Warts and all

I have secrets. There are aspects of me that I am not proud of at all. (I will probably never tell them to you.)

We are all walking around with untold stories, aspects about ourselves we keep hidden. We have longings that are never shared, acts that perhaps no one knows but ourselves. We are brought up learning right from wrong, and wrong is not acceptable, not when it refers to a moral compass. So we keep undesirable thoughts to ourselves (usually). We drive around in our own emotional vehicles, following the rules of the road (usually). We carry on with our jobs and our lives and our responsibilities. Safely in our vehicles we let ourselves say those things to people that cut us off, that hurt us, that annoy us. We let our own emotional road rage erupt because in our own vehicles, we can safely express things that are not socially acceptable.

We live in a world of status updates and twitter feeds. We cherry pick the aspects of us we want the world to see. We purposely construct one dimensional presentations for the world to know, which begs the question:

how well do we really know each other?

I like to think we have the best of intentions as we carry on on this Earth, but our views of reality are becoming warped with social media. In a world where it is the "extraordinary" that is celebrated, our own "ordinary" is often overlooked. We can't cherry pick the awesome in our own lives. We have to live with our neuroses and wrongdoings and hurt conversations and mistakes. We don't (as a whole) express our own anger and fear and cowardice. These multidimensional qualities become confusing in our world of one dimensional achievements. And confusing can lead to self loathing. And self loathing can lead to sickness. And all of this can lead to road rage: spiritual, physical and emotional.

We might be awesome, but we're not JUST awesome. We might be beautiful, but we have morning breath and bed head. We might be smart, and yet make the most ridiculously stupid decisions.

Can we love ourselves when we are not being extraordinary?

Social media might allow us to "stay connected" to one another, but it doesn't allow us to "be connected" to one another.  Words and pictures are not people. And though there is undoubtedly a form of connection that CAN occur within the confines of technology, I fear for the human connection that is surely suffering under the weight of instant gratification and isolation.

I think it's crucial to remember that we are all multidimensional. We all have something to confess. Somehow we need to remember how to hold on to the reality that we won't always get it right. Sometimes we hurt people. Sometimes we think really mean things. Sometimes we make mistakes.

We are perfectly imperfect. We are human, warts and all.

***********

Check out this great art exhibit. I felt really moved at this concept. If only we could talk so candidly with each other, without having to be anonymous.

Imagine that.

Fancy Nancy

We are all made of stars.

In this life I am surrounded by death.

We all know, in an esoteric way (or maybe in an in-your-face way), that death is ever present; that everything born starts to navigate itself back to the waters of death. Renewal, vibrancy, bold goodbyes and death, such are the seasons of our lives and of our Earth. We know this, and yet our minds do not want to accept this. We fight this and say that things are not fair. And of fairness this may be correct. But life is not born of fairness.

My vocation in life has been in dealing with matters of death. "How can you be surrounded by so much death" people ask me? But in fact, we are all surrounded by death, in varying degrees, of varying intensity. I see people in their last stages of life and there are elements of this that mystify me, that call into being my purpose, and that emphasize my own inner Knowing. This Knowing, the kind that is hard to articulate, is not born and does not die. It guides my own hands and words and actions as I help so many confused and grief stricken people enter their journey away from their bodies.

When I sit with a person that is dying there is a point where I know that they are not in that body. There is a gauntness to the face, a glaze over the eyes, a stiffness in the body. Yet we, as hospice caregivers, often tell people that hearing is the last to go. I believe this to be true.

Just yesterday I sat with an actively dying woman. There was no need for blood pressures or oxygen saturation readings or temperatures. The trajectory of death was in such full effect that it stopped me, busy, million-places-at-once me. I sat at her bedside for a long time and I laid my hands on her chest. I knew she was not in that body, even though I could see her jugular vein faintly beating. I could feel her presence, not the dying presence (for I do not believe that presence dies), but HER. I could feel her watching and listening and I could feel her not being attached to this withered, cachectic frame of bones and skin. It was as though I was touching organic matter, born of the Earth and entering back into the Earth, but that the true Self was still there, boundless and alive.

This woman had lived a long life. She had careers and children and grandchildren. Christmases and trips around the world. Youth and suitors and long flowing hair. She had a past that was rich with memories and experiences.

We will all die, and this fascinates and saddens me. It reminds me that this is a GIFT, this LIFE. We get to feel happy and sad and joyous and full of grief. We get to travel and sing and dance and hug one another. We get to do handstands and crossword puzzles. But my favorite part is we get to walk among each other and feel each others' lights. Connecting. Listening. Emphasizing. Caring. Loving.

