Good Grief

“It becomes hard to trust yourself.
All you can depend on now is that
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.
More than you, it knows its way
And will find the right time
To pull and pull the rope of grief
Until that coiled hill of tears
Has reduced to its last drop.”

~ John O’Donohue (Excerpt from For Grief )

Love and loss walk hand-in-hand.

Whenever we open the door to love, we open it to grief as well.

Whenever we say yes to love, we say yes to pain as well.

Whenever we open our hearts to love, our hearts will eventually be broken open by loss as well.

Right now there are people near and dear to me who, having opened their hearts to love, are now having them broken open by loss. While their losses differ, are all deeply felt, and whether it is the loss of a friend, a relationship, a career, a pet, or a dream, they are in the midst of mourning, which my friend, the poet Ann Staley, calls “that ancient form of love”.

When my mom died almost 20 years ago, the church where we held her service was overflowing. My dad had chosen to have hers be an open casket, with time for any who wanted, to pass by and wish her well. Her grandchildren were all there, and my siblings and I had talked to them about what to expect should they visit her open casket. The choice was theirs to walk up and peek in on her or not. As of the beginning of the service they hadn’t yet decided. At the end of the service, all of these young cousins gathered together in the aisle, standing close, heads together, arms around one another, tears flowing freely. Then, as one, they walked up to the coffin, and surrounded the grandmother they loved. Each one, unknown to the others, had brought something to tuck into her coffin. A tiny ceramic squirrel, in honor of those pesky creatures that robbed the bird feeders outside my parents window. Small shells collected during an annual beach trip. Small individual mementos, of the small individual moments, that had shaped the loving memory, in which they collectively held her.

No one can really teach us how to grieve, but we can learn how to do it together.

There is a cleansing that takes place when we grieve with our whole hearts. By moving through it, rather than hiding from it, we come out the other side made more whole by our willingness to be broken. It is a good grief.

And so, we mourn. That ancient form of love.

Image and Small Vases by Kristine Van Raden

Where The Buck Stops

“Let us not seek to fix the blame for the past. Let us accept our own responsibility for the future.”

` John F. Kennedy

Oh, it is so easy to blame someone else for our troubles. To find fault elsewhere. To see cause that is outside of our own agency. To pass the buck.

When a problem with a relationship arises, it is often easier for me to see what the other person did to create it, than look for what part I might have played. If something doesn’t turn out the way I expected, I’m tempted to turn over every other rock to find the cause except the one laying at my feet. If I don’t get what I thought I paid for, I can be quick to demand a refund and slow to consider that perhaps I didn’t do my homework before pulling out my credit card.

Whether it is an issue in a relationship, a breakdown in communication, a lack of clarity around expectations, or a disappointing result, if I am willing to look closely, I can almost always find what role, no matter how small, I might have played in the way things turned out. When I take ownership for what is mine, there is almost always something I can do to address the situation. When I allow the buck to stop at my desk before moving on, it allows me to look for ways that I can take action to help resolve the conflict, bring closure, clear the air, extend forgiveness, offer an apology, bring clarity, open a door, resolve the problem, or change the outcome.

I’m not saying that others aren’t culpable for their part of the bargain.

They are.

So am I.

Viborg Cathedral - Viborg, Denmark

Home

"I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself."

~ Maya Angelou

Are you home???

A friend just asked me this question in an email. He was inquiring to see if we had returned from a three week trip to Germany and Denmark. After a long flight on an airline (that we will never fly again), a Lyft ride to our car and another couple of hours driving, we dragged our weary selves into our house last night. We'd been awake for more than 30 hours and were finally able to crawl into our own bed. We were home. And it felt to good to be there.

But just what is home?

Home is the place where I live, In which case, the answer to my friend’s question is that I am indeed home. And it feels so good to be here.

Home is the love I share with Tom. While we were traveling, staying in hotels, inns, flats, and houses, none of which were ours, when we would crawl into yet another bed and turn out the light, I was home. Whether walking down unknown streets in faraway cities, or jumping on another bus or train to a new destination, surrounded by languages that were not mine, with my husband of almost 25 years by my side, I was home. And it felt so good to be there.

