let me near her.  I couldn’t tell her, “I’m here, baby, I’m here with you…. little mom is here, please, don’t leave me!”  Loving strangers got to do that.  Compassionate, caring strangers held her hand, let her know she wasn’t alone.  I was moments behind them…but they pulled me away.  They wouldn’t let me near.  It was my job to hold her hand when she passed…to comfort her from this world if I couldn’t be on the other side to comfort her home.  Going in the ambulance with a loved one;  apparently, it’s a figment of TV and movies.  I feel robbed.  She died with strangers.

I put the foot of the recliner up.  I turn my palms to the sky.  I breathe deeply.  I envision a brilliant crystal in my mind’s eye and I say to myself, “Clear…clear…clear…”  I remember when Dannica was upset or when she didn’t want to sleep or didn’t want me to leave her at bedtime we would agree to meet somewhere in our dreams.  Quite often this place was a big, beautiful field of purple flowers.  Lavender, or a meadow full of wild flowers that were all a deep and brilliant purple.  I told her that when she saw the field and the flowers in her dream to look for me and that I would do the same; look for her.  Then we could run and dance and play and fill each other’s hair with flowers and make crowns and necklaces, bracelets, rings, anklets and toe rings of flowers and be flower fairies.  We’d both fall asleep thinking of this beautiful place and the fun we’d have there, between the worlds.

At some point, sitting there, “clearing” and breathing, a calm comes over me.  I cannot feel my body at all unless I move it, so I don’t.  A warmth tingles through my brain and I am only aware of my mind.  In this calm and within this stillness I have come to understand what it is, this thing called acceptance.  Dannica’s death.  She will never again walk through that door.  She will never again sleep in her bed.  She will never again do her laundry.  She will never again laugh or make fun of me for being a dorky little mom.  She will never bake her famous chocolate chip cookies again or make her amazing peppermint fudge at Christmas.  She will never send me another text message full of silly emoticons or answer when I dial her number or hear the messages I leave telling her I hope she’s fine and that I love her and hope we can have a girl’s day soon.  I don’t accept any of those things.  I won’t ever accept any of those things.

Acceptance is the simple understanding that my heart will ache in a very specific way as long as it beats.  That is the only acceptance there is.  It will hurt forever.  It will.  You may be saying to yourself or wishing you could tell me right now, “It never goes away, but it does get easier.”  No.  It doesn’t.  And *that* is what I am learning to accept.

The present moment is made easier by “clearing” by breathing by working and being of service to others.  This loss, is not made easier by anything.  I accept that.  That is what I can accept.

A Birthday Gift

On April 11, my son turned 23 years old.  In celebration of his birthday, he wanted to spend the day at Powell’s Books in Portland and then go to dinner at one of his favorites, Sweet Tomatoes.  It had been eight days since my hysterectomal hollowing  (yes, I conjured that word using my own wand focused intent.)  I was tired and in pain, even with prescription pain pills, but I wanted to spend the time with my son on his special day and his dad was driving so I was happy to be able to join.

Powell’s Books, for those unfamiliar, is a massive place.  They describe themselves on their website as occupying an entire city block and stocking more than a million new and used books in 3,500 sections, making them the largest book store in the world.  There are 3 city block levels full of books.  Awesome is the only word that fits, and it is, without a doubt, that!

We arrived and parked, wandered in and went our separate ways.  Since Dannica’s passing, reading hasn’t been for me what it once was.  It’s been terribly difficult for me to get into anything that isn’t somehow comforting, whereas, before Dannica’s passing my reading list was full of Diana Gabaldon, Terry Goodkind, E L James, George R.R. Martin, Deborah Harkness, and Stephen King, among many others.

I have books on my Kindle, unfinished and awaiting my return but since Dannica’s passing most of what was my passion has passed as well, so I really felt a bit lost in this City of Books where I once would have gone crazy just to keep from spending every penny of disposable income at once!