What a miracle this is.

I do not live my life under a religious doctorine, and I will never say that one way is the absolute Way. But I will say this. There is a light, inside of my body, around my body, entering and leaving my body, and because I am human I will call it MY light. But when I look at the stars in the evening sky, each one casting its light in the darkness, creating a blanket of wonder and light and beauty....well there is a connection there. I can not articulate it. I can feel it.

This is the day

My heart used to ache on this day. This is the day that my father died. This is the day that I received the horrifying call from my sister that I needed to come home, that dad was dead. This was the day that I somehow managed to get from San Francisco to Maine, by myself, with frequent interruptions of nonstop crying. This is the day that I first learned what grief was: real, intense, there's-no-escaping-this grief. This is the day I lost a parent, one of the most familiar and loving people in my life. This is the day. November 7. It comes every year.

This is my 9th year of recognizing this strange anniversary. It's strange to have "a day" that stands out among your other days, and stranger still to be able to comparatively track your own heart's grief. This used to be a terrible day for me. Grief used to be so palpable, so on edge of my heart that simply noticing it would release a well of tears. But things have changed, and my heart has taken that grief and processed it. Slowly and gently, grief transformed. Slowly and gently grief lost its hold to gratitude. Slowly and gently I arose from underneath those sad waters and I had a healing in my heart, and a better understanding for the immensity of grief and love.

Today is the day that my father took his journey to the other side. It is the day that his soul left his failing body, released to freedom and to a place that all of us will one day visit. I'd love to know where he is. Does he still exist? Is he ever present or he is only alive as energetic memory?  I don't know. But what I do know is that what happens when we LIVE is carried on in so many innumerable ways, pulsing and taking new forms far after we die.

Today I want my sister and brother and mom to know how much I love them. And to dad, if you're still checking in...thanks. You made me a better person. I miss you. I love you. And I am so grateful that YOU were my dad.

- Summer

Being gentle.

I just went through an emotional ringer. At the risk of sounding a bit vulnerable I will tell you that I spent Saturday curled up in a ball on my bed, headphones on, and I cried and cried, just like a baby. I'd let the music take me away, then come up for air. Cry a little more. Come up for air. Cry. And then, after about an hour and a half of being a puddle on my bed, I started drying my eyes. I felt different, lighter. I cried things out that I needed to GET OUT. I needed that space to let myself go there, to that sad, sad well that is somewhat always lurking on the horizon. I wanted to visit that place yesterday, that sad well, because I could feel it all festering out of my body in ways that were not desirable.

One of the wisdoms that I have softly gained through the years is to look at my emotions when they come up. Not to BE the emotion, to WATCH the emotion. And usually from there, if I'm loving myself as I should, I listen to what I need to do. I don't always do this right away. Sometimes it takes some time of noticing undesirable qualities that won't go away. As I laid in my puddle yesterday I could hear the words "be gentle with yourself". It was like someone was whispering it in my ear. And I was.

I remembered, so poignantly, that sometimes crying is the absolute best thing you can do.

After awhile I picked myself up.  I was so grateful that my husband had graciously given me this much needed space to be alone. I went outside and I walked. I felt the sun on my face. I cried a little more but instead of tears from an unnamed grief, they were born of gratitude. I was alive, and moving, and the sun was healing my soul, and life was good and I knew it.

Even though I generally consider myself to be a happy and positive person, there is always a well of grief on the horizon. Maybe it's just because I'm sensitive. Maybe it's empathy for others that are grieving. Maybe it's grief in missing, or maybe it just lurks there for everyone. I do not know. I just know that it's there, even when it's so far out of my view. This is okay.

I'm human. I cry and grieve. I laugh and am joyous. It's not all good and it's not all bad. It's life. You do the best you can.

Stay grateful. Be gentle.

- Summer

I'll light the fire, you put the flowers in the vase that you bought today.

We won't always live here, this little house in our urban neighborhood. One day this furniture that we have rearranged a million times will furnish somewhere else. These hard wood floors, with all their creaks and stains and beauty will one day be trampled by feet that aren't our own. This house has seen a new marriage, a new baby, new jobs, new friends. The living that has taken place in this small (but beautiful) space has been the jewels of the past 6 years of my life. No other 6 year span of time in my 36 years has ever housed such change. The carefree and somewhat naive person I was when I moved in has morphed into a full fledged adult, just as was expected, just as I have welcomed with open arms.

Why am I writing about this? Because someday we will leave, all of this talk will one day turn into action. And someday all of THIS that I take for granted will belong to another, and the terrifying journey of newness will start again. This is what I CRAVE and also what I FEAR the most.

