Ultimately, we have just one moral duty: to reclaim large areas of peace in ourselves…and the more peace there is in us, the more peace there will also be in our troubled world.
Etty Hillisum
These words are written on a card tucked up at eye level above my desk. I happened to glance at them this morning as I was pondering all that is painful in my heart and how to begin writing. Etty’s words are a welcome reminder that while I cannot directly alter what is happening around the world, particularly in India, Nepal, Fiji and other countries hit hard by Covid 19 and its variants, as well as the massive starvations in Yemen, the uptick in domestic violence, and more, I am able to sit in my heart space and allow and welcome an ocean of cleansing, peace, and nourishment to fill me. While I enjoy the privilege to do so, I also have a moral imperative to do so, to develop peace within so that I may live peace without. While it seems small and insignificant and hardly of use to those dying daily in a ravaged, lonely, and painful manner, building a foundation of peace is the bedrock of our presence in this world.
Entering this inner space, I am transported to my sitting rock on the North Shore. A massive boulder spreading out along the shoreline with an area that over eons has been molded to form a perch where I sit and watch the sunrise, the waves lapping the shore, a pair of Loons diving for food, the Mallard family braving the elements. I gaze about me and see within crevice’s formed from the shifts of time, dirt has gathered, a seed has landed, now a wildflower with a purple head, now a white one sweetly bending in the breeze.
Here lies hope, resilience, patience, the allowing of change, growth, and beauty in adverse conditions. The world is contained in one seed. This one seed that with air, water, sun, and a bit of soil, becomes all that it truly is. We become who we truly are as we nourish the seed within us. The sacred source. The One in all life. That which endures.
Knowing that grief is an experience shared by all humanity lets me see myself as just one wave on a great sea.
Ram Dass
Consider the advantages of this rare human existence.
Jamgon Kongtrul
These two quotes stood out for me this week and as they seemed to want to be considered together the question arose, is grief considered an advantage? As I ponder these statements, I realize how our rare human existence is supported by seeing ourselves as one in the whole of life as well as understanding and accepting our experience of grief as one of the advantages.
Thinking about the advantages of my existence on this earth and making a mental list, I was not too surprised that the beauty of all we see and hear through these eyes and ears brings nature high up on the list. The heartful joy of a sunrise as we enter the day, the awe of a sunset that can at times take our breath, the joy of seeing a cardinal perching on the spruce in the midst of a cold white winter, the sound of the ocean that both soothes and calms, the amazement of seeing a moose standing at the lake shore.
Then we have all the people we encounter in this one life. The vast array of differences that astound us as we find those we call mates and those we name children. With this amazing brain and prefrontal cortex, we humans can engage in complex creation through music, art, and technology and profoundly change the world, for good or for ill. All that I have named are experiences that easily have the potential to open our hearts. And, within all of these and more we experience our grief, the losses before us that impact us in varying degrees. These also have the potential to further open our hearts.
All animals share in this beauty of nature as well as their relationships to both humans and other animal species expressing feelings of grief and other emotions and making choices. Humans, however, hold the unique experience in how we think about all of these. It is not enough for any of us to feel the beauty, the pain, the grief, or contentment, as we have the capacity to ponder the experience, to refer to it in the past, to retell the story, to fear for our future, and to hold all of this awareness while staying present in the moment. With our capacity to think about our experience we give each moment meaning. The meaning I give the sunset on Kuai becomes part of the story of my life. The narrative I create around the birth and death of my infant daughter becomes a marker in my life journey that holds meaning for me and continues to grow as I grow with it.
When we tell ourselves our stories, we then have the ability to make choices. Not everything I tell myself I can believe because thoughts also arise from past experiences and how I thought or felt then may or may not be true in this moment. I have the capacity to discern and then choose both how I think about this past in the present and how I want to move forward. Through my story telling, my choosing, my ability to advance my thinking through reading and learning, I see I am not alone in my most challenging experiences of life. I witness others pain and loss and can feel with them and offer myself to them in support and care.
In the midst of my grief, or a diagnosis, or fear and anxiety, I don’t necessarily go to how grateful I am that this is now happening but from my experience I know that these events can and do bring me to really see life and what I would miss if it is taken from me. I might have many more immediate concerns and thoughts but if I can take the time to ponder the wholeness of life, I might see that what has happened to me was not done to me but is all part of my life on this planet, in human form, at this time. As Thich Nhat Hanh so beautifully states in his poem, Please Call Me by My True Names,
…Please call me by my true names,so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once,so I can see that my joy and pain are one…
Wholeness is our life, we are interconnected, and in seeing and knowing this we marvel at this rare experience of life and our role in it. What am I bringing to this planet through this incarnation? In what way is my grief of value to my human existence? As we embrace the life we have been given as worthy of our respect and our reverence, we do so not only by the choices we or others make, but how we respond to those choices, events, and all the joys and the sorrows that hold the potential to awaken our hearts. We risk a heart broken open and whether we encounter a crack or a chasm the invitation is to enter and, in so doing, allow for the process of transformation.