The first stop I made was the coffee shop to get a green tea.  They let you wander the store with your beverages!  I began to wander.  I wasn’t there for anything in particular other than time with my son and, as I said, I was tired and in pain, so I hoped to find a comfy spot to sit, sip and read whatever was closest, I didn’t care what.  On my way to wherever, I found myself walking through isles of books and, for once in my life, not caring what they were, just touching them with the fingers of my right hand, holding my hot tea in my left; like a child with a stick in those old movies, where they walk mindlessly, just making clatter along a white picket fence.

Suddenly, I lost my balance, but what actually happened was I was pushed, from my right shoulder, where my hand was touching the spines of books and where I was passively looking.  This shift in motion forced me to find my balance by grabbing the shelf to my left, where I had not been looking and suddenly now was.  The next book I saw was entitled, “I’m not dead, I’m different… Kids in spirit teach us about living a better life on earth.”  I shit you not.

I stood there staring at the book.  I grabbed the book.  I held it to my heart and I cried.  To my knowledge, I was alone in that isle of books in that city of books but I couldn’t have been to be pushed that way.  I felt Dannica with me there just the way I feel here, in this isle of homes in this city of homes in the town where I live…and she pushed me!  It’s something she would have done and did do when we’d walk together…bump my shoulder with hers, playfully, until I’d lose my balance.  I came home that day with ONE book out of over a million possibilities when I wasn’t looking for a single thing other than a comfy chair and maybe an interesting magazine.

I read the book that weekend.  I read it again.  I ordered a bunch of copies and read it once more.  There are many stories I could tell of the people I was guided to give the copies to but here I will share only mine; this book brought me so much comfort, changed my thought patterns and my grief patterns and validated my beliefs that my daughter, my Dannica, is not gone.  She’s not dead, like that emergency room doctor callously heartlessly told me she was.  I knew he was wrong.

We left the City of Books and sat together at dinner.  My son’s dad asked him, as he always asks the birthday person, “What wisdom have you to offer for having lived 23 years on earth?”  My son said he’d need to think about that for a minute.

After a long minute, maybe several, he replied, “I have learned that it is possible to be very sad and very happy at the same time.”

What hell he’s been through for such wisdom.  What hell we’ve all been through.  I struggle every day to remember that happy and sad are possible within the same heart.  If that is possible, so much more becomes possible.  I’m so grateful for the gifts I received on my son’s birthday and for the gift that he is every day of my life.

A Fluttering of Ashes

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to learn to again look at people’s faces, even into their eyes, when I’m at the grocery store and to smile at the same time and mean it.

…to be able to have a conversation with a stranger, or a new client, without mentioning Dannica’s passing of my own choice. For so long, that has been who I am, how I define myself, and it was important to me that everyone within screaming distance knew it.  The distance has softened.

…to learn to gently place the trauma of Dannica’s passing in a box, of sorts, and set it aside long enough to have a good day.

…to hold myself compassionately when I can’t seem to put that same box down in order to have even one good hour.

…to feel I have anything in me worth offering others.

…to again find joy in being of service.

…to accumulate the energy to be of service in the first place.

…to consider myself ready to begin going through Dannica’s belongings and to begin recreating her room as a Precious Hollow within our home.  A beautiful, quiet place of reflection and comfort.

…to officially and fully reopen my holistic healing practice.

…to embrace the challenge of redefining, even releasing completely some of the many relationships in my life now that everything has changed.

…to smile and feel overwhelming love while standing in certain places and at certain times that even a month ago would have crumbled me again.

…to again hold myself compassionately when I smile, feel that love and then crumble anyway.