So as I wrestle with demons that never really leave my head, and fists that are never really far from my heart, I'm reminding myself that nothing lasts forever. Not people, not places, not things. And sometimes living gets lost in the desire,
and this is probably the saddest thing of all.

Blazing

The tree in front of my house is blazing red. It's magnificent. To transform like that, from bare bones to a deep, lively green, to that bold red hue...it's elegant. Stunning. And fleeting. Each morning I go outside and find more and more leaves laying on the ground, turning a soft brown, saying goodbye to another perfect season.

I think of my life in chapters. Chapters can be defined by years, by experiences, by seasons. I've had some really swell chapters, really swell. Others were less desirable. All of them have come and gone, blazing like my red-leafed tree.

I feel a sadness as my tree loses more and more of its color. It's a saying goodbye. And it's a simple reminder. What if right now, these very days in which we are going through our normal, everyday motions, what if these are our red blazing moments? As a witness to so many dying peoples' experiences, I see autumn, their leaves unraveling from their bodies, stripped of their rich colors. Soon gone to winter.

I think it's my job in life to be blazing. In my routines, in my friendships, in my every day encounters, I have the option of letting these moments pass me by, unappreciated in their simplicity and in their mundanity. Or I can be bold and red. Not overbearing and intense. Just appreciative. And happy.

Life comes and goes for each and everyone of us. But right now we are all here, and we all get to be totally awesome.

In connecting...

I'm breathing today,
actual breaths in my actual lungs which are actually rising and falling
and this is my own miracle.
There are moments in life when the poignancy of this
sits on your lap with your face between her hands
and the everlasting truth of this ever present moment
is suddenly the shiniest star you've ever seen.

We walk through this world with our heart lights
shining like beacons, ready to love.

The way we touch each other,
with soft skins and smiling faces,
with caretaking and desire
habits and moments taken for granted,
these are the gems of our lives.
My heart, pressed against your heart,
listening and being heard,
pausing for a moment in the completeness of our shared space.

We are powered by connection.
but vulnerable in our humanness,
possessing the knowledge that all warm hearts will one day grow cold
and that love with not always be felt in arms embrace.
Our loving hearts become sad, full of grief and sorrow.
We long for beating hearts.

Outside, the trees continue to whisper,
the blooms open and they close
the tide ebbs and flows
night falls and day rises.

And our hearts, in those poignant moments,
open up to the beating heart of the Earth,
and her continual reminder

that love never dies.

Tug, tug, miss.

Us humans are funny. We are so different from our ancestors. We don't stay and settle roots (though some do, yes). Many humans move, travel, encompassed by our technology and our wanderlust.We grow up and we explore. I have lived in 5 different states since high school, each new journey exciting and completely bursting with promise.

But things happen to us when we move. We lose friendships, possessions, the opportunities to spend time with the people we are leaving. We dive into the new place and we start it over again. We start accumulating new friendships, new possessions, learning about the new culture. Places run their course (or maybe they don't) and the cycle continues anew.

But each time you depart a home, you leave a piece of yourself. A memory, a person, a wish, an accomplishment, a job, a friend, a lover, a heartache. But still we march on, hearts and eyes forward, ever ready to embrace the current newness.

My point is this: in this vast United States I have pieces of my experiences all tied up like heartstrings connecting me from here to there. There are tugs from any given heartstring at any given time. Tug, tug, miss. Tug, tug, miss. That's life I suppose. You get used to the missing at some point.

I just returned from Maine, and see of all my various heartstrings none of them is as strong and thick as that of my home state. As soon as I step foot off the plane the old culture surrounds me. The crisp air, the leaves, the smell of the ocean, the accents. ("Oh geez, we're gonna go on up to Kenny-bunk-port for the summah". I mean how endearing is that accent?!).

My heart hurts from the pulling. Seeing my daughter with her cousins, her second cousins, her aunts, her uncles, her grandmother her great grandmother...it was family togetherness bliss, something that is, unfortunately, a rare occurrence at this place in our lives. She loved and adored it. As a mom it made my body melt on the inside; it was so endearing. My child for whom I have not been able to provide a sibling for, was suddenly surrounded by people that genuinely loved her. It had been three years since I'd been to Maine, my daughter was 1 on her last visit. So this felt very different. This wasn't just my trip anymore. It was hers, too. And she absolutely loved it.

So here we are back in Denver. I'm blessed here, and there is so much that I love. But the pulling is there. Tug, tug, miss. Tug, tug, miss. Tug, tug, miss.

Cousins

Swan Pond, Lyman, Maine

Ah, the mighty Atlantic.