In ache of body and
clouding of mind, with Moderna
doing her work in me,
I form an offering
to self and community, abating
the pain of future loss.
Lake Superior, the mother of
Lake waters, rests in my heart as
I breathe in the sound of waves
Soothing my spirit,
Massaging the ache in bones
Like rocks skipping on water.
This Siren beckons us to her,
Flaunting her frilly foam skirts.
With one toe touching her frigid being,
We run back in laughter.
We are drawn to her shore
but today we dare go no further.
It is enough to hear her, to see her from
Solid footing, to allow her to caress and soothe
tired spirits too long hidden in square boxes,
Behind the ubiquitous mask.
She bestows pain and death when
We fail to be aware.
When we are swept away by waters
of the mind that stay turbulent,
unable to rest on calm safe shores,
Fear and hate rise.
We seek to lay blame on other
Rather than be aware of our complicities.
As we witness the beauty and danger
Of these sacred waters,
We are reminded,
This magnificent world also holds unseen
Assault whether virus or human and we
Dare not ignore that ability to also take life.
Just as we say no to a virus and do what we
Are able to diminish its grasp on our people,
We must say no to hate
For all our people on this land.
Our mother earth, our mother waters,
She holds us in her wisdom.
May she guide us on our way.
When I grow still,
Settling into the
Gentle flow of the moment,
I steady my gaze
Into this, not that—a picture
Of a dream that is not yet formed,
Doubts resting in holy time, Mental lists easing their demands.
I find my being in-between times,
when snow is met with rain, as
Pisces ruler of the oceans
Meets Neptune god of the seas, and the skies
thunder and tremble. I imagine
A new world that has grown beyond
Illusion into the truth of compassion, empathy,
And attuned to spirit.
It is time to learn to dance in her flow
and set roots so as not to be swept away.
Moving with the tides, respecting
Boundaries, watching, holding space
for this new vision arising.
An opening of the door to the heart,
To THAT—Simply,
You are. I am. THAT.
Over the years, I have developed a nurturing healing habit of creating, somewhere in my home, a shrine or an altar for a deceased loved one. I allow instinct, intuition, and the flow of life in that moment to guide me and the objects I choose.
The first shrine I created was in the summer of 1981. It was a spontaneous outgrowth of love for our baby Beth who died a week after her birth. It began with the yellow roses from her burial day and the little hat with a red ribbon the NICU nurses made for her. Then I added the sympathy cards, a candle, the program from her funeral, a photo of her in the arms of her dad and me. The little pink and white rubber teddy bear our Brian and Laura had chosen for her. A small yellow and white flowered blanket that held the smell of her. Pictures our children and the neighbor kids colored. All the items that reminded us of her short life and the comfort and love of family and friends. It stayed on our dining room buffet for months or a year until the day came when I realized I could remove it slowly.
In 2003, I made a small shrine for my dad. Again, a photo, a candle, the program from the funeral Mass, the eulogy I had offered, his three books written about his life including his army years and Soo Line Railroad life and work. Little mementos like a miniature Soo Line train, a cross, his childhood French Canadian prayer books, cribbage board, and a pipe and matches.
In 2006, the shrine was for my mother. The red etched glass candle holder that was in constant flame for the week of her dying, a photo of her hand cupped with my hand and my granddaughter’s hand. The CD of chants we played on loop. Her rosary, the program of her funeral, my written eulogy. The red blanket we wrapped her in after washing her body following her death, and flower petals. I can still smell her shrine as it left a lasting scent of roses within me.
Last September 2020, my shrine was for my youngest sister, Mary Beth. Living her life with Down Syndrome and then adding Alzheimer’s to the mix made for an array of objects for this 57-year-old woman. A stuffed animal, a beaded necklace, her photo with her boyfriend, the eulogy I wrote, flowers, one of her paintings, her ashes, sympathy cards, a photo of our parents, and a photo of all of us siblings. Surrounding it all in the dining room was everything she owned. All her bits of papers she folded and saved, all the jewelry that she would adorn herself with but became lost to her memory as Alzheimer’s settled in. All her stuffed animals, her guitar, paintings, clothes, and trinkets. All expressing both the simplicity of her life as well as the challenges she lived with, in her day to day.
