A Bear’s Winter

 

I have retreated within, but

I am not asleep.

I am here, in the dark cave of winter.

Quiet, hidden and unheard.

The cold has chased me inward, to intimidating depths.

The cave, the habitat of my winter spirit, giving me it’s solemn, introspective gift.

Darkness carving away the rough edges of my fear.

The winter hush tugging on thoughts & feelings the sun often burned away.

Solitude singing forth a wiser woman.

In my cave, I let winter’s work unfold.

I know that when the bird’s return and the warmth gathers,

I must have prepared myself for seeds of the next season.

So in my cave, I remain.

Despite it’s intimidating depths and darkness.

This is my bear’s winter.

For those looking for practical rituals to do seasonal soul work:

• 20 sun salutations as many mornings as you can with the sunrise.
• Candles in the dark evenings, turn off the lights.
• Bundle up, go out in the cold night and glance to the sky and observe.
• Find a chant/meditation to repeat daily (mine is: I am a magnet for joy, love and abundance).
• Take more winter walks.
• Cook more hearty soup.
• Read a novel about someone else’s journey through life’s hardships.
• Paint/color a photo using only various shades of blue.
• Begin composting for your spring garden.

 

A Samhain Lament

 

A flicker in my mind.

Not quite a memory

but more than a passing moment.

The scent of dirt, tossed in the wind.

The taste of salt, mournfully falling.

And a ballad

played loudly but not loud enough to quiet the sobs.

A creak as the casket descends.

The rhythm of dirt and petals dancing upon your tomb.

A thump as the Earth welcomes you to her womb.

A whispered good bye.

This day

this specific part of this day

is not something I simply recall and remember.

It is an orchestra of sensation.

My heart, my body feels this day in present tense.

Without warning, the sensations play.

The feel of my sisters fingers mingling with mine.

The ache in my bones when I must convince my feet to walk away

to leave you there.

Time heals, so we’re told.

Time seals.

Time closes wounds.

Time scabs.

It does not heal.

Underneath, the pain remains.

These flickers in my mind, these feelings reveal that to me.

And may they never leave me.

May I always remember my love for you by feeling the sting of your absence.

 

 

 

 

Winter Soul

Bleakness, coldness, darkness.

This is winter.

Winter Solstice is upon us and traveling with it is frigid and bleak days and nights.

So often many of us ignore the darkness of this season for what we call hope, light and goodness.

But rather, what if we allowed ourselves to dwell in the darkness.

Rather than hushing away the bleak of winter, let the cold air seep into your soul.

Allow the darkness to cover your eyes so that you can only be still.

Let Winter in.

Quite knowingly to many, I am not one to turn away from the wintering of other souls.

But this year my own wintering has been overwhelming and I have not let it seep in.

I’ve been distracted by so much.

I wanted to continue those distractions. To keep “going”.

But the seasons have a way of dipping their toes into your soul when you are not looking.

As Winter Solstice approaches I feel the deep need to sit in the bleak, cold and dark places of myself. To feel and know them wholly.

I knew that in order to experience this wintering, I needed to unbusy my life.

It was not an easy decision in the least, but I have decided to take winter, spring and summer off from my work as a birth and bereavement doula.

I knew this was the right decision when I observed my emotions around each birth that I attended.

I was not fully present with my families, I do not leave each birth with the same joy as I previously had and I was not giving my birthing families all the energy I could.

I need time to let this past year of my life teach and guide me.

The wildly unpredictable birth of my baby boy and the death of my mom only 9 weeks later have some serious inner work to do in my life.

I want to give them space to do so.

It is during this Winter season that I know the bulk of that work is beginning.

And with this time I hope to practice presence to my grief and my joy. To think endlessly about my mother, her life and her death. To enjoy the days and nights with my children. To continue a life rhythm with my husband. To sit with myself and know her.

So I will let winter in.

But I will also put on a pair of wool socks, wrap my frigid fingers around a hot cup of tea and snuggle close to those dear to me. Because this is winter.

Allowing the darkness, bleakness and coldness of this season to do it’s work and clenching onto warmth that is offered to see you through the winter.

Nothing is ordinary.

The wind is finally calm.

And I am inside my nest, my home.

I watch the smoke from my burning mountain sage twirl in the space before me. Dancing and moving in ways that seem intentional.

I sip my nourishing mothers tea, noticing each sip in detail.

I could so quickly leave these moments, regarding them as ordinary and unremarkable.

But I hear from my depths “Look, my love…nothing is ordinary.” 

I notice again the sage smoke filling the room. It’s movements seem to carry a message.

And with each sip of my tea I hear the sound of my body swallowing. Inviting in nourishment.

I notice the quiet stance of the trees outside my window. Recovering from the push and pull of the wind.

I hear the breath of my baby sleeping sweetly on the perch of his mothers back.

Nothing is ordinary. 

Every moment is full of sacred. Holy. Life. Love. God(dess).

It’s not that each moment has potential to be extraordinary.

Each moment IS extraordinary.

Each breath is holy.

Each sip and swallow is life.

Each moment, each micro moment, is filled with the goodness of our Creator.

And I breathe.

There it is.

Goodness.

I’ve been searching for it. These extraordinary moments of goodness that would bring me new life.

I was unaware that I’ve been breathing it…in and out…this entire time.

Each breath brings me new life.

Each moment offers me goodness.

But each day I must make the choice to accept it.

Because it’s there.

This is no ordinary day.

A Death Story

This is the story of the death of my beloved mother, Diana, who passed away on June 12, 2015 at the age of 47. I’m still fresh in the grasp of grief, but I want to share these details before they slip my memory.  

