Feather and Ash

There are so many things I will not tell you.  Not because they feel like a barbed secret, gingerly held.  Not because I would avoid the telling.  But because I would not have you descend, even in imagination, into this terrible wood.  There are fearsome things you do not need to see.  Burdensome memories you have not been asked to carry.  Beloved, I pray to God with my whole being you never will be!  I would not bring you here, because I love you.  Grief for a child can only be compared to grief for a child.  The first moment, the first day, the nights, the dreams, the snapshots seared into memory. I will not give these to you, for I do not have the heart.  But I will tell you Love is found, even here.  And I am not lost, although I do not always know the way.  And I will send up a light, arching above the treetops, so you can mark my heart’s progress.

Psychotherapist and author, Francis Weller describes himself as a soul activist.   I thought this was a strange claim at first, but then, as always, his models around grief opened up a whole world of wisdom. While we may often use the words spirit and soul interchangeably, he contends they are not the same thing at all, and, in fact, we have a soul deficit in our culture.  So, what does that mean?  Spirit and spirituality, he writes, are about looking up. Ascension. Elevation. About rising up from our present circumstances and getting outside of the boundaries of the physical experience. It is an individual quest - removing oneself from the here and now and reaching up to THERE. And sometimes you actually touch it, and it is bliss.  But soul and soulfulness are about descending. The sinking down into the depth of feeling and humanness, bound up in this body. Allowing the elemental forces to carve you into new shapes. It hurts. It aches. And it cannot be done alone. Soulfulness happens

With my cheek on the cool grass,  but 6 feet above you, I realize the last time  I was this close to you, but unable to touch you, was when I carried you in my body. Selah.

Don’t you need time alone?   What I need more is the gentle bustle of people  and the pressing of a glass of water into my hand. The aroma of food, quiet conversation from another room, dishes being washed, warm presence all around. My house humming with soft industry. Reminding me what living is like.  I don’t want to intrude. Walk through the door into that holy place anyway. Eyes soft, Ears open, Mouth closed. Arms stretched wide to hold the collapse and bear quiet witness to the work of loss.  It is too big. I don’t know how to help. Bring blankets to climb under   and fresh linen for me to rest on each night, searching for dreamless sleep. Stroke my hair, let me cry. Don’t try and answer the unanswerable questions Light candles and cook food,  for this home needs a full heart. Just come.  Come and stay.  Keep coming.  This is how to love those who mourn,  and I know you love me .  Job 2:11-13 11 When Job’s three friends heard about all this calamity that had come upon him, each of

  If you had asked me before, what surviving the sudden death of my son would be like, I would have described it in the most desolate and obliterating terms. Surely, my will to live would sink into the earth to rest beside him. How could it be otherwise?  Would it surprise you to hear that it has been strangely, terribly beautiful?  The days immediately after Jonah’s death were unlike any I have ever experienced. Truly, I was in shock. He was 25. Perfectly healthy. Strong. Bursting with life. And then…gone? An unexplainable burst of electricity, igniting his neurons as he slept, and then…gone? I had fallen asleep and woken up on a completely different planet altogether. Otherworldly.  I found myself detaching and kind of sitting outside myself in curiosity and disbelief. The very worst thing had happened. It HAPPENED. And I was there, in the room, but somehow listening to peacefully to music from another room. More than that, actually.  I felt the Holy Spirit actually talking to me. An

Last night a hummingbird visited our garden. It came twice. Hovering improbably among our flowers. Effortlessly floating, unbothered by our attention. It came back again, tucking itself into a hanging basket, listening to our conversation.  This morning, just now, he came back. Right into the gazebo. Right in front of me. Stopped. I could hear the way the air moved around his wings. I could hear my own breathing. 𝄐 Spell broken, his quicksilver wings taking him toward the cool, blue sky. Jonah.

  I didn’t cry for at least 22 hours. It was too big.  My head intercepted the warhead meant for my heart and began to try and dismantle it. Try and think it through. Try and decide how I could prevent the incineration of my very self. Minimize the damage. I walked slowly, blank-faced, silently, from room to room. I touched all Jonah’s things. I laid down in his bed. Focused on breathing. I felt my heart beating out his name. Jonah. Jonah. Jonah. At 11:30 the next morning, my soul’s chosen sister and friend since childhood, Susan, walked in the front door and straight to me, lying silent and blank-faced on the sofa. Without a word, she lay down next to me. I smelled her shampoo, so familiar and evocative. A tiny crack in my protective shell. The tears burst through in a ferocious torrent. .  She knows what it is to grieve deep love. She was someone I knew could withstand the universe of sorrow I needed to release. The intensity so great, I feared my husband, Elijah, my mom, my dad, cou

  On April 1, 2023, we celebrated my 50th birthday.  My husband knew, that beyond any gift, what I truly value in life is time with my people and meaningful words. With that in mind, he arranged for a beautiful chef-catered meal for us, our two sons, Jonah and Elijah, our son-by-choice Benjamin, my parents, and our dear friends, the Drews. He also secretly arranged for my brother and sister to fly in for the event from their respective corners of the world and surprise me.  He loves me so well.  The dinner was delicious, nourishing, and thoughtfully constructed. The conversation was joyful and lively, laughter ringing out easily. It was all so perfect. But somewhere between the 4th and 5th course, perfection became transcendence. Fresh wine was poured, and one by one, my precious, soulful people anointed me with words. Words of deep gratitude. Words of rich memory. Words of profound love.  It took my breath away.  In turn, I looked at each one seated there and returned the blessing. Gr

First. Deep breath, my dear one. Your breathing is shallow and high, choked by the tightening in your throat, The black weight sitting on the top of your lungs. You must remember what living is like and this is the first step. Deep breath. Breathe, just once. Then do it again. Second.  With a soft voice, I am going to tell you something terrible.  Your child is finished with their human experience and you are not.  Your child’s soul was lifted out and as it rose it grew and unfurled into myriad, unspeakable refracted colors and pure light. They rise, spinning, laughing, into the joyous embrace of the countless many, music vibrating around them and lifting them even higher, filled with knowing, and love, love, love, love.  But, You are here. You are still here. Diminished and gasping for air. Sputtering. Arms empty. But, You are not alone.