Now in 2021, the shrine is for my mother-in-law, Winnie, my bonus mother. All the objects that have come to symbolize her life for me and her son, Leo. A pair of scissors, a purple yoyo, a bounty of flowers, a memorial candle, her Benedictine Oblate book, a photo of her, a wooden Benedictine cross, butterfly cards, bells, and butterfly towels, always butterflies. This altar started on the kitchen peninsula where we eat breakfast and it keeps growing to be the full peninsula, as we add a necklace, a pair of earrings, a butterfly pin, more cards, her favorite quilt. This one is still fresh and new and will be with us for some time. We will know the day it is right to begin the dismantle.
There have been other altars over the years, for a friend, an aunt, an uncle, and always an ongoing altar in my meditation space. Other shrines or altars might be for a beloved pet, a job loss, a physical shift with a move or in health. And there are altars for joy, new life, new relationships, all the little ones that spontaneously form from the bits we collect on a dresser top or bedside table. In many ways, in our humanness, we are natural collectors and many objects that are chosen are from nature. Each of my altars/shrines for these loved ones display the small objects of physical existance that help me ground in the reality of this particular life. They are the tactile bits of a personality, a spirit, a soul, that help me to connect for some time to the loved one’s energy, smell, and feel, anchoring me in my body and into the earth.
The secret sauce to any altar/shrine space that we create is in the intention, the choosing of the objects, and the awareness of what meaning they have within us. The symbols we imbue with the loved one’s memory help us to understand and value the life they have lived. As can be seen from these five shrines above, the items are random, some fun and frivolous with others more heart centered in faith, but they all speak of a love story that was lived out with the one who is missing from this physical world. I see myself in what I have chosen, as the items speak to our relationship and are reflections of my own inner life. They represent the story of one who has impacted my walk on this earth, be they in loving or in challenging ways, and brought meaning and enhanced the world within which I live. I stand before each altar gazing at what is displayed, feeling sadness in my loss, allowing my tears when they come forth, and trusting the inner smile that might arise at the memory. This space also offers me a place to feel my anger, resentment or any other troubling emotion that needs and asks for expression. It becomes the sacred container for all of it.
When it comes to the day when all the items are put away, there might be an inner sigh, a smile, a recognition that this life has meaning, has consequence, has touched my heart and soul in ways that are now integrated into my being. My soul is larger for the effort. My being expands in the awareness and compassion for the life lived. The relationship expands as the symbols create a narrative that is imbued with meaning.
Conversely, I might find that when I remove the shrine, I feel deep within me that there is more to come. The objects go away, or narrow down, but I still have more understanding that needs time to be realized. I draw comfort in knowing that I have a lifetime to be in relationship with the memory of the loved one and healing may come in a totally different way, on a totally different day. There is no timeline in grief only a spiral that moves and flows and allows, as I journey forth. As long as I lean into the grief as it arises, I can trust that it will work with me; it will have its way with me until that story, my story, feels complete.
Gazing up in sun salutation, With 'Canon in D' streaming Into this inner sanctuary, the Sun in its March morning salutation, through the window before me—releases— Drip, drip, drip, The rhythm of Pachelbel announcing, Beat by beat, Note by note. Yes!
Snow melt and moisture Earth opening to thaw. Soil teeming with worm and insect, Veins of connections in their hatchings. We will soon throw open windows, Invite in through the once shuttered door, And receive the breath of a new Season in her glory. Her resplendent self in The yellows, peaches, and pinks of Daffodils and Jonquils, Welcoming birth in all the furry and feathered ones.
It is all our spirits have longed for And our creative selves seek. The release of the lion and the promise Of the lamb, this month named for Mars, god of War, with our only wish being for peace. Too many have left us in this fight with Nature, her anger rising with our ignorance. Our lack of faith in the covenant to care And sustain her. The gift we were entrusted In our birth.
I know Father Sun you are just teasing me today. Flirting with my desires, but We are weary with The depths of death and decay. As they become a memory, We will do what, as humans, we must. We will rise to greet the dawn, The promise of a new day, a new season. A new moment. A new covenant.
My bonus mother, Winnie, left her mortal body on February 19, 2021, after two days of being unresponsive. At age 97, she left behind 71 descendants and countless others who dearly loved her and felt joy in her presence.