In early May 2015, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 adenocarcinoma, a type of lung cancer. As quickly as I could I packed up my 3 year old and 5 week old and went to Kansas. I had no idea those short 4 days I spent there with my mom would be some of the last. She seemed fairly well with the exception of some weight loss and pain. She was laughing, reminiscing and playing with her grandchildren. We sorted old family pictures together and laughed and cried to some of our favorite old songs. My mom and I talked extensively about her death plans. I made sure she knew that is was important to me that I was there to usher her on to the next phase of her life because she was the one who ushered me into this one. When the day for me to return to Denver came, my mother hugged me in a way unlike before. Her embrace felt permanent. It was bittersweet to leave Kansas, as it always is, but I went back to Denver, expecting the make more trips throughout the summer to help care for her. On June 1oth, I  returned to Kansas with my 10 week old son. My mom was feeling worse and spent the previous week at the hospital due to dehydration. On the morning of June 11th, we brought mom home from the hospital and had the house prepared for hospice care. It was important to all of us that she pass at home. As my sisters walked her into the house she was making statements about returning to the hospital because something didn’t feel right. She said to me that she knew coming home meant she would die. That morning we got her comfortable and prepared for what we all thought would be a couple more weeks of caring for her.

By early afternoon, hospice left and my sisters returned to their daily rhythm. My grandmother and I cared for mom, which was simply helping her stay hydrated and helping her take her medication. Mom was alert, laughing and seemingly ok. She was awake the whole day, which had been uncommon for her in recent weeks. She seemed restless. She was up often and requested my grandma make dumplings — one of our family traditions.

That evening my mom had a large helping of my grandma’s dumplings. The past weeks she didn’t eat much, so this came as a surprise to my grandma and I. This should have been one of the clues for us that she was close to death. After she ate, my mom tried to sleep but was complaining about muscles spasms. I figured the spasms were from her morphine being so high. It was at this point that I felt a shift. Something felt different with my mom. I helped her use the restroom and walking her back to her bed she was more uncoordinated than usual. As I tucked her back into bed she kept telling me she didn’t like this. She said she was referring to the spasms, but I think the whole process made her weary. I asked her if it would help if I stayed by her side, she said yes. For the next hour she was restlessly trying to sleep — pulling on her oxygen and the blankets next to her. She would wake up from her restless sleep and say something that wasn’t quite clear and in a slurred voice. She asked me for pen and paper to write down dates but once I gave her the pen and paper she said she would do it later. She mentioned something about grandma’s Christmas and complained that hospice nurses were not coming to help stop her spasms. She also told me she was dying. The last thing she said to me was “But we need to take care of that stuff.” I told her it was all taken care of and helped her lay back down. I told her to melt into her bed and sleep. She was then able to fall asleep, although she still seemed restless from  spasms and  snoring. I held her hand and prayed that she would not suffer. I was hopeful her soul could hear mine telling her that she was safe. She could go whenever she needed. From that time,which was about 10 pm, I stayed by her side with my 10 week old sleeping on me until 2 am.

At 2 am I went to the next room to lay down with my son for a bit. As I drifted off to sleep however I thought I heard my mom crying. I got up and went over and she was sleeping and snoring as before. I checked on my grandma, checked outside, but could not find the source of the crying. I laid back down and this time I thought I heard my mom say “this is happening.” I got up and went to her again but nothing had changed from before. I decided I was delusional and fell asleep on the couch for a couple hours. At 4:00 am I woke up and checked on my mom, who was still sleeping and snoring. I decided to go upstairs to the bed since sleeping on the couch was quite uncomfortable for me and my 10 week old. I came back down at 5:15 am to use the restroom and check on my mom. Nothing had changed, so I decided to go back upstairs and get another hour or two of sleep. At 6:45 am my 10 week old awoke. I changed his diaper and quickly headed downstairs.

At first, I thought my mom was finally getting some restful sleep but I quickly began to suspect that the room was silent because she had passed. I checked her pulse but did not find one. I turned off her oxygen and checked to see if she was breathing, but I did not feel breath. I put my hand on her chest, but it did not rise or fall. At this point, my grandma awoke and came from her room and I told her I suspected mom had passed early this morning. I remembered at this time telling my husband just a week or two before that I had a dream that my mom passed away during the dawn. I never suspected it would actually happen.  My grandma then tried to wake my mom up and kept asking me if there could be something else wrong. We were both shocked that she passed so quickly. I was furious that my mom’s final breath happened while I was sleeping. Of course, it occurred to me that death is like birth. Giving birth becomes more difficult when you are being watched, so I concluded my mom needed me to stop watching her so she could die.  I spent a few minutes by my mom before calling hospice and my sisters. We spent some time by mom’s side before her body was taken away, but it never felt like enough time.

It’s peculiar how death can make so many things clear.

I see my mom like I never have before.

I see her in myself, in my sisters and in my children.

And I am so glad to have the life I’ve had with her and to see her all around me and to feel her within.

My mom always called me her wild fire. She said I had passion that lights fires and burns the night.

She was the one that encouraged me to be unguarded. To be myself, fully.

She was the one that encouraged me to uncover my emotions and to not be ashamed of my feelings.

She was the one that encouraged my wild spirit. She never tried to tame me. She intimately knew the freedom of a barefoot soul.

She was the one who walked me into the wilderness of womanhood.

She is the one who whispers into my spirit, “Run my wild fire…burn the night.”

I hear you mama.