…to truly understand that while loss, death, grief & mourning are in the cards for each and every human being on the planet (past, present & future), each and every human experience of these things is unique and individual.  We sympathize, we empathize, but we never truly grasp the experience of another.  On Mother’s Day, 2014, a neighbor stopped by.  She also lost a child, which I didn’t know until I saw her face the morning following my Dannica’s passing…the story was in the paper.  The tears in her eyes, the look on her face… she was the first I encountered who *knew*.  She’s in her 70s now and I don’t know her story other than it’s been quite some time.  This Mother’s Day, though she wasn’t here to check on me (I don’t think), I couldn’t help asking, “Does it ever get easier?”  She smiled sadly and her eyes filled with tears before she answered, “Not much.”  I told her, “I don’t know your story, but I do think of you.”  She replied, “Well…we all have our stories.”  She left it at that.  Perhaps it’s a generational thing.  Perhaps she’s simply shared her story enough times for her own good.  Regardless, I admired the wisdom that emanated from her as she took me into her arms and allowed me to sob without needing to know my story, either.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to realize that in the face of another’s loss and grief, I feel as helpless and awkward and terrified of saying the wrong thing or offending someone as anyone else, despite what I have experienced.  How do you hug someone who’s been burned from head to toe?  You can’t!  No matter where you touch, it’s devastatingly painful.  A grieving person is a burn victim with wounds you can’t see.  Every interaction is a mine field and simply sharing your own story isn’t necessarily the balm that soothes.  This is *never* easy for anyone on any side of it…well except for the ones it’s easy for and they’re the ones you just have to ignore to the best of your ability and then do something extra nice for yourself simply for having survived their presence.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to spread a safety net over the mine field that is my own experience of loss and grief.  To give people a break and the benefit of the doubt the best I can, to realize that even as I explode inside and rain down fiery cinders that could easily ignite the earth with ferocity, they really *do* mean well and genuinely feel what they’re trying to convey.  There truly are no words adequate enough to express my grief or another’s sorrow at the fact that I am experiencing it.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to do a normal thing and have it feel in any way normal.  By this I mean pulling weeds, having a client session, a phone conversation, paying a bill, buying eggs.

…to do more normal things because it’s finally beginning to feel better doing them than it is to avoid doing them.

…to realize the extent to which I had been carrying the grief and/or guilt of others with regard to my daughter’s death and to set those down so I could begin to feel the actual weight of my own grief & guilt.

…to come up with appropriate answers to the question, “How are you?”  The easy answer is, “Fine,” but the real answer is a million shades of shattered!  It’s not a pleasant experience when you’re fighting for air or trying to persuade your heart to beat just once more, and again, and maybe once more.

…to again realize how amazing is the man I married; the same poor guy I recently roasted on a spit in teaching him simply not to ask me the above question while I figured out how to answer it for anyone else who asked it.  He’s saved lives in letting me be as angry as I need to be.  He’s hurting, too.  I love him dearly.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to realize that there is no tricky answer that will ever avoid fully answering the questions, “Do you have children?” “How many children do you have?”   The only answer that feels authentic is the real one.  I have a son, he’s 23, he’s doing this and that and I am happy for him and so proud.  I have two amazing step sons, they’re doing this and that and living in Austin, Texas and I love them so much.  And I have a daughter (the tears well up) she was killed in a car accident 18 months ago.  This June she’d have been 20.  I cry a little.  It is the real me.  I don’t have to pretend I’m okay with it.  If I can’t be the real me with another person, I can’t heal.  I don’t want to intentionally make another feel uncomfortable but if they were intentionally filling space with small talk, well, maybe they’ve learned a little something too, and maybe they’ll show me a little of their own authentic they.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to understand that I never know how I’m going to feel day to day, let alone month to month or year to year. Last holiday season was a deep dark pit covered over with reeds and branches waiting for me to fall into it.  This holiday season I’ll watch my step and do my best to remember what I’ve learned along the way.  I am planning ahead…this may not be the year to light everything up and go all out.  But it has the potential to feel more peaceful than the last two.  Eventually, there might be another one that feels “normal” and includes other normal things like phone conversations, paying bills, buying eggs… sending cards or maybe gifts.  Maybe.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to again feel that I have more I want to get done in this life than I probably have time to accomplish.

…to understand the depth and breadth of the depression that has spanned a great deal more than the 18 months since I last held my daughter, Dannica, close and smelled her hair and heard her say, “I love you, too.”

