november 5

tonight
my heart whispers
the prayer
whispered around the world 

om
shanti
shanti
shanti

peace
peace
peace

november 4

new hampshire clothesline . september 2009

remember baby girl
you don't need to do it alone
just reach out
even if it seems as though there is only darkness
someone will be there
yes
someone will be there
open up just a bit
loosen your grip
breathe
reach
know

(you are deeply loved)

november 3

autumn sky above puget sound . november 2009

i want to show up and say something here. but the words are jumbled in my brain and the need to "say something inspiring" is bugging me with its insistent little ways. maybe i will just share some random thoughts that are skipping across my brain this evening. i am so grateful for friends who listen while i babble and then share just that piece of insight that has me nodding knowing i am heard and understood. chocolate pudding is making me very happy. i had butterscotch pudding while in the emergency room friday night (i am okay. long story involving choking on a cracker. sigh. always something.) and ever since i have been having seconds of cravings for pudding. might have to have another bit of pudding in a few moments. millie sleeps so much and i am a little jealous of how she can just curl up and start snoring. jon is kind of the same way. napping i have down, but getting to sleep at night is not so easy lately. brain will not stop flitting here and there and across the way. reading the notes on facebook and blogs and emails from the women who experienced the unearth retreat are like the flashlight i need to know i am on the right path. i am so grateful for them. i keep wishing i could call my grandmother in the middle of the day. i want her advice right now. a little part of me wishes we were going to walt disney world soon. i just kind of want to sit in epcot and listen to the music and just be. though i admit that there is something odd about a woman who wants to go to wdw to "just be." maybe i should change that image to maui. yes. maui would be perfection. i could watch for whales and someone could bring me drinks with fruit and i could just be. want to join me? universe, i put out there that i would love to find a way to write the rest of my book while on a beach somewhere. watching for whales and eating fruit, lots of fruit. yes. perfection.

thanks for listening.

do you have anything you might want to share in this moment? i would love to hear from you...

november 2

a galaxy in a pot of tea . mandolin cafe, november 1, 2009

i am writing

writing

writing

yes, this is where i am right now

the weepies sing

"get up now baby, get up now baby, it's your song playing"

jon calls on his way to pick up some dinner

our little family will soon be gathered again

another evening

dusk shows up so quickly now

the candles are lit

how this helps, the nightly lighting of the candles

it tells the darkness to come on

we welcome this invitation to breathe

i write

and gather

the pieces of what i know

and sigh with that oh my goodness sort of sigh

as i think about these pieces

side by side on pages in a book

i write

and rest when i need to

rest is part of my path right now

permission to rest

i hear sark say these words

thank you for that permission

you should know that you

yes you

have permission to rest too...

november 1

miss millie . an outtake from today's series of photos taken for the book

eyes open
lean in
(to unsureness)
ride along
breathe
breathe
breathe
honor all my body needs
listen to its whispered truth
hope
let go
push in
(toward all of it)
breathe
seek, see the hand in the darkness
grateful
clasp
find, feel my way 

be here. (two)

(you must) remember

take a breath

then another

then another

remember

in this moment

you

are

enough

a gift (found inside the missing and wishing)

backyard dogwood, south carolina . spring, 2009

for the first year, all i wanted was one more day, hour, breath, second. i just wanted to pick up the phone and hear her voice say, "hello" in that funny, "i'm so glad it's you" sort of way. as my brain tried to train itself to realize that i would never see her, hear her again, my cracked-open heart tried to remember to keep working.

this is a piece of what my first experience of the path of grief felt like.
the wishing. the missing.

*****

this march was the first time after her death and the last time that i would visit the home away from home that was my grandparents' home. trying to soak up everything while standing on another branch of the path of grief was difficult. i took a lot of photos, but i wish i would have taken more. i wish i would have written while sitting on the backporch. but when a family gathers for a funeral, there isn't much time to take it all in. and then, in the weeks that followed, the "settling of the estate" began. and as a grandchild, i did not have a role. which i understood intellectually...yet, this was my home away from home...a home filled with unconditional love that i had experienced...even if this might not have been the experience of everyone.

my mother would call and we would talk about "the list" of "stuff" and what we might want.

and as i would look at this list of "stuff," the feeling began again. i want one more minute. i just want to tell her all that i have learned. i want her to know this me, this me that grief has birthed. i want to ask her so many questions. i don't care about any of the stuff, i just want her. i just want her.

during this time, my mind kept turning around this phrase: all that they were became a list in a word document with a total at the end. all that they were. all that they were.

the missing became the drum of my heart yet again.

*****

weeks later, the boxes arrived at my mother's house. a lot of boxes. the journey she has been on to go through them...the journey that is not always about missing in the same way my journey is. a child's grief, so very different from a grandchild's or a friend's.

a few weeks ago, she sent two boxes full of some of the things from that house. being sick for several weeks, and some other things that have made life a bit fuller, made for the realization that i didn't quite have the energy to open the boxes. i didn't want to sift through the feelings again, and i didn't want to uncover new ones. i just walked around the boxes and stacked things on top of them.

*****

alone in the quiet saturday night, i found myself noticing those two white boxes and wondering. as i lifted out sewing supplies, linens, odds and ends, i began wishing i could ask her about the seven days-of-the-week embroidered towels and the odd beginnings to a pillow and the red "happy time" harmonica. 

the wishing. the missing.

in the second box, under a few other things, there was layer upon layer of bubble wrap around a box. as i began to unwrap it, the quiet mingled with the scent of her.

the jewelry box that had sat on her dresser for decades. the jewelry box that had sat there as she put on her makeup, sprayed her perfume, decided which pair of clip-on earrings to wear.

the jewelry box soaked up that perfume and makeup and pieces of a life; it soaked up the scents of that life, her life, and they settled in. as i opened that box, the scent swirled around me and i closed my eyes to remember.

the little girl visiting her favorite people and sleeping in that room. supposed to be napping, she peeks inside that box, lifts the lid of a compact, opens the bottle of perfume and breathes in deeply. the little girl sits on the stool in front of the dresser and looks in the mirror wondering what it might be like to be old enough to wear this perfume and use the pencils and brushes. the little girl who feels so at home in this room, who feels so loved in this room. the little girl who is the woman who remembers this love. this woman who takes a breath and deeply misses.

the jewelry box that was on a list that became part of a decision. the jewelry box that was wrapped up and put into a box and then another box now sits inside this home on another coast, part of another life. the jewelry box that became another step on the path as it became the gift of one more minute, one more second, one more breath.

the gift of one more breath.

(thank you)