For Thor - 71 - The Line Between Bravery & Foolishness

I cried myself to sleep last night. And the night before that. I woke this morning to see the sunrise through teary eyes. Tears fell in the car, at the soccer field, in the shower and while cooking supper, yesterday.

Friday night was family night at the funeral home for Uncle Dick's mama. I wanted to go, for the family. This is the first time one of our generation (my sibs and spouses) has lost a parent, and it was important to me to be there; like they were there for me. It was the first time I'd been in that room since your service, Thor and I tell you what, it might have been brave to try, but there is a fine line between bravery and foolishness. I landed just a bit on the foolish side of that proposition, I'd say. As much as I love my sister and Dick, I think it would have been better if I hadn't tried quite so hard. But we never know our limits unless we test them, right? And now I know a little more about myself than I did on Friday morning. Even foolishness has its benefits, I suppose.

Would it be bad never to go to another funeral as long as I live? I don't know that this is the answer, but right now I'll do just about anything to avoid a full-sensory flashback like the one triggered on Friday. The whole experience was surreal, from walking up to the door of Dunkum Funeral Home and catching the first whiff of the smell in the room to the lighting and the energy vibration, I was transported in time, space and emotion to January 4th. I could not clearly see what was in front of me, the sweet family of a lovely woman who had left this earth too soon. Her photo and the flowers surrounding it floated like a ghostly image superimposed over other images; terrible images, seared forever in my mind. All I could see was you laying in that damned box with a gazillion flowers in a stunning array around you. All I could smell was the mums, roses, and sunflowers that draped the coffin and lent their natural beauty to make this worst moment just a little bit brighter. I shakily hugged a few people, the ones I had braved this environment to see, but the tears wouldn't stop. Hugging someone in that space, the space of grief, was like hugging people from that night in January when I embraced over 800 folks who came to say farewell to you.

It was clear I had to leave. The evening wasn’t about you and me, Thor. It was for someone else's pain and loss as we come together and take a moment to cherish a particular life. But for me, there was nothing else happening other than the vivid Technicolor replay of your funeral. It felt like I was going crazy with an alternate reality running alongside the one my body was currently occupying. All my senses turned traitor, adding to the full immersion experience. I could feel your cold hands, and I marveled at your beautiful hair as I caressed it one last time. I traced the funny little curve in your ear that I've loved since I first nuzzled it, you just a newborn babe. I stroked your cheek and tried to make believe it was not ice cold and hard…I tried to remember the last time you hugged me and how you smelled then, warm, clean sweat, laundry soap and you. I tried to block out the formaldehyde smell that clung to you as you lay lifeless in that damned box. Oh, yes. I had to get out of there.

My goodness. People are kind. Aunt La, Aunt Poorna and Aunt Radha along with your sweet dad and many friends, they helped me get done what I came to do; pay my respects and offer my love for the family. So many kind smiles and feelings of tenderness came our way, as everyone knew that it was hard for your brothers and dad to be there, too. So even though my mind was stuck in a dreadful place, there were lifelines of love that helped me get back to the current moment. We stepped outside into the twilit evening to head home. I breathed out forcefully, clenched and unclenched my fists, and shook my head. Dad offered to drive, but I welcomed the distraction of engaging my mind in an ordinary task. Riding as a passenger would allow me to linger with the pain.

I had escaped but not before uncorking a fresh bottle of memories and emotions. Holy shit! It hurts so badly, still. As we were driving home, Dad put his foot down and forbade me to attend the service the next day. He knows the signs of a crash coming. He's only ever firmly stopped me from doing anything two times in twenty-two years. This is one of them. I knew he was right, so I acquiesced without my usual defiance and let out another cleansing breath.

That night the moon rose fat and bright over the horizon. As I lay down, the silvery light drenched my bedroom. It looked like Angel Light to me, radiating with a soft glow that felt like angel wings wrapped around my heart. I sensed you right there, lending comfort as my tears slid silent and unending to soak my pillow.

I'll never stop missing you.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 70 - Melty Edgelessness, For the Win

Do you know why the ocean is the master of all the waters? It's not because it's the largest and it's not because there are whales. Although whales are freaking cool. And dolphins. I adore dolphins. The ocean is the master of all the waters because it rests beneath them. All rivers and streams run their sparkling courses through hill and wood to eventually end their journey in the vastness of the ocean, where it waits with infinite patience in the total knowledge that it already encompasses them all.

