a beginning

Under a gray sky
thick with clouds,
dampness brushed
against my legs,
as I put my hand
over my heart
a chorus of birds
joined me in prayer
as I thanked God
for another
day.

Questions and More Questions

From the way I have been talking anyone would think that H's death mattered chiefly for its effect on myself. Her point of view has seemed to have dropped out of sight. -CS Lewis, A Grief Observed

Even before I read the above quote, the exact notion had been on my mind for a long time.  My blog posts are all about me.  All about my pain and grief.  Twinges of guilt surface.  I am preoccupied with the complications of living alone in this world. Suddenly thoughts of Jerry are overshadowed, yet I think about him constantly.  It is hard to explain.

I know what images my Catholic upbringing creates for heaven, hell and limbo. The nuns used to give the impression that limbo was the worst-a place where there is no movement toward heaven and no movement closer to hell. My current understanding is that heaven is nearness to God and hell is remoteness from God and that limbo does not exist,but that prayers can aid the soul to progress closer to God.  While praying this morning I broke down.  A portion of the Prayer for the Departed caught in my throat, ".....dispel their sorrows, change their darkness into light..."  I have been saying this prayer a zillion times a day and only this morning, I wondered:  Is Jerry sorrowful?  Is Jerry in darkness?   All these months I have worried little about Jerry.  He is no longer in pain.  His health is restored.  He is near God.  He was not without faults (being a human), but suddenly I wonder, he is more than OK, right?

There has just been so much to deal with here on this earth.  Often I am overwhelmed.  So to compartmentalize my life and Jerry's new life with the trust that he is more than flourishing, I have been able to survive.  Lewis also comes to a point when he questions what state his wife is in after her passing.  They tell me that H is at peace. What makes them so sure of this?...Why should the separation (if nothing else) which so agonizes the lover who is left behind be painless to the lover who departs?  Does Jerry ache for me as much as I ache for him?  Somehow I picture him knowing my every thought, watching my every move, but how can I be so sure? I think that he has better access to me than I do currently to him.  It is all so confusing and there is so much that is really unknown.  I have so so many questions.

And then I remembered the dreams, so vivid, where he visited me reassuring me that he was whole, that he was always with me and that he loved me deeply.

I  continue to pray.  Thoughts of Jerry are a constant. I pray for reassurance that he is OK and that my family with time will be OK too.

on the lookout

It takes two hours for a snowflake to fall from cloud to earth. Can't you just see its slow peaceful decent?-Amy Krouse Rosenthal

Reading this, I snapped the book closed, and without thought clasped my hands together as if in prayer and sighed.  The discovery of this miracle made me stop in wonderment.  Literally, it took my breath away. I stared into nothingness and felt the awe.  I mean I really felt it.  For some reason, I looked out the window.  On cue, (no joke) puffy snow flakes were lightly falling.  Air catching under each, the decent was slow and peaceful. Moments later it stopped.

Rosenthal writes about serendipity which she seems to equate with coincidence.  Serendipity woke me early having checked FB, a friend posted an article claiming that research shows eating chocolate cake for breakfast is good for the brain and for the waistline.  I was all over that.  Before sunrise and before I downed my first almond milk latte, I had fork-full by fork-full indulged in a wedge of leftover birthday cake.

serendipity
If you like something, you tend to be on the lookout for it.  And if you're on the lookout for it, you tend to find it, or it-Yoo-hoo! Over here!-finds you.  And so it goes, for me, with serendipity and coincidence.  It's something I like, so it's something I notice and attract. -Amy Krouse Rosenthal

This morning, serendipity found me, and I am over the moon excited for what might become today and tomorrow. I think of serendipity as miracles, however small.  Notice, attract, repeat. Notice, attract, repeat. I will be on the lookout, will you?

It's Just Messy

Yesterday I couldn't get past stepping out of the shower dripping wet and feeling assaulted by the 22 degree below temperatures that sneak through the cracks in the doors and windows of my house. I seldom skip a daily shower. Today, I couldn't get past the fact that I didn't take a shower yesterday and felt just plain grimy, so I reached in the shower and stuck my hand under the spray to test it.  It had to be hot.