The two Eleanor Graces in my life: my grandmother and my daughter. They love each other.

A letter written before his death

I want to tell you about my friend Daniel Rhoda. What I fully understand in writing this is that my experience of Daniel Rhoda was purely my own, that it is but snapshots in the amount of life and love that he was a part of. But in my snapshots he's a fun loving child growing up in our small town. He's an 8 year old singing Free to Be You and Me. He's a popular and good looking pre-teen, one who was friendly and kind to my awkward and gawky 11 year old self.  He's a 20 year old young man having existential conversations with a 20 year old me at a time when my faith in religion was being rocked. He's a 28 year old man showing a 28 year old woman around the island of Kauai, teaching me about Ayurveda and Aloha, and touching me with a wisdom that was so radiant, so enchanting. As a child he was fun and accepting of others. But who he became as an adult was so gorgeous. He was captivating and smart. Wise and  receptive. He was extremely beautiful and most notably, extremely kind.

Daniel took his own life last friday. This event has sent so many, many people spinning, trying to understand, trying to make sense of something that feels unnatural: to consciously want to end your own life.

It is my belief that the people that do extensive personal work have to do so by visiting places that are very dark. Light can never know itself without darkness, and humans are no exception to this grand dichotomy. For someone that spent so much time manifesting his thoughts and his dreams, actualizing a life full of amazing people and experiences, he also had a shadow side. We are all familiar with the shadow side. The universal aspect to the shadow side is pain.

And pain is pain. I think of the excruciating pain of giving birth, howling into the ether with no thought or care as to who heard. In pain it is hard to see straight. In pain we can no longer function under the social norms that society expects of us. And Daniel had tremendous pain. Existentially yes, but physically as well. What I remember of his tour of Kauai was that I had to drive his car, that his debilitating joint pain made the simple act of sitting and pushing the gas pedal unbearable. He was 28 years old then, with more debilitation and physical pain to come. We can never understand what that was like for him. But now we are all faced with the realization that his pain was so much more than anyone understood.

Dan's brother, Les, a dear friend of mine, has asked me to post his final letter on my blog. I realize this is extremely personal, but the Rhoda family have wanted to be very up front about what has happened. As Les writes "I hope this brings comfort to those of you grieving from afar. You are all in my thoughts, prayers, and heart." 

I post this with the utmost respect for the life of Daniel Rhoda, a friend, a son, a brother, a lover, an explorer, a teacher, a student, and ultimately, a shining light. There are many hearts that are breaking with his loss, but isn't that what love is? We love, and we break. The depth of our love can only ever exist with our own vulnerability.

Aloha my friend.

"Dear Mom, Dad, and Les,It’s with great humility and sadness that I leave this letter to you today. From a place of deep chaos and yet quiet clarity, I lost a longstanding battle today. I’ve always been a delicate, sensitive soul and have questioned many times if I was supposed to be here this time around. I’ve spiraled in past months to places I didn’t know existed in me. Despondency over my physical health and latent mental illness from my youth and early 20’s came back with reckless abandon. Despite knowing the ‘right’ things to do clinically, I allowed the cycle to continue, while barely keeping it together on the surface. My physical health has deteriorated way beyond what people know. Every single day, it’s a struggle to function, and pain is ever-present. I feel like I’ve tried almost everything at this point, and I’m destined to live a life in which my physical health continues to deteriorate. Yes, I made some great strides forward and managed to do a lot over the past 10 years. However, I don’t have any fight left in me. I truly mean this, and haven’t just succumbed to a momentary sense of hopelessness and weakness. It’s weighed on me so heavily in the past years, particularly knowing I may never be well enough to have a family of my own. 

My biggest regret right now is not the loss of what my life could have been like. It’s the impact this decision will have on all of you, as well as my closest friends. I’m sorry you will have to live with questions whether you could have done more to help me. I’m particularly aware of how selfish this is to you, Mom, only shortly having healed from cancer and also what you went through with Uncle Fred. For that I am deeply sorry. It literally breaks my heart to think of the three of you mourning my loss and having to live with this the rest of your lives. I know there will also be social repercussions living in a small town, and I wish this did not have to be the case. The reality, however, is that you couldn’t have done any more for me. I know you questioned if you should have me hospitalized, but even that would not have changed the course of my actions. The choice of life is one that only an individual soul can determine. Through all my studies and experiences, I’ve become less attached to “life for life’s sake” in many ways. I haven’t been scared of death, and I’ve only wanted to be here if my soul is truly evolving. I don’t feel like this has been the case for many years now. I’ve enjoyed school and work enough, but I’ve had these deep existential questions of “why” and “what for” forming the backdrop of my being. I know my decision will be viewed as avoidable, tragic, and even cowardly by some, but it’s a decision I can only make alone. There will be so many questions and confusion about how this could happen. People will seek an easy explanation, however, so many different components led to my decision. 

