I looked up from my computer as I perched against my tall office chair. As the sun dipped into the trees, I smiled as the delivery man approached.
He opened the door, and interrupted a conversation with co-workers with a cheer.
“You’re all still here!” he said. “Happy post-COVID, or wherever we are.”
We laughed together and I said, “I’m so glad you’re still our guy.”
It was a brief interaction – three minutes or less. With the opening of an office door, and a delivery of a package, I was overwhelmed by the sense of community that has been missing in remote offices and isolating fear-spirals.
Yes, we were all wearing masks and trying to stand further apart than we would have before, but with a simple delivery, I was reminded of just how much we need each other.
The arrival of a delayed package, the missing remote for the speakers, the hum of a coffee machine left on overnight, spider webs collecting in places gone untouched for months. Ordinary, beautiful things, often seen as annoyances, that blur into the background of a normal life.
But things haven’t been normal.
Today, I saw my friend Jesse, our UPS man. You’re all still here.
Standing at the back door, with a bit of wind blowing on my face, I turned to Dylan to say, “It’s happening!”
Seemingly overnight the trees in our backyard have begun to change colors. The tree with the little leaves always goes gold first, scattering quarter inch crunchies across the deck. The remnants track into the house with the dog, tuck themselves into outdoor couch cushions, and find themselves carried into the living room on stocking feet. The tiny ones are always the first to fall.
I asked Dylan when we went to Europe the other day. Three years ago this weekend we were in Paris, and I remember wishing, just slightly, that I wouldn’t miss our larger tree turning red in the backyard. The views of Parisian rooftops surely surpassed those in my backyard, but the nostalgia for the changing of the seasons lingered within me.
This is the second fall where we haven’t traveled. Our sources of excitement and stimulation have slowed to glacial pace, and I find myself staring out the back door, again waiting for magic to happen. We don’t have red leaves yet, but they are coming.
It’s easy to feel nostalgic as September turns to October. There are quotes and memes about letting the dead things go as our flowers wilt and sources of shade crisp and crunch. I’ve been talking to mentors and friends about the pruning in their own lives. Many feel purpose wilting, unsure of what will happen in the next season of hibernation. We thought we’d be over this by now, right?
I’ve spent the last five years writing about death and grief and loss. In these reflections, lessons of hope and wondering and recovery have unfolded, giving me, and hopefully others, comfort. As the days grow shorter, and I put my face upon cool glass.
Will this be another dark hole of a pandemic winter? Will looking for the light feel as difficult as it did last year?
In the pruning back, the raking up, and the setting to bed of our gardens, we get to choose what we will prepare to grow. Ann Voskamp once shared how she plants bulbs with her family this time of year, intentionally tucking something hopeful into the dirt to arrive in the spring.
I can relate to that wanting. To believe that good things will come, even as the dark days descend.
So for now, yes, enjoy the gold and the red and the mystical light reflecting off of trees and blue skies. Find your sweaters. Make a cup of tea. Rake and sift and shift the soil, knowing the work you are doing is sacred. Tuck a bulb in the dirt and wait. The preparation and making way, perhaps, are beautiful things.
Heading out to harvest is a romantic notion. Successful gardner’s pictures of full of baskets with bountiful produce, overflowing bunches of kale, and counters with little space entice and tempt me into trying year after year.
For me, gardening is an ever hopeful experience. We rotate our crops, water, and wait for months to yield something delicious. Last year, there was a bounty of cucumbers. We were swimming in pickles and sauces with dill and giving away extras to the neighbors.
This year, grasshopers munched on my beans, kale turned bitter, and while the basil was plentiful, our tomatoes gifted us with one globe a day, maybe three on a good day. Instead, I turned to the overflow of my in-laws gardens for enough fruit for bruschetta or pasta sauce. Sharing abundance is a beautiful thing.