I first met Winnie when I was 18 and she was 45. She had birthed 9 children and grieved 4 miscarriages. When I met her, she and husband Herb were in the midst of raising these 9 and life was a whirlwind of activity. What most impressed me and intimidated me were her life disciplines and her spiritual disciplines, but mainly her life disciplines. Those I witnessed as a particular way to do laundry, dishes, set a table, iron clothes, grow plants, chop vegetables. She did it all with care, intention, and dedication. It all mattered. She was a hard worker from very young. She never shied away from any job no matter how hard, whether it was plowing a field with a horse and plow, washing clothes for 7 by hand with no running water, or baking ten or more loaves of bread each week. I was a young woman who did not much enjoy housework so had not given it much thought or attention, I just did what had to be done. Winnie raised and taught her gang of 9 with these disciplines including the admonition to carry a hanky, wear clean underwear, say the Memorare, and show gratitude, always gratitude.
Winnie’s spiritual disciplines at that time included attending Mass, praying the rosary, morning and nighttime prayers, mealtime prayers, and countless other ways of prayer in the yearly cycle. Her spiritual disciplines included treating everyone they met or who came to the door, relative or stranger, as if they were important, as if they mattered, and were expected. This was a large and growing family who lived for a number of years on meager income, got their Christmas tree free late Christmas Eve when all the stock would be gotten rid of, received the undesirable cuts of meat from the butcher for free or at low cost. My husband Leo remembers Karo syrup sandwiches for lunch. The family grew almost all their food and when someone would show up at the door and it was mealtime another place or 10 places were set, and jars of canned food would be brought up from the cellar to supplement the meal and no one would be the wiser that this was not planned ahead of time.
In later years, Winnie’s spirituality and hospitality would bend with the changing times; children did not stay in the Catholic fold, divorces happened, and disappointments were felt. She never bent in her personal disciplines of prayer but allowed for another’s choices in their own path of life; we were never out of her love, her gaze never faltered. As life slowed for Winnie, living a path of love deepened within her; she exuded love. When Leo and I would bring her to Mass or any other event in the community, it was an occasion for all who knew her, each individual approaching her wheelchair or walker with delight and receiving her hug, the holding of a hand, and a ray of love. Even if she could not remember your name, you were her one and only for your time with her.
Each of her 71 descendants and their spouses received the same. When you were with her you received her blessing through her touch, hugs, radiance of love and you felt like you were loved the most. Every summer the whole family has a three-day campout. One year we were all sitting around the campfire and it was time for Winnie to be brought back to her apartment. Without a word or a plan, all 50+ who were there at the time stood and formed a column to the waiting car, a path she walked down, turning to each one individually and giving her love, her final touch, her gaze of love, her giggles. I have only witnessed this with my guru, Amma, who people flock to for her gaze and her touch.
When I first met Leo and the family and we decided to marry, I knew then that I was not only marrying Leo; I was marrying this family. They were also my choice. He did not come without them. We have made our own life, our own unique way, but, and also, the family, particularly, Winnie, are never far from our mind and heart. Winnie was the bonus I did not always see fully or appreciate for her teachings. Later, I was 22 and full of my own life and drama and Leo was mine sweeping in Hai Phung Harbor during the Vietnam War. I was back here in Minnesota, worried, fearful for his safety and as mail was sometimes slow, I had not heard from him in some time. I went to Winnie with my pain and fears wanting some comfort from this mother, a cry on the shoulder, a pat on the head, “oh, so sad dear”. She looked at me with an attempt at patience with the words akin to, “Why do you worry about something you have no control over, that is beyond your scope of view, and has not happened. Life is right here before you, that is what you need to focus your attention on.” This woman who was still raising 5 teens in the house, working at St. Ben’s, and involved in countless community projects, then put me to work peeling potatoes or some other much needed task. Well, I was not too pleased with this response. I wanted her to massage my pain, wallow with me in this story created in my mind. It was only later that I could see her wisdom. This moment is what matters. It is the only one we have. Why create suffering when there is work that needs to be done and laughter to be felt – now.
I have many profound teachers who have brought me along in my spiritual life. I consider Winnie one of those teachers. Winnie was very human. She could make my head swirl with her hundreds of clippings, all that caught her eye and spoke both to her spirit and to her inner historian. She wanted us to read each and every one. These were how she shared her inner life with us as she did not have the words. She could also get lost in old pain, places that were hard for her to let go of and could still bring her to tears. But mostly I see her spiritual life. She was an oblate of the Benedictine Sisters in St. Joseph and I feel privileged to have her Benedictine prayer book that is full of her notes and highlights, marking what is most important to her. The name of the book is Work of God. It is a fitting title for this woman who embraced her life, always, as work of God. Who countless times offered up her day to God. I define God not as an out there being but as love, an all embracing, penetrating energy that imbues and connects all life into One. Winnie’s life was a work of love. Winnie became a vessel of love. It is hard to find all the words of gratitude for this dear woman, the ‘Queen Mum’ of our family. I hear her giggle and say, “It’s all good. It’s all gratitudes, gratitudes, gratitudes.”