…to begin reconstruction of my faith.  Early on, someone asked me what this loss had done to my faith and I told them it only made my faith stronger.  If he’d asked me what I had faith in, I’m not sure I’d have had an answer.  The tears in his eyes told me he had none left for himself.  A bit later, I did lose my faith; lost it completely and have only just begun to find it again.  When God takes your child, it can become incredibly difficult to trust in anyone or anything but suffering, sorrow, and pain.

It’s taken me 18 months…

…to trim the fat from my life while adding it to my body.  No news is good news and good news is even better!  I’ve worked not only the past 18 months but especially the past 18 months to eliminate negativity from my life in any way I can.  I’ll call that trimming the energetic fat.  As for the other sort, well… there’s a reason “comfort food” is, well, comforting!  While it is absolutely not allowed as a condolence to me with regard to Dannica’s passing, I hereby allow the condolence, “It was just her time,” should that time come for *me* soon as the result of all the bacon and goldfish crackers I’ve eaten in the past 18 months. (This one even made my doctor laugh.)  You now know the menu for my own ‘celebration of life’ ceremony, as well.  My blood pressure, I am thrilled to announce is perfectly normal!  I credit Celestial Seasonings Zinger teas as it sure as hell ain’t my diet.

If you’ve followed my blog, you know I recently gave up entirely on the idea of myself having a thing in common with a Phoenix other than being burned to the ground.  I have started, however, to become aware of the ways in which I burn myself to the ground and the ways in which I keep myself un-huggable.  I’m working on those things just like all the other things I’ve mentioned.  Isn’t every process of life just that?  A process?  How to know when it’s done… I suspect it can’t be known because it can’t be done.

In my grand Phoenix analogy, I somehow managed to forget that the poor creature burns to the ground again and again and again in a never ending cycle!  Here I was thinking of being burned to the ground as a one time thing…the worst thing imaginable.  Naturally, in that mindset, rising would be a one time thing, too.  A triumph over the process.  But it’s not; not a one time thing and not the worst thing imaginable and not a triumph.  In the grand scheme of things, it’s no big deal.  It happens all the time, over and over and over, like being Hollowed Out… it is simply a process known as the Experience of Life on Earth.

Don’t get me wrong.  Nothing makes my Daughter’s passing okay with me.  I will *never* be over it.  At some point though, in every grief process, even the worst imaginable, the soil warms a little.  Eternal winter hints at something else.  Within the ash, there is a flutter.

I have been Hollowed Out many times in 18 months; so Hollowed that I was blind to the Phoenix that did rise, more than once, only to be burned again to the ground.  Perhaps 18 months is the time I needed to see the pattern emerge.  I was standing too close.  I was standing in the fire…again.  I couldn’t see…again.  The smoke is just clearing…again.

I would like to end this post with a message I received from a dear teacher of mine this past week.  She admonished me and others to acknowledge the sorrow we have experienced but also to look for the door of freedom that sorrow opens.  As we give intent for this door to open within our own lives, despite the sorrow, we begin to experience the sacred opportunities that are born from our challenges.  Our experiences transform themselves, when we allow it, into a gleaming column of wisdom that makes future challenges, future sorrows, lighter burdens to bear.  This, in turn, creates more opportunities for us to be of service to others.  And that is what I believe is really the reason any of us are here.

A final thought:  This is my path which is why I say it’s taken 18 months for ME to experience what I have.  Please, be gentle with yourself and know that whatever the time frame, you’ll get there, too.  We’re on the same path.

Hollow Body

In late March of this year, my doctor told me I was not a candidate for endometrial ablation.  I’d hoped I would be, because I am somewhat attached, in many ways, to the bits I was born with.  As science continues to reveal, each part of our bodies does more than we realize and I wasn’t certain, though it was making my life miserable, that I wanted to be rid of my uterus.  Family history triumphed, however, and the surgery was scheduled.

Nearly 20 years ago, I had a laparoscopic procedure and I naively thought, “That was no big deal, how bad could this be?”  I was told it’s an outpatient procedure (no big deal), couple weeks off work (no big deal), I get to keep my ovaries (yay & good).  The only thing on my mind was relief that this bleeding phase of my life was finally… done.