The greatest smile in my heart right now is when I reflect on how blessed I have been with family. I couldn’t have asked for more loving and supportive parents. You have given me every opportunity in life. Mom, your compassion, thoughtfulness, strength, energy, and intelligence are so incredible. Please know that I will always be your “little boy” and one of my earliest memories- that of you rocking me in the chair- remains my fondest. Dad, I’ve appreciated your genuine care, interest, humor, randomness, and easy way of being. You’ve been an amazing father and friend to me. I cherish our time on East Grand Lake and our hour longs talks on the phone. Les, I’m so glad we grew closer as we got older and were able to bond through music. I have always been your biggest fan and have no question about your innate talent and passion for what you do. 

It feels ridiculous to try to encapsulate my love and appreciation for each of you in a few paragraphs. Mom, you have been such a remarkable support to me over the past few months. You took all my call and I felt so cared for without judgment when I got home. Your wisdom literally astounds me at times, and I feel proud to be your son. Dad, I also appreciated all of the times you reached out to me just to check in and let you know you love me. Les, I know you’ve been there for me even when we haven’t been in touch as much. This is something I have never questioned. 

I also leave feeling beyond grateful for the role that grandparents played in my life. Gramps literally allowed me to consciously discover what it felt like to really love someone, and Gram was so incredibly loving and caring towards us. Grandmere and Grandpere also passed along their own forms of generational wisdom. Auntie, Charlie, and Jody- you have also been important family to me, and your deep family bond and resilience have always been inspiring. 

I have also been blessed with incredible friendships, and I know my decision will come as an utter shock to people. There will be attempts to analyze what happened- did he lose the fight against his physical illness?; was he actually disturbed all along and just putting on a show?; did he have a nervous breakdown?; did he study so much about spirituality and the mind that it ultimately became a disservice?; did he break down after losing a relationship etc.? The truth is that the answer is no to any of these single explanations, despite the fact there may be elements of truth in each of them. None of these explanations alone justify my actions, because this is something that’s lived within me since I was around 19. I’ve been a deeply contemplative, lone wolf of sorts, despite what I may have shown on the exterior. The recent relationship stuff was simply a catalyst for uncovering much deeper levels of disturbance and concern within my being. Even when I moved to Hawaii, I wondered if I would conveniently get lost in an ocean wave one day, so this existential angst has been with me a long time. I’ve pushed through trying to make the best of things, but I feel too tired and worn down to keep doing so. Please don’t feel like you could have prevented this. The biggest factors in this decision in order are: feeling hopeless about my health and that I’ve exhausted my options at this point. As I said, this ways on me so heavily with respect to ever having any future quality of life and family. I also feel a lack of optimism and motivation for my career path and potential. Lastly, there’s no question that months of little sleep and food have contributed to my mental state. These were brought on by the relationship stuff, but this isn’t a case of taking my life because of a break-up. It’s more that all the factors came together at once, along with the move, and completely overwhelmed me beyond knowing how to get out of this hole. 

Regarding friendships, I’m not able to do justice in this letter to all those who have touched my life so deeply. 

Jim, you’ve been the single biggest influence in my life outside of family. Our journey together has been a soul-level journey and you have given me nothing but love. Your battle with cancer has given me strength every single day, and I know how much you love and care about me. I appreciate you letting me come visit, and I can’t thank you enough for your support, guidance, compassion, and wisdom. I know how much this will hurt and for this I am sorry. You deserve more from our friendship. I love you my friend, please always know that. 

Joe, you will always be my second dear brother. Your gentle wisdom and outlook on life is so pure. We had a good run my friend, and Ski With will be putting up walls from another place. I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfill the one request you asked of me. You are such a good soul, and I wish you nothing but happiness. Thank you for coming back to the lake for one last time together. 

Tsega, thank you so much for being in my life and for our recent time together. You are such a bright, beautiful being, and you have had such a huge impact on my life. I know that life will only continue to bless and nurture you. Thank you for coming here with such a loving heart. 

Kim, you are goddess incarnate and taught me so much about what it means to live as a conscious, creative male. Our time together on Kauai was such a gift, and I hope you always know how much I adore and respect you. 