I stepped in and started to rub the soap onto the nylon mesh ball.  Jerry had a stockpile of his favorite French milled soap.  I ordered it every month for him two or three bars at a time.  During this phase of showering I always think of him.  He never used a washcloth or a mesh ball, instead he held the bar and kind of rolled it around both hands to gather a lather.

Days after he died, I took the sliver of soap that he last used, dried it and tucked it in the top drawer with my underwear and passport.  I can't explain why.  Maybe in time of grief no explanation is necessary.  I often act on a need; a deep unexplained need and I just go with it. This is a strange time in my life; a mishmash of emotion that cannot be fully understood.  I feel like one with multiple personalities, often confused by the swirl of opposing emotions.  One moment I feel intense joy, while in seconds waves of sorrow overcome me.  There are times of clarity and times of uncertainty.   Sometimes fear wraps me and strangles, while later I may feel the excitement of opportunity and freedom. None of it makes sense.

I run my fingers over the top of the smooth oval, the soap showing signs of wear through the vein-like lines that run through it.  I bring it to my nose, inhale and tuck it back in the drawer for safe-keeping. Mango scent, one of his favorites.

Each day following prayer, I am quiet if only for a few minutes,  listening to what I need. It may be simple like skipping a shower on a cold day or saving my husband's soap and handling it like an artifact of the MFA. I don't always have to have a logical reason for what I do.  I just do it, act on my intuition. Grief is messy.  Grief is complex and sometimes the wave of varying emotions are confusing and make no sense.  It just is-what it is.

Heaven

As a kid,
Attending daily mass
Fueled my Catholic
Identity
Until,
Sister Mary Somebody
Announced
"Your protestant grandfather is
Not in heaven,
He's in
Limbo."

My seven year old sensibility
Knew
This
Was
Not
So.

There is a place that accepts
All,
Despite
Religious Affiliation,
Color,
Rich or Poor,
Age,
Or
Orientation.

No.
None of this
Matters
In the long run.

The Risk

Love is a light that never dwelleth in a heart possessed by fear.-Baha’u’llah

Fear is a fortress

Capturing the heart and mind,

In a protective illusion

Of safety.

Merely living is a risk,

All for the chance

At

Love.

One day.

Living

"Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough."

—Emily Dickinson

This morning my niece and I sat quietly in her backyard.  A warm breeze brushing against us, birds perched awaiting their turn to feed and our ears opened to their joyous song. After breakfast we meditated.  The focus of our meditation was finding inspiration.

This routine has helped ground me and reconnect with joy.  There is little responsibility here while visiting.  I am at peace.  How can I find inspiration and joy when I return bombarded by stress and responsibility? It is the inspiration that feeds my connection with Spirit.  It is indeed my lifeblood.  

I have been reading some essays by Andre Dubus.  He speaks of Sacrament. He writes of his little kitchen. He  is making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for his daughters from the confines of his wheelchair. He has mastered maneuvering this tiny space. Clearly, he struggles with the fact that he can no longer walk, but throughout the book he discovers all that he can do to prove that he is living.    This is Sacrament.  Could it be called Grace?  

Life is a gift; nonetheless I must remind myself of this everyday.  I find joy in the inspiration that comes from creating.  I must remember that I too am a Divine creation.

The Creative Spirit

I wonder. How do I routinely embody the powers of collective creativity when alone?  For a few years now I have been cultivating my creative self through word and image while harnessing the energies of others when I have the opportunity.  Sometimes when I am alone, I have the mindset that I am alone.  Alone, struggling at times to faithfully put myself through the paces of writing something worthy.  Seems like I am knotted up a bit binding me tightly in twisted thinking.  Am I ever really alone?  Isn’t it through the pairing of the Divine and art that I have something going? And is it not the Divine that I am accessing when I create in the company of others?