Truthfully, though, there was something else on my mind.  I realize what I’m about to say negates every “no big deal” above, but I clearly hadn’t thought any of this all the way through.  More than relief from heavy, awful, painful & debilitating menses, I wanted a near-death experience.

Yes, the rest was necessary and I didn’t go to my doctor with that last revelation in mind, but once it was certain that I’d be having surgery, I wanted nothing more than 10 seconds in the realm my sweet daughter now calls home; to check out the neighbors, find the closest grocery store, urgent care clinic, park, Chinese buffet, GoodWill, guest parking….I promised I would come back!  I promised!

To my knowledge, I remained firmly anchored to my human form and my first thought upon realizing I was conscious was, “Damn!!” followed by “Oh, thank God.”  I guess it’s time to accept that I’m here for good.

The procedure I had 20 years ago was a tubal ligation.  My lighthearted joke at having my recent hysterectomy was, “No more children for me!” (hahaha since that was decided 20 years ago and I wouldn’t be having children at my age anyway.)  Still, it’s a little bittersweet to consider.  I think about places in this world where people are forbidden by law to have more than a certain number of children and that concessions are made, sometimes, when a family loses one of those children so they may try for another.  There are also people who cannot conceive any children no matter how much they want to regardless of how many they’re allowed, while others manage to deliver child after child into situations of abuse or neglect or desperate poverty.  Apparently, “fairness” doesn’t enter into this, not naturally, ever.

My own situation involved a condition known as “Hyperemesis Gravidarum.”  It sounds like something Hermione Granger might shout with wand-focused intent (and it would make a darned good curse, for that matter!)  Apparently, it is another triumph of family history from both my mother’s and my father’s sides of the family, which simply dropped me to my knees in front of the toilet for 6 months of each of my pregnancies.  Home I.V. therapy kept me out of the E.R. and I will probably never enjoy eating green grapes or peanut butter sandwiches, among other things, again as long as I live.

As sick and terrible as I felt, I knew my children were growing and thriving within me.  I understood that pregnancy is a condition of health, not disease.  I knew that I was able to give them everything they needed to form strong, healthy, perfect little bodies and though I was ultimately losing my teeth and my hair, I didn’t care.  It was for them… my babies; the brilliant beings I love more than any other in existence.

Just like so many aspects of the grieving process, I didn’t expect to feel what I felt following my hysterectomy.  The physical pain was difficult; the emotional pain put me back in November 2012, reliving the trauma and the loss of my daughter’s physical existence.  In a strange sense, having lost her, gave new value to the part of me that brought her into this world, and now that was gone, too, and I felt again Hollowed Out.

In her book, “The Magic of Flowers” by Tess Whitehurst, the author describes wombs as being like hearts; emotional centers of universal mothering instincts be they for our children, other’s children, other people, animals, plants, or the planet.  I wish I’d have found this before my surgery but I am grateful to have found it since.  That passage has helped me to make some sense of the emotional pain of this physical loss though I am still disappointed that I didn’t get my near-death experience.

Hollow Nest

My nest is empty.  First, my daughter with her Angel Wings, and now my son with his Strong Young Man’s Fledgling Wings.  His whole life is before him; his life, now his own.

Both of my babies breast fed and I adored that experience.  It was a chance to have them each just to myself; holding tiny hands, looking into sleepy little eyes, feeling tiny hearts beating in my arms and loving little beings more deeply than I had ever known possible.  In those moments I was everything they needed and no one else could provide that for them even had they wanted to.  It was such a precious time and it was the happiest of my life.

My son breastfed for a year, almost exactly.  Just before his first birthday, I heard his little cry in the other room; up again with the sun.  I brought him into my bed and we snuggled and he began to feed just like all the days before.  Suddenly, he let go and looked at the breast as if he’d never seen it before and he pushed it away.  He was done!

We had gradually eliminated each feeding until the morning one was the only one.  I knew it would end and I actually looked forward to the freedom…a little.  It would be the first time in nearly two years that my body was my own.  It would also mean the end of morning snuggle time as I’d known it.  It was bittersweet.  I remember looking at his little face and quietly asking, “Are you sure?”  He was sure.  I smiled at him, but a wave of disappointment moved through me as the realization settled and I flashed to the future, realizing how fast time moves and changes everything before we know it and certainly before we’re ever ready for it to do that.