Elliot, we’ve had such a journey, bro. From London onwards, we’ve held such a special connection. I’m sorry to leave you, Dallis, Lottie, Harlan, and Tilly. I have not fulfilled my godfather duty for which I am sorry. Please do good things for yourself and family in Cali. 

Hayes, our friendship has spanned two decades. You’ve got such a good heart. You’re also a great father and I send you and Ali love and gratitude. 

Tim, we watched each other grow from Moore 13 days, and I’ve been in awe at your ability to move so fluidly throughout life, as a father, scholar, and dear friend. 

Jericho, we’ve had such a journey together for which I am grateful. Your creativity and talents are destined for big things beyond island life…I know you know that. 

Jason, from Maine to London to NYC, we’ve had so many good time, bru. I hope this next chapter of fatherhood treats you well and I send love to you Adrienne and Amelia. 

Tom, you’ve been like a brother to me. I was grateful to bathe in your wisdom for so many years. Your thread of humanity and endless compassion are unlike anything I’ve known, and you’ve selflessly touched the lives of so many. I thank you for our last days together and for your unwavering friendship. I send love for your soul’s journey as a father, sage, and healer. 

Suhas, it’s been an honor to learn from you and be in your presence. The opportunity to study and work with a master is a true gift. I know that this will deeply disappoint you, but I ask that you do a blessing for my soul’s journey. I know you will continue to spread wisdom around the globe, and I wish the best for you Manisha and the kids. 

Jacyn, you are so amazing, and please don’t personalize this. Our recent journey is not the major factor behind my decision- please know this. You are such a bright being, and I know you will shine even brighter. I am thankful for our time together and send you nothing but love and Aloha. 

Whitney, I appreciate how we’ve laughed together, and you’ve been a good friend to me. You are such a kind, thoughtful person. Please do good things for yourself. 

Ras, we had a special sibling-like relationship almost from the beginning of grad school. I’m glad I got to introduce you to beats etc. and it’s been great to see you flourish. 

Molika, I’ve so appreciated your kind, grounded perspective. You are a talented woman and will touch the lives of many. 

Mitzi, I enjoyed our time together and what a sweet, genuine person you are. I trust that good things are in store for the one and only lady jaja. 

Gina Marie- You’re heart is one of the most beautiful I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. Please spread your wings and teach women around the world to be powerful, just like you.

Felcher- Big Jer, thanks for taking such good care of me bro, and for sharing your pearls of wisdom. I hope you’re catching waves for another 50 years.

There are so many others I could write about, but at the least please let those you can know I am grateful they were in my life: Rahul, Johnny, Alicia, Chad, Alaya, Milind, India, Angela, Jeff, Charmayne, Hilary, Shanly,Vir, Terri, Jon Rasmussen, Lori, other Kauai connections, Deerfield, Bowdoin, and Shaman school classmates, NYC friends, and the list goes on... 

Mummers, Dad, and Les, please always know that I love the three of you so incredibly dearly. I thank you for bringing such joy and blessings to my life.
As Gramps would say: Je vous aime, je vous adore. Que voulez vous de plus encore? 

With Love Always,
Daniel (Deeper)

Rabindranath Tagore
passage from Gitanjali (1912)
translated from Bengali

The same stream of life
that runs through my veins
runs through the world
and dances in rhythmic measure.
It is the same life
that shoots in joy
through the dust of the earth
into numberless blades of grass,
and breaks into tumultuous waves
of leaves and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked
in the ocean cradle
of birth and death,
in ebb and in flow.
My limbs are made glorious
by the touch of this world of life;
and my pride is from
the life throb of ages
dancing in my blood this moment.
The song I have come to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my life
stringing and unstringing
my instrument."

When someone you care about is grieving....

There are things that you say when someone dies. Rest in peace. I'm sorry for your loss. Thinking of you. These are all important things to say when someone has lost a piece of their heart, but for me, even though those words are entirely appropriate, they feel trite, small. Of course the problem is not in these words but merely in the finiteness of language.

What I want to say to the family of my friend who has just died is something that I can not say in words. I want to stand next to them, hold their hands, and not talk. I want them to know that I (among so many others) am here, that they are loved, and that it is okay to cry, to get angry, to plead, to mourn, to grieve. It's okay to hide yourself under a wall of blankets. It's okay to scream. It's okay to not entertain the swarms of people visiting. I want to be there in person, with a hand on their backs, shedding my own tears but saying nothing. Because when it's all said and done, the grief can be done by no one other than the grieving.

As a hospice nurse I have seen so many people die. I have sat with grieving families, held the space for people to cry, watched the very raw emotion of grief unfold in loved ones. But grief, no matter how well I understand it professionally, always feels different when it happens to me and to people that I love.