It’s easy to stand on my stoop, overlooking our small patch of vegetables, and think we failed. When I do price comparisons, the four zucchini we grew probably rang in at over twenty dollars each. But if I focus on output, I miss the magic that grew in our small rectangle of dirt. We grew two handfuls of fairytale eggplant and roasted them up with olive oil. I experienced the joy of popping cherry tomatoes right off the vine and into our mouths. Ate some salads of lettuce before the bugs got to it. Kale chips were toasted once or twice in the air fryer. Two red bell peppers made a nice dinner with hummus and cheese.
On Sunday, I stood in the dirt and moved away the piles we had pulled together in an attempt to protect and nurture potatoes. Using shovels and trowels, I worked to these red potatoes, some as big as tennis balls. I felt like a little kid playing archeologist, wiping dirt on my pants and smooshing grime under my fingernails in pursuit of a starchy treat.
If we were dependent on my garden for sustenance through the winter, we’d be doomed.
Instead, I taught Dylan how to make mirepoix (with store bought carrots and onions) and tossed in our potatoes for stew.
If I was focusing on all we didn’t grow, I’d miss out on the joy of what was in my metaphorical, medium-size basket designed to harvest.
Life still feels like a bit of a waiting game. You know the numbers, the disconnect and the divide we are living through. And still, my garden produced just enough to instill a sense of delight. When supplemented with the gifts and bounty of other’s work, our joy expanded.
This is a lonely, confusing time to be a human. We’re working on screens, and wondering if it is safe to send our kids to school, or go to a baseball game, or even shake a strangers hands. It’s easy to look out and think, wow, what a failure. And when we do, we miss what’s happening under the dirt. No matter our yield, our attempt to grow is a beautiful thing.
Sitting down to my grandmother’s kitchen table for dinner always started the same way. We’d hold hands, bow our heads, and someone would start to pray.
“In the rush of a busy day, oh Lord, we pause to give you thanks. For food, for family ….”
There’s a third for something that’s escaping me now. I haven’t sat at her kitchen table for awhile.
This time warp of Covid and constant vigilance has me dancing between a frantic feeling of trying to pack summer and outdoor safety into a container before the weather again gets cold.
It’s time, again, to pause.
I bow my head. I say a prayer of thanks for these beautiful things.
Slices of melted mozarella cheese squished between fresh pesto and late summer peaches.
A friend who picks up the phone after I text, “Can I call you tonight?”
Tomatoes so juicy their insides drip down your chin, begging to be sopped up with fresh bread.
A persistent daisy poking its way through the soil, against the odds, timelines of shoulds forgotten.
Pink nail polish on tanned toes.
I’ve only got five items today – pushing for more feels like squeezing a tube of toothpaste that’s been clogged for awhile. I’m out of practice. What’s happening in the world right now is overwhelming, perplexing and sad.
If you squeeze your container a little harder in an attempt to extrude the good, what beautiful blobs would emerge?
First day of school pictures are filling up threads. I’m learning what my friend’s children want to be when they grow up and which acquaintences are sending their kiddos to private school. I’m wondering which schools are requiring masks and if it’s safe for me to be around people who have children under twelve.
In a recent Instagram post, Grace Cho wrote about how she cried when sending her kids back to school. I don’t know her personally, and appreciate her candor and appreciation for the ordinary good. She ended her caption with the words, “Nothing is the same. We’re all just trying to be brave.”
The world continues to be pummled with catastrophe, consequences and fears. For the ones paying attention, the darkness seems to be swirling in again, the temperature dropping for fears of our souls being sucked out as the dementors approach. Global pain flashes on screens, in story highlights, and rolls off our tongues in team updates. A friend lost her father. Another received the diagnosis she had been dreading.
Chocolate. That’s the remedy right? When things are overwhelming, and we feel as if we may faint, wizards nibble on a piece of chocolate.
This is such a bizarre time to be alive.
Years ago I quoted Sheryl Sandberg in a Christmas letter, using her words to reminding myself and others that when plan A doesn’t work, we can ‘kick the shit out of option B.’ It seems the companies I work with and my friends and family are on option E. Changing over to option F or G continues to be exhausting.