I’ve had dreams of Dannica since her passing, not many, but vivid and vibrant.  In most of them, all but two so far, she’s been a baby or a young child.  My mind is often filled with memories of her birth and our short time in the hospital.  She struggled to breathe and the nurses took her to the nursery to clear her airways.  I slept, knowing she was in good hands.  I was angry, however, when I learned that they had supplemented her feeding while she was away from me.  I felt strongly about that time and that bond and I didn’t want it sabotaged even in the name of sleep for mommy.

When Danni fed, she gulped loudly and it was both adorable and funny.  As a toddler, she still gulped adorably from her sippy cups and would often put too much food in her little mouth and need to be rescued from gagging down (or up) a whole whatever.  She breastfed for 14 months.  She loved having her little hands held while she fed and when she wasn’t sleepy, she reached her tiny hands up to touch my face, my eyes.  She was so tactile, so fascinated with eyes and faces, and she derived comfort from touching these objects of her fascination.  She was also a restless feeder at times; busy, constantly moving, looking around, drenched when letting go to look around then smiling and giggling while I cleaned us up and settled her in again.  While my baby boy would often fall asleep and be out for the night after feeding, “milk coma,” we called it, Dannica was often still wide awake and would play quietly in her crib until falling asleep on her own.

Dannica was strong and stubborn in many ways as a child.  At times when I thought comforting was the thing to do, she’d push me away, fighting hard against little tears brimming in her eyes.  Sometimes, I’d hug her or try to comfort her anyway and sometimes she’d crumble and let me.  Often, however, she was the one comforting me.  She had a sweet way of tilting her little head and lightly resting a little hand, or the back of a little hand, on my cheek or barely touching my hair.  The love was palpable and I’d cry when it washed over me.

I still cry every day.  Some days I cry many times.  Sometimes what I’m feeling isn’t devastating grief.  Sometimes, it is this same palpable love that washes over me and I recognize it as Dannica’s presence and that makes me weep with the purity and strength of it.  My physical body aches with wanting to take her in my arms, just one more time.  Just one minute… just five seconds… one second?  Please?!

So much for magic words.

When my son came to me a few weeks back and told me he’d decided to move to Portland, I know he saw (and maybe feared seeing) the look on my face.  Even though he couldn’t have known of the images crossing my mind, they were there, flashing back to tiny him, pushing away the breast & the young mother’s thoughts flashing forward to this moment, and she, knowing now, since the beginning of his little life, this moment had followed her all the way to where she now stood.

In this moment, we all stand together.  Infant, young mother, young man, older mom.  And so it is.  And so we’re here, as it should be, in all appropriateness, all the emotions present and accounted for; disappointment, gratitude, grief, happiness, sadness, excitement, relief, pride, adoration, hope.  If there is a single word for it, I suppose it is love, ultimately, yes…Love.  That is how and why it feels so right and hurts so much all  at the same time.

I Believe in Miracles… Again.

Melissa Murphy:

I smile and shake my head as I say that because it’s something I’ve said before, many times, and yet, I forget about it and I need reminding and so I ask for another miracle, and I get it! I believe again. I wonder if simply writing it on my hand, or my wall, on a sticky note or in my planner, “I Believe in Miracles!” will ever serve as enough reminder to keep despair at bay. Somehow, I think not. Somehow, I think human beings are made to forget. So I will keep forgetting, I will keep asking for more, and I will keep being reminded that I do believe.

Last October, I discovered a remarkable book by New York Times best selling author, Pam Grout, entitled E-Squared: 9 Do-it-Yourself Energy Experiments That Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality.

