a bridge.

in a front yard in south carolina . march 2009

last night, i was thinking about how you asked your daughter to bring you the other picture. not the one sitting in your room from the mid-nineties; the one i love; the one where you two are sitting with your rounded middles, hats people in their seventies wear upon your heads, and the sun in your eyes as you look right at me as i snap. no. you wanted the other one. the one where you sit side by side on the cusp of a life together. the one where you look like movie stars to these eyes of mine that never knew you then. you wanted to look at the woman you fell in love with.

when your daughter would call daily to check in and ask what you had been up to, sometimes you would say, "oh i'm just talking to her again."

i think of you in that little room i never saw, the little room that became your whole life for your last few months. i think of you looking at that photo of her with her eyes a-twinkle with all that is to come. i think of you sharing words you never told her when you could have.

i hear you asking me to tell her how much you love her as though my saying it aloud on a day in april in 2005 before a small family grieving would make it more real. as though she would hear me when she couldn't perhaps wouldn't hear you.

i wonder about what photograph i will want next to me in a room that will be my last room. what photo will i want to talk to and sit in the quiet next to hoping for any whisper of a response.

*****

we are in the midst of this new bridge in the middle of spring. this bridge of a bit more than two weeks in length that walks from his death to hers. i think about this day five years ago when they said she was in the hospital but i shouldn't come just yet. even though the weekend i spent at my yoga training gifted me many insights then, the heart inside this chest wishes i could blink and find myself saying to my mother, "i think i will just move the ticket up to sunday. i am just going to go. i will meet you there." 

and i would rent a car at the little airport near their home and stop to get flowers and something to read aloud to her. and i would not worry about what i had packed or the training i was missing for a new freelance job or what was going to happen if she didn't make it or how annoyed she was going to be with me when i walked into her room. i would just drive to the hospital. i would just drive to the hospital and hold her hand. and she would still be breathing.

*****

i remember thinking spring was laughing at us as her outward flashy colors seemed to mock our grey, lost faces. but then i walked outside to the brick patio and remembered how much she loved this time of year. her favorite time, when mother nature unfurled her very best in the form of azaleas, dogwood, redbud, tulips, forsythia, and how the list goes on. when we drove to the funeral home, i looked out the window at all the colors arching toward the sun...knowing if she was here, she would not be able to stop herself from commenting on how they all seemed to bloom at once that year. 

and they did.

while my heart was breaking solidly in two, every shoot of green stood almost at attention in a way she would have loved.

and i am guessing, five years later, those reaching toward the sky blooms are doing it again in south carolina. although neither of them is there, although i am not there, to witness. spring is dancing with her arms outstretched toward all that is to come in the next minute, day, week.

*****

in my corner, spring continues her slower dance, each week unveiling a new bloom, a new bud, a new green shoot peeking out. and this quiet swaying brings another bridge toward the arrival of another soul who will change my life forever, break my heart, and mend it with every breath.

in this moment, how i wish you were here to witness all that is to come.

sixty seconds of manzanita

an audio interlude: a shadow story {from the archives}

port townsend view . march 2009

i have been reading into some of my archives again; this time, seeking out a few of my responses to some sunday scribblings prompts from a few years back. i came across my response to the prompt baggage, and after reading it, decided i wanted to share it again, this time as a short audio post.

reading these words again, i realized that this really is a shadow story. and after hearing my own words read back to me, i began to think about wanting to spend more time writing about my shadow and maybe even dipping my toes into the world of sunday scribblings again soon.

to hear this post, just click on "all that baggage" below.

the original post, "all that stuff, all that baggage," appeared here.

all that baggage

spring brings {notes for the journey}

i sometimes am in awe of all that spring can bring. i whisper to myself spring shall return on days when the grey sky mirrors my thoughts...whether that might be a day in october or june or february. it is a persistent truth in our lives: the grey will give way to the light and color. it is a gift we cannot ignore even when we close our eyes to it.

during the last few weeks, a few words and photos have walked across my path that have spoken to this truth that rests inside me. here are a few for you to explore:

vivienne talks about the intense and the soft.

a mermaid shares the truth about being open.

survarna captured the beginnings of blooms.

jenna invites us to take in a springtime blessing.

maddie gently reminds that spring has returned.

meri muses about reality.

darlene gives us the gift of light and shadow.

(thank you to each of you for sharing your light)

let there just be... {an invitation}

 

in this moment

right now

give yourself permission

to take a breath in

and feel the space 

around your heart

open

and as you exhale

all the stuff

you are carrying today

slips off your shoulders

for this moment

let there

just be

love

love 

love

know your truth.

all the colors . port townsend, march 2010 

last week, as i was pounding letters, mantras, beliefs into metal, i had the thought to pound in the phrase "speak your truth."

this phrase has meant a lot to me over the last few years or so. back in november of 2006, i found myself in the midst of an illness that involved a growth on my thyroid. as i tried to make sense of the senselessness that is biopsies and other things, i kept coming back to how the words i so often wanted to say were sometimes stuck, literally, in my throat. how this had been a piece of my truth for my entire life. this growth seemed to represent this truth. (i wrote about my thoughts at the time here.)