And still we wait.
I wonder if mask mandates will return, or the events we hoped for will be cancelled again. I wonder if those who I love will change their minds. And I wonder, how do we carry on through all of this?
We’re all just trying to be brave.
While we’re taught bravery is the courage of a lion, roaring loudly, making air move with our forceful breaths, I choose instead to tip toe into the field and lie down. Have you considered bravado isn’t the same for everyone? For rest is brave too.
Walking into office spaces as asked is brave. Changing jobs is brave. Admitting this isn’t working is brave. Wearing a mask so immunocompromised people can be safe is a super heroic act. Sometimes, even hard-to-understand defiance and adamance are brave attempts at protecting our wounded childhood selves.
Nibbling a bit of chocolate to overcome the waves of impending doom, maybe that’s brave too.
Anger and rage rarely change hearts. Rest and a bunch of daisies might. Where are you scared tonight? What letter back up plan are you analyzing? How are you carrying on?
,We’re all just trying to be brave. And, I hope that’s a beautiful thing.
PS – there are still spots for the As We Carry On writing workshops that will be offered August 21st and 24th. Learn more and save your spot here.
“We humans need beauty as much as air. Without it we exist only to survive and procreate (our genes, or our ideas, or our beliefs, or our portfolios). In a world driven to mere efficiency, we are in grave danger of forgetting this. We see the results of our forgetfulness at every turn: addictive behaviors, massive greed, devastating cruelty—the symptoms of soul death.” – James Flaherty
Needing beauty is a novel idea. For so many of us, beauty feels a luxury, with its many definitions and assumed price tags. When I read James’ words I found so much purpose in this every day pursuit.
How rebellious it is to sit and type, reflecting on the good when we should be out there producing, consuming, or creating opportunities.
What if this effort of looking for good, for holy, for beautiful things could help heal us?
My thesis stands.
And still, I struggle to focus on what could be good rather than be sucked in by what isn’t going great.
I sat in an office with a stranger yesterday, after nervously shaking a new connection’s hand. Is it rude to whip out hand-sanitizer after first greeting someone? Probably. How long will I be anxious from simply sharing air?
As our conversation shifted away from real estate and towards the olympics, my new friend paused, with tears in her eyes, and recounted the stories of kindness, empathy, and connection from athletes over the last two weeks. “People don’t really hate each other as much we are led to believe,” she said.
I vascilate between despair and hope on a daily basis. Photos of children wearing water wings and playing on beaches in front of skies brown with smoke from fires sear their images into my eyeballs. We’ve got work to do.
And then, I read reminders like Mr. Flaherty’s and remember, if we don’t look for beauty, surely we will forget.
The sun came up today and worms wriggled in the puddles on my porch.
Tiny bubbles burst in glasses of carbonated water.
Children visiting our offices stop and stare, in wonder, at the stylized super hero posters hanging on the wall.
The call for compassion is ever present.
We can give money, ride a bike, or call a friend.
All quiet. Not as insistent as the updates on my phone, breaking news, or climbing numbers of cases.
When trying to find a photo of air, I came up short. But its presence is all around us, sustaining life.
Perhaps the same is true of beauty. May its presence be as natural as your body’s next inhale.
Connection and appreciation can be found when we create it. What a beautiful thing.
If you’re needing some support in looking for the good, consider this aesthetic invitation to wonder and awe from The Mindful Leader.
I walked through the front door and looked straight through the house to see Dylan wearing gloves in the backyard. A baby squirrel, so small its eyes were unopened, had fallen out of the nest in the tree shading our deck. He gently scooped up the creature and wrapped it in a towel.
We stared at each other, wondering what we should do as it whimpered quietly.
We called animal control and waited for the inevitable.
The morning came, and with it, a blessing of release for the creature who couldn’t make it through the night. The tiny body seared itself into my memory, for when I was brave enough to see, vulnerability, potential, and hope were revealed. We are all so very fragile.