I jumped right in with both feet, my wildest imagination and journal in tow. During the next few weeks, I experienced brilliant success with the first three experiments. It was quite exciting! Then mid November, and the first anniversary of Dannica’s passing again stopped everything for me. I set the book and my experiments aside and didn’t pick them up again until a week ago today. Chapter 4 again raised some questions in my mind that I’d had while reading other books about manifestation and the power of our thoughts to influence our realities. I don’t doubt we have that power at all, in fact, I embrace the idea entirely but when you lose a child, you see everything differently and it is constant work and conscious effort to reconcile things in this realm.

I am reblogging a post now from my new friend, Pam Grout. The photos are the most recent I have of my daughter, Dannica and the story is in Pam’s beautiful post. My interactions with this dear woman have reminded me not only that I believe in miracles but that we are all here, in some capacity, for each other. Life is *so* hard. How wonderful there are angels on earth as well as in Heaven.

Originally posted on pam grout:

“To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.”
― J.K. Rowling

dannica3

Death has a bad reputation. But I agree with J.K. Rowling.

We’re thrilled for our friends when they’re heading to say, Hawaii or the Caribbean. I posit that we can also be happy for our loved ones who are now able to be everywhere at once, who now know ONLY love.

I’m not suggesting it’s easy for those of still here on this limited physical plane to let go. I recently lost my precious step-daughter to H1N1 flu and not having her here to laugh (she had the BEST laugh) and to make her wicked funny jokes (I always thought she’d make a fabulous comedy writer) wouldn’t have been my first choice.

But I happen to know she’s still with us. It’s just that she’s now on a different frequency. And I had a fabulous reminder…

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Still Point

When I was in massage school, I took an introductory class in Craniosacral Therapy where I learned about something known as a still point.  This is a physiological state during which the production of craniosacral fluid ceases, causing a pause in the craniosacral rhythm.  This rhythm is familiar to the rest of the body as is the heart beat or the breath; a normal, natural movement within it.  This pause allows the body a few moments of deep silence as well as an opportunity for self-correction, a reduction of symptoms in certain conditions, and an increase in wellbeing.

Mid-November 2013 through mid-March 2014 was a time of chopping wood, carrying water, doing only what was necessary to my survival and letting everything else go.  Every moment since Dannica’s accident has been this way to a great degree, but these four months were an even more drastic release of anything not necessary; a deeper silence, an absolute stillness within me to the point of being mistaken by others and myself as dead and gone.  The holidays, and the weeks that followed my failure to be jolly, filled me with the sense I was chopping petrified wood and carrying water from the ocean floor to the highest mountaintop only then to realize it was unfit to consume.

I once had a vivid dream in which I lay myself down upon the earth and waited for my own death.  It was a struggle and seemed like it would just never happen.  I tried to relax my body there in the dirt looking up at a sky full of stars.  I envisioned the insects arriving to dispose of my body and other creatures coming to return it to the earth.  I was anxious, but willing and grateful to have this opportunity to offer myself back to Mother Earth in this way, which brought a certain calm.  I’d drift off into a restless sleep and awaken once more to find myself still living and looking up at a now cloud covered sky lit eerily by the lights of the city.  How long until morning?  No way to know.

Something was going on in the world that required everyone I knew to evacuate taking only the necessities.  They would not be coming back.  I saw my dad’s Ford station wagon loaded, my siblings holding their dearest belongings to their little hearts.  I had chosen to stay behind…I would be dead soon.  They needed to go on.  They went.  Morning came and I found myself still there, in the dirt.  Realizing it just wasn’t going to happen, I ran to all the places I knew hoping to find the people I loved and go with them after all, but they were gone and now I was dead to them.

I remember having a dream within that dream as I was tossing and turning in the dirt and the grass that long night awaiting my own passing.  I dreamt of a golden kernel of corn.  A seed.  There, in the center of my vision, it glowed and sparkled as if it were actually made of gold.

I was 20 years old when I had that dream and wrote of it in my journal.  I was newly married.  My children still in spirit, where my daughter is once more.  My golden seed.  Now, I look back in time and I’m in that dream with my 20 year old self.  I see the 45 year old me, showing the 20 year old me a golden seed, creating the dream within the dream, the still point.  The 45 year old me was telling the 20 year old me, she still had a life to live.  A lot of it.  And though I felt alone in the world, she was there with me.  My daughter was there with me, too.  My dream within a dream.  Her life lived within my lifetime, burning bright there in the center of my vision.  The center of my life.