this need to speak my truth came up again in 2007 when my dad shared that he wanted to get treatment for alcoholism. spending time with him and "talking about it" meant that i would need to speak my truth. i didn't know what form it would take or how i would be "brave" enough to share my experiences with someone in my family. i thought about the pain and all that i wanted to say to him (and as i thought about that pain, i thought about all the pain that had brought me to that moment). but when i started writing pieces of my story to share, i glimpsed something really important while in a hotel room outside chicago writing from my gut. i glimpsed a lesson in the idea that sometimes it is knowing our truth that is the powerful piece. this glimpse helped shape how i shared my story with my dad.

i didn't put this "glimpse" into the words of "knowing my truth" at the time. instead, i focused on how sharing our truth from a place of truth and love, as i did with my father, can push us to be honest while also owning our own pieces of the experience.

i think often of this idea of speaking my truth. in situations that have been confusing or when i find myself trying to set boundaries, i think about how i can speak my truth but from a place of truth and love. i know i do not always do it. i know i mess up a lot. i know my feelings/emotions in a moment can sometimes over rule this way i want to be. but i try to think about how to share pieces of my experience from a place of love of myself and love for the other person (whether i truly love the person or just feel compassion toward a fellow human i might not know very well).

let me try to explain another way: when something happens that shifts us, that moves us away from feeling grounded or "like ourselves," i think we have to look at why this feeling has come up. the truth piece comes in because we have to be truthful with ourselves. are we hurt? why? what is this really about? is this triggering something else/someone else? then, in being honest with ourselves, we can maybe see how we can separate how we are feeling from the other person/people involved.

as i started to pound "speak your truth" into metal last week, i stopped after "speak" and stood there staring at the word for five minutes or so. i thought about all of this. about how sometimes what seems like speaking my truth is actually a mishmash of feelings, emotions, fears, pain, triggers and not really the truth that rests in the core of who i am...who i hope to be.

in that moment, i thought about how it is powerful to know my truth and why i am reacting the way i am. in knowing my truth, i first speak my truth to myself (and then maybe to a very trusted friend because sometimes you need to hold someone's hand as you find this truth within you). i figure it out. i trust my self.

this is the most important piece: when we know our truth, the truth frees us.

then, from a place of truth and love, i can decide how and if i need to speak my truth to another person. i can figure out what pieces to tell that person that will help him or her see me instead of feeling attacked or invited to be defensive.

i think about that moment in that hotel room when i found my way to words that invited my dad to hear me instead of hearing judgement. i hoped that my words would convey: "this is what it was/is like to be me. this is how your actions shaped me. but i am glad to be who i am. i wish there had been less confusion and pain, but i stand tall in my life proud of who i became even though there was this pain on my path."

in this moment, almost three years later, i believe that our relationship is the good one that it is partly because i chose to know my truth and share only pieces of it so that my dad would be able to hear me. if i had attacked or come from a place of judgement, our relationship might be different now.

so what did i do with those words pounded into metal? i changed my mind and pounded the phrase "speak of hope" in one locket and "know your truth" in another.

speak of hope . know your truth

i know i do not do this all the time, this know my truth stuff...i do not always sit in the quiet to try to know what my feelings are about and why. ask my husband. he is often the recipient of my knee-jerk, pouting ways.

yet, i am trying to find my way to this as i walk in my life. trying to find my way to sharing pieces of my truth in the way that helps me and those i love. this means my heart is pretty open most of the time. this means i am sometimes misunderstood because not everyone feels comfortable with truth and love. this means i sometimes stumble as i try to find my way through my triggers and the pain.

as i look to this vulnerable time where i am bringing a new human into this world, where i am walking a new path that invites more judgement than i have perhaps ever felt in my life, i know that coming from this place of truth and love will serve me and my little family.

the other day, i wrote a status on facebook about how tender my heart feels and how we never know what another person is experiencing. this is so true. i believe this to my core. yet, i sometimes think we say that we believe this because we want to be able to say, "don't you know how hard it is to be me? don't you ever think about me?" i should rephrase: sometimes i think i say this when i feel hurt because i want to feel better that no one knows my day-to-day experience; no one knows what it is like to be me in this life. and this truth pushes me to think about how we have to remember, i have to remember, it goes both ways.

before we "speak our truth," we must remember that someone else will be the one to hear us. we must choose our words. in this place on this day as i walk on this path, my path, i invite myself to know my truth and to choose love.

singing to remember.

 

south carolina spring . april 1, 2009

a year ago, when my grandfather died, i listened to alison krauss on my ipod on repeat throughout our trip to south carolina. something about her voice, the harmonizing, invites me to feel at home, invites me to feel safe.

the song "i'll fly away" makes me think of my grandfather now. i think about him saying his last words...drifting off to sleep while my mother and aunt sat beside him...and in the wee hours of the morning i believe he heard the sounds of the loons harmonizing as they called him home...

tonight, i found myself pulled to listen to alison krauss. i harmonized along with her and felt the space around my heart crack open just a bit so i could breathe a little easier on this day. as i sang so loud with my headphones on and my body moving to the music while working in the little room, i found myself remembering what i know to be true. and i found myself resting softly in this remembering.

the swirling thoughts.

 

i want to write about how the birds sing even when it rains. i want to invite you in so you can know in an instant and let go of the words and confusion. i want to rest my mind, my heart, until the wind is all that i hear. i want to step inside and see. i want to open up. i want to breathe you inside me until you fill the space. i want to push back until i am cocooned in truth. i want to fill in the cracks with life. i want to sway, eyes closed, until the end. i want to live it. i want to tiptoe into the tulip petals. i want to bring you hope to wear around your heart. i want to listen. i want to grow roots until the fear is gone. i want to remember each word. i want to remember it softly.