“Walk slow and walk like you’ll never be back again." Loni Bergqvist, as stated by an elder on El Camino
Day 3: El Camino de Santiago
I do not personally know Loni, but I felt her fellow pilgrim spirit as she shared her story recently. She walked the Camino in 2013 and I walked in 2017. As do many, she was walking at a fast clip toward her destination, Santiago, and her feet were “rotting away, filling with blisters, cuts, and deep pain.” She sat on the side of the road and wept. Along came an elder gentleman walking with a cane. As he stopped to inquire on her state of being, he stated that he has walked the Camino 6 times. His sage advice was, “Walk slow and walk like you’ll never be back again.” She did and she healed.
This story brought forth the memory of a visitation from my dad seven days after his death on December 2, 2003 and recorded in my journal.
I am driving a car and dad is in the passenger seat. I am maneuvering through a winding, precarious maze. I look over at Dad as he looks deep into my eyes. He says gently, “You can slow down, take your time.” I smile and feel comforted. I awake and sit bolt upright. The dream was a visitation. Dad is a wisdom guide. I can go slowly. I have always felt a need to rush through my life like I am being chased. Thank you, Dad.
In these days, which have been termed a polycrisis, we are reminded to slow down, to assess where we are in our own individual life, and how we are connected to this web of all life. To gaze deep into our own eyes and say, “Walk slow and walk like you’ll never be back again.” While we are steeped deeply in a grieving world, now is precious time for all of us to assess, take advantage of this imposed slowing down on a global level, and be fully in this time, a time that may not be here in the same way again.
What do we want in our individual life of relationships, work, creativity, and our penetrating connection to the plant and animal world within which we live? Are we allowing that which is outdated within us to die off while giving ourselves space and support for opening to new ideas and new ways of being? We won’t know what the outcome will be in any of our inner or outer work and that is the treasure, allowing growth from these seeds we plant today as we attend, bring attention to, and create conscious intention in the process.
Follow the arrows of the heart; they know the way.
The pavement rose bushes are in full bloom and the waft of rose scent in the air feels like an intake of blessing on each breath. I missed the peonies as rain hit hard on their opening. The lilies are in bloom with splashes of color everywhere.
The last couple of weeks have simply been hard labor with scooping a few ton of rock into our landscaping around the back of the house. What seemed insurmountable in the beginning is now two thirds complete, one shovel of rock at a time. My body still holds a few aches from the job but also pride in accomplishment while realizing the enjoyment of sweaty dirty focused labor. The job was made fun with two grandkids to help us, keeping us focused and laughing in the midst of it all.
During the week, I called Margie, a newly bereaved late 70’s woman whose husband died a month ago and has been told she needs to vacate her rental as fast as possible as it is being sold. Distress, tears, disbelief, stuff to be sold or given away, no time to grieve, panic, all this I heard as I visualized Margie trying to move a ton of rock with very little support. I remember those first weeks of deep grief and the fog we move through as we try to find our bearings with a brain not functioning well as we forget things, have a hard time focusing, and find ourselves melting in tears at the small reminders of our loss. We can feel buried under an insurmountable weight.
For many of us it is the people surrounding us who help us with each shovel load, helping to ease the burden, keeping us focused, and we are grateful. At other times we find ourselves alone in our grief, sadness, and confusion. Whether we are alone or surrounded by loved ones, we ultimately find we must look within to our own resources, that which guides us daily. Finding in our own stillness the quiet moment releasing the waft of roses arising from our own heart, that which is connected to all life and loving and living and that which draws us forward to live and grow into the only thing to which we can become, ourselves in full bloom. Our own wholeness of being.
This morning’s waking gift was the pink horizon anticipation of the sun along with the crescent moon with a reflection on mother Superior. It reminded me of St. Francis prayer, Canticle of the Sun.
….Praised be You God for all Your creatures,
especially Brother Sun,
Who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendour,
Of You Most High, he bears the likeness.
Praised be You, my God, through Sister Moon and the stars,
In the heavens you have made them bright, precious and fair….