Yes, it’s the circle of life, and the realities of survival of the fittest, but in a baby squirrel I saw so much more about what alive means. Those explanations never fill the gaps or provide solace for the being experiencing pain.
The weight of our fragility has been bringing me to tears these days. That we live to take a breath, in and out again, is miraculous enough to make me weep.
I’m tired of living afraid.
What now seemed safe perhaps isn’t, and the conflicting messages on masks and numbers has heightened my nervous system once again.
I find myself in a torn place – between wanting to consume everything I can about grief and our realities of sorrow, and also wanting to avoid all pain. I envy those who easily move on towards living.
Perhaps the balance is in the in-between.
I’m moved by ordinary things, both magical and mad.
Perhaps living fully is being scooped up after our falls, waiting to recover in piles of dirt or the garage towels.
Perhaps living fully is dirty work.
I know, with certainty, that living fully means allowing my tenderness to be witnessed.
And maybe, living fully is the opposite of waiting for the inevitable.
Maybe living fully is eating funfetti cake waiting six months for a half-birthday celebration and licking frosting laced with freezer burn from cold fingers.
Maybe living fully is calling a therapist and saying I need some help again.
Maybe living fully is hugs in the kitchen and snot smears on t-shirts.
Maybe living fully is showing up scared.
Maybe living fully is masks in the workplace, and the grocery store, and the crowded hallways.
Maybe living fully is the honoring of the in-between.
What a beautiful thing.
May your days be spent not waiting for the inevitable, but instead focused on tending the fragile and the beautiful and caring for others with gentle hands. And cake. I hope there is lot’s of beautiful cake.
I had taken a seat in the plastic-moulded chair, waiting for the meeting to begin. In the center of a room was a circular table covered in grey. In the center of a circle, a candle burned, again surrounded in a small circle of smooth river rocks. Whether they were collected from nearby stream beds, or manufactured and sold on the shelves of craft stores, I was unsure. I simply noticed their existence.
‘Welcome to bereavement for beginners’, the young facilitator said, jumping me out of my wondering.
Curious how the passing of time morphs a memory. I can’t recall the exact name of the support group. I do remember how shocking it felt to belong to a group of people titled ‘bereaved’.
After introductions, and open sharing, we were led through an exercise. I followed directions having been told to choose a small river rock of my own. We were to create a totem of support for when emotions felt too large. I selected my stone and, using a white paint pen, wrote the word hope across its surface. I circled the word and tucked the rock in my pocket. When I left the class, I sat in the parking lot and sobbed.
I left the stone in the center console of my car for years. It’s collected dust and become friends with pens lacking ink and a melted chapstick or two. Its presence serves as a reminder to generate hope as I’ve driven from place to place, moving further away from my early days of grief.
This week, I started a Grief Educator Certificate program with David Kessler. In the first teaching I learned a new label for my bereaved status. He says the term for the grief we experience after the two year mark is ‘mature grief’. I snickered to myself when I heard that name.
Mature? Grief? Wasn’t mature something to aspire to as a young child?
Mature people have it all together. They have arrived. Even the dictionary uses the auspicious claim of being ‘fully developed.’ My grief does not feel complete.
My grief has, however, become a source of motivation to seek wisdom and share what I’ve learned. My longing has brought me to classrooms and support groups I never could have imagined before. Old skins have shed, leaving new layers, still tender to the touch as I figure out what to do with this gift of darkness.
Over the weekend, we drove up the canyon nearby with the goal of simply sitting by the river. I needed to hear the woosh of water colliding with rocks as it carries on to what’s next.
Under hazy skies, I made my way down steep stairs to the riverbed. Stepping over small stones, I placed my toes into the icy water and took a seat.
Fingering the rocks, I made a pile of smooth ones, perfect for skipping.
I placed three in my pocket for keeping. Perhaps I’ll carry this selection forward as I move about, from here to there.
In Colorado, the ripple metaphor is common. Throw a stone, see how far your impact can reach. I hadn’t thought of the stone from my first beginner grief group in quite awhile. The word hope was an anchor that got me from there to here.