The dream within a dream, those four months last winter, these still points created hollows; opportunities for self-correction and increases in wellbeing.  A dear friend told me today, “Life has not been good to you.”  I agree.  It hasn’t.  And yet, it’s been amazing to me.  For one, I have this dear friend who brought me fresh eggs from her own chickens and gave me the greatest hug and the biggest smile.  I am blessed.  For another, I am reminded today of a dream I had 25 years ago which I thought was telling me I am alone in life but which now tells me I never am.

Sweet Gum Ash

Melissa Murphy:

I am so touched by this. I won’t say more. My son’s beautiful heart speaks for itself.

Originally posted on A Haze in the Starlight:

As I type this I am sitting alone in my room with the lights off and my sense of reality is rearranging itself.

A few hours ago I was laying on the couch watching Lord of the Rings: Return of The King with my roommates while I worked on a poetry project. I was laying there re-reading selections from Jay Ponteri’s Wedlocked when I was overcome by the urge to go into my room, grab the dry red sweet gum leaf on my bookshelf and crush it in my hands. I wanted so badly to  throw it into the driveway and scuff my shoe across it. I sat up, went to my room and grabbed the leaf. I stared at it for a moment while I thought about how crazy such an act would be for me. I make sense of my existence by my relationship to the landscape around…

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To the Dear Ones Who Comment

Thank you.  I so appreciate your comments.  I know I’m terrible at responding but when I’m done writing I feel so drained I need to step away.  I log on and I read the comments and I cry and feel connection and love and support from a family I don’t want to be a member of.  Then I feel guilty for not at least acknowledging those who reach out to comfort me or to share their own pain and process and I feel so much for you all in return; so much love, and I feel your pain and just like everyone else, I have no words.

Many have nominated me for this or that blogger award and I want you to know I am flattered, honored.  I don’t have the energy to participate.  My ego doesn’t need the strokes.  I’m too tired to “pay it forward.”  I know that sounds terribly selfish, but I’m doing this for me, for my own process, my own healing, my own discovery.  The fact that it’s actually touching other human souls touches my own human soul *deeply* and in a way, keeps me going.  I’m learning I’m not alone.  I’m learning others feel exactly as I do.

Thank you.  I hope you’ll keep talking to me even when I’m “one poor correspondent, and too, too hard to find.  It doesn’t mean you ain’t been on my mind.”

Maybe It’s Enough

So I’m not a phoenix rising.  So I’m perfectly human.  So I’m not amazing even though everyone told me I was.  So the world has moved on without me.  So I’m only able to drag myself through half a job.  I do love that job…that’s something.  That’s something.

So the dreams I had for myself have passed on, too.  So I’m mourning things I can’t even begin to express (in addition to my daughter’s life).  So I’ve been touched by this life just like everyone else has been or will be.  So I drag myself through half a life.  Sometimes, I love things about this life, such as it is… and that’s something.  That’s something.  Isn’t it.

So despite the flowers blooming and the trees budding out in the world, it’s still winter in my heart.  So it’s been winter in my heart for more than a year.  So it may be winter in my heart forever.  So be it.  I have my blanket.  I have my slippers.  I have a fire to curl up in front of.  I have hot tea.  That’s something.  That’s something It is.

So my daughter has passed on.  So she took half my heart with her and holds it forever wherever she is.  Maybe people can live with half a heart.  They live with one kidney and I have two of those.  I gave birth to two children.  I have a son, a beautiful, precious son.  So my daughter’s passing took half of his heart, too.  Together we have a whole one.  That’s something.  That’s something.  That’s everything.  Now.  And I LOVE that.

So I rest at the end of the day, with my two hands over my half heart.  It’s quiet.  It’s still.  I hear the rain and I remember the flowers.  I think there’s hope.  I like that.  Maybe that is enough.  So it has to be enough.  Maybe it is.