There is a slight breeze that runs across my bare arms.  Shadows dance on the patio floor. My niece Erin nearby is sketching while I write and contemplate the creative spirit. This is a gift for which I am forever grateful.

a journey of the heart

        At 2 weeks old weighing 3.5 pounds.  

Thriving through love and faith. Lessons for today.

A journey resumes.  The pain in my neck and shoulder remind me of the stress living in today’s world with a house full of teens.  When I was a teen, I thought I knew the way too.  It is difficult to guide and create structure and watch our children stumble, fall and get in too deep.  It is often heart breaking.  Truth be told, I eat to stuff the pain.

Approaching the brilliant twilight of my life, I can no longer afford to put off taking care of myself.  I cope with stress through words; putting them to paper and escaping through the pages of others’ imaginations.  It is not enough to sustain my sanity.  

Stepping out the door early this morning my daughter remarked, “Mum, I can smell the sea.”  Taking walks along the ocean’s edge, the salt air gently brings me to life.  I must resume this practice.  Here my eyes become clear and all the bounties in my life are revealed.  Each step brings me closer to peace amidst a world that is sometimes hard to take.

I cannot do this alone.  I pray for strength, guidance and wisdom.  Gratefully, I have a healthcare provider who listens; one who knows me so well that she can talk frankly about my challenging journey.  

Borrowing from a musical line, “I will survive.”   I don’t want to just exist in survival mode.  I want to thrive continuing to discover, grow and move about this world in awe and wonder.

Faith

“Think of yourself as an incandescent power, illuminated and perhaps forever talked to by God and his messengers.” ― Brenda Ueland

When I came upon this quote today, it struck me so, that I read it over and over.  As a young kid, (wait who am I kidding) even as an adult, writing has not been easy. In 6th grade I wanted to write well.  Sitting at the small oak desk in my upstairs bedroom where it was quiet, I wrote a few words on a loose-leaf paper.  Dissatisfaction crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it across the room.  This was repeated over and over until I collapsed in a heap of despair and anger. With gritted teeth, I tried again only to leave my room defeated, carrying a waste paper basket full of unwritten words.

Only recently have I been able to trust that the words will come. Faith is about the search for truths.  Isn’t writing about truth too?  No wonder art is worship.

Unfurl

After a long long winter, 

We turn toward

The sun

And unfurl,

Anew.

The Finish

On my belly

I crawl like a

Snake,

Forearms raw

And

Bloody,

My heart

Scrapes

Against the pavement.

Exposed,

Vulnerable

Toward a finish,

A mirage.  

The Unthinkable

A tribute to all mothers who face the unthinkable.

Mother dropped

To her knees,

Sobbing,

Ragged waves

Of

Grief.

Six year olds

Aren’t suppose to

Die.

Somewhere

All air was sucked out of the room,

Yet I couldn’t leave

And

I couldn’t stay.

I stood to leave,

You pulled me back.

Your last few

Moments,

Few ragged breaths,

I was there

As you were whisked

Off  to somewhere.

Slowing Down

A light, but steady snow has created a powdery coating over everything outside.  Maybe it is my aging practicality or that I must make an appointment for myself to remedy anxiety, but I am already thinking about the trek to work.  I go slowly, but everyone else is in high gear.

The first alarm goes off at 5 and I grope in the dark to turn it off.  It is an annoying sound choice, no trill of a harp for me.  The chances of slumbering through an angelic musical ladder of notes is quite high.  I must take my medicine 30 minutes before eating. (This is something new for me-out of the ordinary to have to take anything on a regular basis.) The second alarm goes off at 5:30.  For a half hour I am drifting between sleep and wakefulness.  There is only one cat at my feet and I snuggle deeper into the bed pulling the comforter just under my chin.  I am not too cold nor too hot, but just right, cozy and comfy.  I smile in recognition of this condition of near perfection.