And now, as my grief matures, I’ve found a new collection of stones to toss into the flow. I’m learning how to serve others in their pain. I’m applying radical self-compassion to my own wounds and connecting with others who believe the answers to our hurts are found in first saying, “Wow. This is unbearable.”
I’m standing in rivers, with toes icy and lungs full, using what I’ve learned to make new ripples. What a beautiful thing.
PS. There are still spaces open for the July Writing Workshops – As We Carry On: Using Words to Explore Your Grief with a Compassionate Lense. Register here.
My grief gremlin lives in my heart pocket. If you’ve read my words for awhile, you might have heard me mention her. A tiny little creature, she has dark navy feathers and big, pleading eyes. She gnaws on tendrils of memories, connections, and fibers that once connected me to other people, places, and things. She nestles, tucking tiny wings in towards her body and pops up on anniversaries, on birthdays, and trips to the grocery store. She seems to have flourished during the pandemic, reminding me of her presence on ordinary days, and in the boring spans of hours filled with background noise and scrolling thumbs.
Today, she introduced me to a new friend.
One growing alongside her, in the cramped space of a worn pocket lined with soft flecks of lint.
She told me she’s cautious to name this new wonder growing, because it’s miniature size still needs nurturing. She’s dabbling with the name Hope. Or purpose. But naming feels scary because naming is claiming the reality that there’s space for anything else to take up residence in a sacred space that has been filled with prickles and dark for so long.
In a miraculous thread of connections, I found myself on a Zoom call with a woman from New York this morning. We are discussing a new project (stay tuned for more details) and as she shared her experience with me, in her pause, this sentence stuck with me.
It was a dark point in my life. I was hollowing out and letting go to make room for new things to rush in.
I nodded deeply to her wisdom.
How long have I been hollowing? The scooping and digging and scraping and saying good bye seems to be incessant.
What this woman’s story gave me, though, was the reminder of the spacious space inside me that has been emptied. I’ve been clinging desparately, pulling at torn edges, to bring the tapestry back together with the remnants of what was.
What is is no longer. Has the pandemic revealed anything clearer?
In my incessant thinking, and all the time alone in my study, I’ve forgotten how to welcome the rushing. I needed time to finger the losses, to wallow, to wait. I’ve accepted the pain and for fear of more, I’ve forgotten how to welcome.
My gremlin, in her nesting, has done a fabulous job of hollowing. Now she’s ready to welcome more into the space.
What will come rushing remains to be seen. Welcoming. What a beautiful thing.
This year I have the privilege of participating in Stanford’s Applied Compassion Academy.
As part of the program, I’ve been charged with creating a capstone project and have chosen to create an opportunity for us to come together and discover how compassion can change how we live our lives after loss.
Please join me this July for a writing workshop designed to turn towards our suffering with grace and compassion.
Too often, our culture freezes in the face of grief. We’re told to master five steps, move through milestones, and muscle through to the other side. What if we don’t have to arrive buttoned up and whole? In this 90-minute interactive workshop you’ll explore how self-compassion can help us live more fully after loss. Together, we’ll draw from the wisdom of other grief writers. You’ll embark on exercises of free-writing, list-making, and poems to explore new ways to honor our pain, our healing, and ourselves as we carry on. Designed for writers of all skill levels. Sense of humor welcome.
Together, we will …
Explore how self-compassion helps us integrate grief into life after loss
Reflect on where we get stuck when offering compassion to our grief experiences
Create new mantras when the suffering becomes overwhelming
You’ll have the option to share your work in a collection of pieces created during our time together for a showcase that will be shared both on this blog and on my Instagram to change how we talk about our own suffering in the face of grief.
Workshops are held on Zoom
Cost: $45 (I don’t want cost to be a barrier. Email me if you need scholarship assistance.)
Choose from two dates – Saturday, July 24th at 10 am MST or Thursday, July 29th at 6:30 pm MST