Home is the people with whom I choose to share life. Those relationships in which, together, we have built a place where it is safe to show up as ourselves, no matter what. Whether I am with those people in person or in spirit, with them I am home. And it feels so good to be there.

Home is me. When it comes right down to it, my most basic dwelling place is my own heart, soul, and skin. Whenever I show up, if I show up as my authentic self, I am home. And it feels so good to be there.

Are you home???

Yes. I am indeed home.

In fact, I never left. And if feels so good to be there.

With thanks to David Berry, who always knows the question to ask.

Gimme Shelter

It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.

Irish Proverb

On our last day in Denmark, we visited the Strandings Museum, so named for the countless ships that were stranded there on the beach over the years. We stood on the jetty looking out at the North Sea, a wild, harsh and unforgiving body of water. It is predictable only in its unpredictability. To live on its shore and make a living sailing on or fishing its waters, one has to be a hardy soul. Standing on the rocky point at the entrance to the harbor, with the waves crashing on either side, one has a very clear picture of just how small and at the mercy of the elements one is. 

After touring the museum where we learned all about the perilous life (and often death) of a sailor, we enjoyed one more Danish lunch of fish and chips (and the prerequisite Carlsberg beer of course), and then headed down the road a few miles and parked our car. That part of the coast is characterized by rolling grass covered sand dunes, that are dotted by small colorful country cottages, tucked into the shelter of the dunes. From our vantage point by our car we could see a trail up to the top of the dunes and hear the ocean waves on the other side, but there was no ocean in sight. Standing in the middle of the dunes, next to several colorful cottages, and with the waves crashing on the other side of the hilly mounds, one has a very clear picture of how a small shelter is a merciful find in the face of the elements. 

What is true on the wild and windy coast of the North Sea is true in the wild and stormy rides of our lives. We are all in need of shelter, and we provide it to one another. Home is meant to be a shelter, as are our relationships, and, as are our own hearts. Let us build colorful cottages tucked into the dunes in which to retreat and find shelter, in order to be ready once again to head out and navigate our wild waters.  

Your Real Art

 “Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.“

~ Thomas Merton

A lot of years ago my best friend (and amazing artist) Kristine and I attended a creativity retreat led by Julia Cameron, author of the seminal book, The Artist’s Way. We were in Taos, New Mexico staying at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House, an inn with a history of creative types like Georgia O’Keefe, Willa Cather, D.H. Lawrence, and Ansel Adams gathering under its roof. Creativity practically ran down the walls, and seeped up through the floors. 

Joining us for the week were other creative types from around the country, and at the time, I didn’t consider myself to be one of them. I was a “creative wannabe”. My greatest hope for the retreat was that no one  would find me out.

Someone did.

I can remember exactly which doorway I was standing in, and the woman that I was talking to. Everything was going fine until she asked me the one question I had been dreading.

So, what is your art?

Busted. 

 Umm. I’m a writer.

Her eyes narrowed.

But what is your real art? 

She took aim, and fired.

You know, like do you paint? Or draw? Or sculpt? Or design? Your real art. 

Hers was a cheap shot, although I don’t think it was a malicious one. Maybe the same fears and insecurities that made me doubt my own artistic abilities made her uncertain of her own. Maybe she was a “writer wannabe”. 

Her words haunted me for the rest of the retreat and for years to come. But the more creative risks I took, the more I learned about myself. Her question, as it turned out, was a generative one, as I broke it apart and looked at the pieces one at a time.

What is MY real art? It is whatever I envision, create, and display, made visible in the world for all to see. 

What is my REAL art? It is whatever is a true, honest, authentic, and vulnerable  representation of who I am, made visible in the world for all to see. 

What is my real ART? It is whatever I make in my life and of my life, offered up to enrich and beautify the world, made visible for all to see.

The world is but a gallery for our life, and whatever we make out of our lives is made visible in the world for all to see. 

You are an artist.

I am an artist.

We are all artists.

Oh...and I’m a writer.

Viborg Cathedral: Stairs to the tower. Viborg, Denmark

Lost In Translation

God spoke: “Separate!
Water-beneath-Heaven, gather into one place;
Land, appear!”
And there it was.
God named the land Earth.
He named the pooled water Ocean.
God saw that it was good.