I am states and years away from this loss, and I acknowledge that I am but one person, one person among the countless others that love and care for this family. But I can only speak for myself.

To my high school boyfriend and lifelong friend, my heart aches that you have lost your brother.
To his parents, my heart aches that you have to live through the nightmare of burying a child.
I wish I could say or do something to make this not hurt, something to make the sting of this new reality be somewhat less biting. But I'm stuck with the limitations of language and the prayers to hold you up in love as you navigate this sad, sad loss.

Bittersweet life.

In savoring, and in letting go

I'm back. I could blame it on the fact that my domain name auto-renewed,
or I just couldn't say goodbye,
or the more honest reason: sometimes I don't have anything to write. Or the time to write it. Or the energy to find out what it is that I even want to write about. But I don't want to stop writing.

This summer has come, flourished, and is wrapping up. I made big preparations last spring, preparations that were meant to glean all of the beautiful Colorado goodness and all of the savor-every-moment mommy-ness that the summer has to offer. I left a well paying day job with a very predictable schedule, took my daughter out of school for the summer (day care school) and declared it to be OUR summer.

And it was. And it was awesome.

And it was also exhausting, and cumbersome and joyous and challenging and, well, it was everything.

Our days have been filled with mountain trips, field trips, road trips, day trips. There have been few naps, and there have been fewer moments alone. The latter was the most challenging, but I tell myself, and what I know to be true, is that her and I, this little 4 year old lover of life, have such an enchanting love, and that the cliche of "long days and short years" couldn't be more true.

Yesterday was my daughter's first day of preschool, a big kid preschool in which she is but a tiny 4 year old in a giant school that goes up to fifth grade. It was just a half day, in which parents stay and learn about their childs' new daytime routines. And her, her sweet little bobbed hair pinned back in a barrette, sitting in a group of her 4 year old peers while the teacher read them a story, and the way she kept looking at me, stealing my glances, checking to make sure I was there, I saw our connection, deep and strong, FULL of love. I watched her, my sweet baby who has grown so much, and choking back tears that I knew would come, I also knew that she was ready. We were both ready to learn to be apart.

So today when I dropped her off "for real", a full day at school in which I wasn't allowed to stay, it was okay. This is where we are now. She is not a baby, she is not a toddler, she is a child, a BEAUTIFUL child. There is so much in the world that awaits her, things that I will not be a part of. Things I can't protect her from. Laughter that I won't see. Behavior that will remain unknown. Smiles and tears that I may never know of.

But I am her mother. I am a million other things as well, but for this one little girl in the world, there is no other mother but me. Just as there is no other girl like her.

Absent Summer

I feel like my days on this blog may be coming to an end. Suddenly I've become very sensitive to the world knowing about my business. I don't want to be an open book anymore. Maybe it's that my daughter is growing up, and becoming an individual, and her, being such a part of my life, well I don't want the scary part of the internet world to be privy to us anymore.

Or maybe I'm just too busy. Or tired. Or maybe, like all things, they end.

I haven't decided. But I have been absent.

And so, in this summer like so many summers, we are filled with travel and destinations. Days off and porch dinners. Getting to bed late. Hiking, exploring. And sunscreen. So, so much sunscreen.

We've spent a lot of miles in the car, but instead of sharing some of the stunning scenery we've been blessed to explore, I'm going to leave you with a few gems coming from the backseat; the 4 year old's perspective.

A week in the life, instagrammed

There is not one part of me that regrets leaving my 8-5 hospice RN job for a hospital job, one where I work 2-3 nights a week. That leaves so much free time to enjoy this lovely summer, my fantastic family, and one of the most gorgeous places on Earth (in my opinion).

View from my hospital, paying the bills and taking the pics.

When city bound, we hit the public pools.

Or the local resevoirs

We hit the jackpot by making wonderful friends who let us rent their property in Salida, CO.

We go there a LOT. This is the view from the front porch

Salida is a whitewater rafting hub. It SO makes me want to learn kayaking!

This weekend we were surprised to find a carnival in downtown Salida.

And we thoroughly enjoyed it! (You can see my husband and daughter waving)

We celebrated Father's Day

because Mike is such an awesome dad.

And we celebrated my birthday

Where I spent the morning on a solo hike up a 14er

It was AWESOME.

In the Rocky Mountains, I sometimes pretend I'm Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music....the Hills are Alive!

I can't begin to tell you how much I love this state.

I look forward to a summer FILLED with adventures!

Another year around the sun...