Turning off the alarm and leaving my husband to rest, I pad out to the kitchen.  It has been only three mornings-a routine already.  Oatmeal, a half a bagel, fruit, tea and water.  This is the fare that will sustain us until sunset.  During this nine-teen day period (The Baha'i Fast) I am always surprised by how frequently food and drink become part of my day.  My lunch-time is now spent in prayer.  Often I walk along the woods near my work.  This too helps to create mindfulness and give thanks. Perhaps it all sounds a bit contrived, but The Baha'i Fast is always well timed.  I am able to breathe, slow down and trust all the while creating a sense of gratitude for all.

Hanging on Tight

Some days I struggle.  Honestly, maybe it is most days.  Growing up Catholic in an Irish Catholic parish surrounded  by nuns, priests and a grandmother who anointed her sore knees with holy water each day, living was easy.  Each Sunday morning was spent in mass standing, kneeling and reciting a string of unknown Latin words in chorus.  The moves and lyrics a predetermine orchestration of mindless habit at least for some.  Often a trio of men in charge of the church,  there would be one appointed to stand at the pulpit booming  inspiration to sustain the congregation for the entire week.  Those who stumbled and failed to live by the standards of the church were absolved of sin through confession with a quick sign of the cross and a string of Hail Marys and Our Fathers.   I wonder who I would be without this identity.  The innocence of childhood made it easy to exist under these conditions for this is all I knew.

As an adult, I am responsible. Often times, I do not think that I should be.  Life can be confusing.  Life can be hard.  I struggle to be the person I want to be.  Each day I wake up, I think it will be different, but it isn’t.  This is the day that I make good healthy choices.  No junk. Water.  Maybe a walk and I will sit quietly.  I will pray and meditate.  This may sound self-centered and maybe even short-sighted.  It is not enough for me to conduct myself in a manner that is considered to be kind and loving toward others.  Everything just feels a bit hollow. Do I hang onto the fear of failure and rejection? I need not always be a victim.

As we approach the advent of spring, a symbol of renewal, I pray that I will come to a new place of acceptance and patience for myself and others.  I want to let go of this struggle and write a new story filled with hope for myself, my family and all humankind.  Somehow I think there is a spiritual solution to all this.  I just hope I latch onto something soon and hang on tight.

Slow Down

Slow down.
What everyone else is doing
Is
Not
Important
When seeking
Truth.

Trust

Fear holds me.

Anxiety binds my spirit

Limiting my vision 

Of what lies ahead. 

I can only see as far as I can see,

And then

I must trust,

Simply trust.

Trusting the Silence

This poem is in response to my inability in remembering detail.  I have forgotten the sound of my mother's voice, moments when my dying friend admitted to fear and the number of steps to my grandmother's apartment.   I want to so desperately to remember everything, and as I  frantically try to recall, I remember nothing.   I must trust the silence.



Hues of color bleed through the darkness,
When not long ago,
Pricks of light shone,
Through black, nothingness.

Fresh memories empty into
Silence.
Silence reveals the
Extra-ordinary
Existence of
Wind
And
Bird song.

Through the Brambles

                                                                       

Lately, I have been thinking about how I handle stress, disappointment and life's surprises-of which I have had many.  Grit?  It is always a question as to how much I have.  It seems that I have more when I have accessed my resources and supports than when my reserves for "curve balls" has been depleted by lack of self-attention.  It has long been my contention that not only do the daily habits of a spiritual being like praying, meditating and engaging in kindnesses support each soul, but for me, creative pursuits contribute greatly to my well-being.  That is why I write.  It sounds corny, but it feeds my soul.

Writing for the purpose of posting to my blog has become a habit.  The hard part is working on other writing projects that require long term effort, persistence and facing the fact that I don't always know what I am doing as I tread on new territory.  My motivation for my current project is to honor a strong woman who became my dear friend, an unlikely pairing. Part of what thwarts me is the fear that my words will not do her justice.  Part of my fear is that my memory of her remains unclear, foggy. When I think of this project there is a mix of excitement, apprehension and pure fear.  It is easier to think plenty about this project than to plunge ahead and give it a go.  I am hopeful that with all my supports at the ready and by creating a plan for persistent effort, I will find my way through the brambles.