Genesis 1:9-10 (The Message) 

The North Sea off the coast of Jutland, Denmark

 God spoke: “Swarm, Ocean, with fish and all sea life!Birds, fly through the sky over Earth!”
God created the huge whales,
all the swarm of life in the waters,
And every kind and species of flying birds.
God saw that it was good.
God blessed them: “Prosper! Reproduce! Fill Ocean!
Birds, reproduce on Earth!”
It was evening, it was morning—
Day Five.

Genesis 1:20-23 (The Message)

The Stranding Museum - Toresminde, Denmark 

God spoke: “Let us make human beings in our image, make themreflecting our nature
So they can be responsible for the fish in the sea,
the birds in the air, the cattle,
And, yes, Earth itself,
and every animal that moves on the face of Earth.”
God created human beings;
he created them godlike,
Reflecting God’s nature.
He created them male and female.
God blessed them:
“Prosper! Reproduce! Fill Earth! Take charge!
Be responsible for fish in the sea and birds in the air,
for every living thing that moves on the face of Earth.”

Genesis 1:  26-28 (The Message)

The Stranding Museum - Toresminde, Denmark

I don’t think this is what the Creator had in mind.

Growing Pains

  On August 20th I posted about working my way through an injury. As the work continues, I continue to  learn about the importance of listening to our pain. 

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 “Your wound is probably not your fault, but your healing is your responsibility.”

~ Denise Frohman Poet, Writer, Performer

I’ve never lived with chronic physical pain before, and I have a newfound empathy and compassion for those who do. Up until this past year, any aches and pains that I have had have been fleeting. This particular pain however has settled in and made itself comfortable.

It was the pain that first alerted me that all was not well when everyday things like walking, sitting, standing, and sleeping that hadn’t been painful to do before, now were. With the good help of my healthcare team we identified the source of the pain, charted my healing course, and paved a road to recovery. 

My marching orders are to continue to walk with the pain rather than push through it, and listen to the pain rather than silence it with painkillers. This means that I continue to do a little more each day, taking pains to keep the pain at or below its current level. Push through it, and I risk losing my hard won progress. Silence it with narcotics, and I’m in danger of missing the protective signals that pain faithfully sends my way. 

Mine is a marathon, not a sprint. Steady steps result in steady progress, and it is the pain that continues to blaze my trail.

Six months ago I couldn’t walk down our half-mile road much less up a steep hill. Today, I can walk eight miles in a day, and hike up increasingly steep trails. As I stay the course, my healing continues and my strength grows. While not yet free of her, pain has proven to be a faithful companion, and when her work is done, I have faith that she will move on.

When it comes to pain, what is true for my body has proven true for my soul. 

When emotional pain settles in and makes itself comfortable, I am learning to see it as an invitation to step onto another kind of road to recovery. Sometimes it has taken the good help of a professional to help me chart my healing course. My inner-pain asks me to walk with it, not push through it, and invites me to listen to it, not silence it with one of my many chosen painkillers. 

The path to wholeness is a marathon, not a sprint, and steady steps result in steady progress. 

As I stay the course, my inner healing continues and I grow more whole. Pain has proven herself to be a faithful companion, and when her work is done, I have faith that she will move on. 

For What The Bell Tolls

 “We seldom notice how each day is a holy place

Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,

Transforming our broken fragments

Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.”

~John O’Donohue, To Bless The Space Between Us: A Book of Invocations and Blessings

I love where we live. I love our home, and the mountain that watches over us. I love the pine forests that surround us, and the wide sky overhead.

However.

I’ve decided that there is just one teeny-tiny thing missing; an ancient church with an ancient bell that rings like clockwork, every morning at 8:00, and every evening at 6:00. Speaking of clocks, it also rings out the hour, every hour, on the hour, all around the clock.  For the past week in the tiny ancient village of Lindum, Denmark, the ancient bell in the ancient church, next to the old home in which we are staying, has done just that.

When it rings at 8:00 in the morning, it is as if to say remember, it is a new day, a holy day. What will you do with this day that has been given to you?  