What it means to be a parent is constantly changing. At first it's the strong, somewhat fearful cradle of an infant. The baby you wear on your body. Eventually the baby becomes mobile, and you become the doting helicopter parent swooping in to safety during the crawling years, then the walking. There's the baby talk that turns into conversations. There's the outgrown clothes that you get rid of month after month. There are the sweet little outfits she will no longer wear because she wants to pick out her own clothes now. The massive amounts of gear required to leave the house eventually turns into sunscreen and a granola bar shoved in your purse.

When you're in it these transitions don't seem so sudden. They slowly morph into your new reality. I think back to the crawling 6 month old who always wanted her mama. Today I sit on the porch as she rides her bike up and down the sidewalk.

I watch her now and I am beside myself. This tiny little being who lived in my belly has left infancy, has left toddlerhood, and is now a kid. I watch her being a kid and I am struck with the same love I felt the moment I first felt her small body on my stomach, only now the love has deepened and become a sturdy, proud gaze. I watch her need me less. Grow more. Learn every day.

The miracle of life continues to feel like a miracle.

Now she is four.

She is inquisitive and funny and charming. She is tall and beautiful. She loves her mommy and daddy. She loves her friends. She gets frustrated easily when things don't go her way. She is learning how to navigate her own emotions.

I sit back, not completely relaxed. I'm still on duty as the mom who will keep her child safe. But my how things have changed.

However do our hearts contain so much love?

Princess for a day

Beautiful love.

Feel it.

This scary, beautiful, heartbreaking world.

Tornadoes and cancers and moms who will no longer be picking up their children.

We're not kids anymore. These things are so real now.

Last night I sat with a grieving family, a large family, intensely divided in their decisions about what to do with my patient. My patient who had cancer yes, but had been living her life well. My patient who came to the hospital with a pneumonia. Who through the course of the week had suffered enough respiratory failure that she required an intense and uncomfortable oxygen administration in order to keep her alive. During my shift it was the middle of the night and emotions were raw. Eventually her husband took me aside and told me it was time to take the breathing treatment off. So as I was discussing the plan with the doctor, he went to her, his wife of whom he had just celebrated 50 years. And her, under her bipap machine but still completely alert, she held him, tears running down her face, down his face. He crawled into bed with her and they knew it was the last time they would hold each other. It was one of the most raw and tender moments I have ever seen. And with a nod from the husband I administered the morphine. I took off the ridiculously uncomfortable breathing machine, and with her family by her side, she started to slip away. It took longer than most thought, and during that time her family gathered, and cried, and even shared in some laughter. Their matriarch was dying. Two hours later she took her last breath.

Each moment that we have each other is a treasure. Each time you pick up your child from school is a blessing. I think many of us know, on some sort of a spiritual level, that you have to appreciate the present moment. But that knowledge often escapes us. Often we are focused on our memories and our plans, and in doing so we lose sight of the precious moments that are happening now.

I know I am not alone in my struggle to find peace with the fact that so many children just died while a tornado ambushed their elementary school. Peace in tragedy. It's such a dichotomy.

And yet, it somehow happens.

We are born into a world where everything changes. Where things grow and things die. We open up our hearts to love, we feel connections to each other, and we do so at our own risks. We are vulnerable creatures, and sometimes our coping mechanisms are unhealthy.

I like to think we do our best.

I will tell you, as the silent observer last night as I watched my patient die, I couldn't help but feel touched by the amount of love that was in that room. A matriarch was passing, and the family was there, grieving, and she was not alone. And she knew she was loved. It was the kind of death scene you see in the movies, the kind where you get to say what you need to say, where you get to say goodbye to warm flesh and blood.

It's the kind of goodbye we should wish for. But not the kind of goodbye we are promised.

I heard a saying once that the only way to pass a storm is to go through it. With the tornado that occurred yesterday this is quite literal, but for us observers, this is so importantly metaphorical. There is pain in this world, and we will feel it because we are loving creatures. But it is my belief that the pain can not be avoided. You must take it head on, let it wash over your body, come out of your eyes, come out of your muscles and your bones. Feel it. And then, let it go.

http://www.theatlanticwire.com/national/2013/05/oklahoma-teacher-heroes/65461/

Urban hike, instagrammed

There's a pulse in a city. City people live together, have local businesses, ride buses and lightrails, drink coffee next to one another. There's kindness and there's crime. There's affluence and poverty. The vibe can change in a single city block. But the sum of all it's parts is humanity, coming together in one big group, creating. Denver is not perfect, but there is something very special about this city. That, coupled with the fever of spring, made today a simple, yet extraordinary day of simply venturing out of our neighborhood and exploring other parts to this fine city. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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summerinco