When it rings out the hour, every hour, on the hour, it is as if to say remember, it is a new hour, a holy hour. What will you do with this hour that has been given to you?

When it rings at 6:00 in the evening, it is as if to say remember, it is the end of another day, a holy day. What did you do with this day that was given to you? 

It is so easy to forget the holiness of time as it marches on, day after day. 

And if time is not holy, then what is? For it is within our hours that we live out our lives.

And if our lives are not holy, then what is? For it is with our lives that we are able to love, help, and heal the world that is within our reach.

And if the world is not holy, then what is? For it is within the world that we live out the one life that we have been given.

And so it goes. Holy lives, spent in holy hours, in the midst of a holy world.

All is holy. 

Photo: Tom Pierson

What If It Didn’t Have To Look Like That?

 “Find that far inward symmetry to                                                                                

all outward appearances, apprentice

 yourself to yourself, begin to welcome back

all you sent away, be a new annunciation,

make yourself a door through which

to be hospitable, even to the stranger in you.”

David Whyte 

One of my greatest needs is for time and space to myself, by myself, and for myself. It is the water that quenches my thirsty soul, and the food that feeds my hungry heart. And, it is what helps me not to be a total, selfish...well, you know what I mean.

But what if it didn’t have to look like that? 

In my perfect little world, time and space to myself, for myself, and by myself, means whole days at a time with no one else around. It means the chance to chart my own course, bide my own time, and march to the beat of my own drum. When I’ve had one or two of those days in a given week, I can be a pretty nice girl to be around. When I haven’t? Well, not so much.   

But what if it didn’t have to look like that? 

These past two plus weeks in Germany and Denmark, by my calculation, I’ve had a total of one hour to myself, for myself, and by myself. The good news? There were days when I never had to apologize to Tom. The other news? On some days I did. More than once. 

But what if it didn’t have to look like that? 

Maybe it doesn’t.  

Maybe generosity and grace are almost always within reach.

Maybe being good company is almost always an option.

Maybe setting aside my needs is almost always a possibility.

With time and space to myself, for myself, and by myself, I can almost always choose to extend generosity and grace, be good company, and set aside my own needs. Without that time and space to, for, and by myself. Well, not so much.

But what if it didn’t have to look like that? 

Maybe it doesn’t. 

This morning, we enjoyed another lovely breakfast in a little nook off the kitchen and in the shadow of the village church. For the past week our host, Birthe, has extended generosity and grace, been good company, and set aside her own needs. For us. For me.

After breakast, I offered to do the dishes so that Tom and Birthe could go into her delightful sitting room and wander through old pictures and letters from his time here years ago.

In case it’s not completely obvious, this was not an entirely altruistic offer. 

We all have our own unique ways of keeping our best selves in tact. The one that can extend generosity and grace, be good company, and set our own needs aside. Understanding what it takes for that person to show up in the morning, ready for another day, is important information. Cultivating the practices that attend to those needs is our individual and necessary work.

But.

When life takes a temporary turn that makes tending to those needs, in just the way we like, difficult, if not impossible, it’s easy to ignore the better angels of our nature, who are always at the ready, and capitulate instead to their evil twins, who also seem to be always at the ready. 

But what if it didn’t have to look like that?

Actually, it doesn’t.

From Whence We Came

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” 

~Soren Kierkegaard

Yesterday we retraced some of Tom’s steps by visiting the Gymnasium (high school) in Denmark where he studied as a mere lad of 18.  We walked the halls, peeked into classrooms, and wandered the outdoor spaces. A bit later we found the home where he lived that year with his Danish host family. His time in Denmark shaped his life in ways small and large. It sparked a love of language, as well all things pickled...especially herring when followed by a shot of caraway flavored Akvivit. Living half a world away from home and family expanded his understanding of both. As a result of his year abroad, his life was forever marked by his experiences and those with whom he shared them, and for those experiences and people, he is forever grateful.

Of course there have been a host of other experiences and people that have helped shape him into the 70 year old man I love today. But yesterday was a snapshot of the panorama that has become his life, and watching him revisit the past gave me a renewed reverence for the present and how we arrive here.  

No matter where we are standing now, none of us have made it here on our own. 

It is good to remember from whence we came and those who helped us along our way.