A few days ago my little skiff was bobbing wildly down a raging river. Anxiousness and worry spun the river (my mind) into frothy whitewater. A raging river is loud and distracting, and like a drunk monkey, it demands attention. It threatens to dash me on the rocks and tumble my raft in the rapids. I naturally rise to engage and fight the current, battle the waves and stare down the boulders in my path. I take on the identity of a person who needs to gain control of the situation. The terrible thing about this is that it's a no-sum game. I would be doing battle with my mind, the illusions of demons that don't exist outside the thoughts that bounce around in my skull; the lies I tell myself about how I'm not good enough. If I continue engaged like that, I will end up where my attention was set, dashed on the rocks. Instead, I remembered a lesson learned on the night you were born, Thor. And it calmed that river right down.

Hurricane Fran had pummeled us with over ten inches of rain in one day. The trees swayed in the wind and bent starkly under rain-soaked leaves. As the storm approached it did more than just knock out the power and flood the rivers; it triggered labor. Planning to have a home birth, I called the power company to see how long it would be before I could flick on the lights. The man advised me to evacuate to a hospital since the substation that supplied our area was under ten feet of water and that it would be at least three days before we could expect to have power restored. Oh, holy Lord! I was unwilling to consider a going to the emergency room to give birth to you. It didn't feel right; it was not our story. So, your dad and I decided to stay and make do with what we had along with heavy reliance on the advice of our midwife, Nana and Aunt La.

At one point Nana and our beloved midwife suggested I stop walking around and try to rest awhile. I laid down on the sofa, sweaty in the sweltering humidity of late summer in Virginia, and had a conversation with the Great Unknown. I thought about the countless numbers of women, my ancestral sisters and mothers, who had given birth under the stars, on the plains, in cabins, caves, yurts, teepees, and igloos. I thought about the countless mothers who breathed in and out to tap the power of the Earth so they could bring their babes safely to life. Mentally, I linked arms with this vast sisterhood and turned my attention inside. I would do this freestyle, without the carefully wrought plan we had created over the past months. And without running water, or power or anything else save the love, support and experience of those who attended this blessed event. (Your dad was a rock star, btw!) I breathed in and out, in and out, innnnn and ouuuut. Surrender it to God. Surrender it all. Accept no blame, nor praise. Just be here now and allow life to be lived through me. Breathe innnnn and ouuuuut….all the tension left my body rendering me edgeless and free. You and I were so connected at that moment, Thor. I felt you saying "we got this mama." And so I was resolved to a primitive homebirth with whatever resources we could garner at the moment. With a final exhale, I let it go.

In that very instant, the power came on! The ceiling fan started spinning, and the air conditioner sputtered to life. I laughed aloud and whooped! I don't know if surrendering allowed the power to come on or if it was coincidence, but I can tell you that taking a position of surrender was the best thing I could have done for me, and us. It's impossible to fall off the floor, right?

The lesson is one of surrender and faith. All rivers lead to the ocean. If I wish to be the master of my life not a refugee in it, I need to cultivate a state of being that allows for the continuous experience of love. Allow my stance to remain humble, vulnerable, kind and patient. This means being kind to myself, too. We are often our own worst enemies. My thoughts can cut like knives into the tender places in my heart, bleeding me dry of precious energy, disconnecting me from Peace and Love. The anxious thoughts and passing fancies are not real; they are fabrications made up of old tapes, old stories, old hurts. They are the ghosts of the past coming to haunt the present and seeking to derail the future with fear and doubt.

This week I grappled hard with the concept of resilience as I tried to pick myself up from that sad, angry, low place. In the months since your death, I've gained a measure of resilience as it related to me, individually. I can focus inside to tap in and find that calm, deep peace from which all creation springs. It's like cold, clear water in a desert. Nothing is better. The rub for me is when I get involved with the world and have to find this resilience when faced with all the various agendas, ideas, needs, struggles, pain, suffering and terrible beauty that surrounds me. In these interactions the connection to peace is tested. I'm out of control in these situations, and that makes me edgy, not edgeless. Other people's decisions, actions, and timeline can affect the daily life of my family, and this vulnerability spins up anxious thoughts and cues the frantic doingness that I just don't want anymore.

I went for several long walks along sun-dappled lanes and tree-lined rivers to spend some time in silence and prayer. I intentionally worked to reconcile the truth of the situation with the inner dialogue that was running amok. It took some doing, and I didn't get it right the first time out. I still struggle with this at times, because being vulnerable, open and bright is hard to do when one is looking for a job. Job-seeking seems to bring out the bullshit adjectives splashed across a resume and forces us to cover the soft places in our beings, to leverage interactions. It spawns a tendency toward fakeness that makes me physically ill. I want to do it differently. There is something attractive, like a magnet, in people who are authentically strong and vulnerable, humble and wise, silent and yet so clearly heard. I want to be like this in the world, melty and edgeless and also clear and focused. "From an authentic state of being with love and open hearts…" Right out of the Family Blessing, right? This is it. This is the next level of reconciliation work I'm doing, Thor. And it all stems out of the work I'm doing as I mourn and grieve you, my sweet boy. There is a heart opening that has let me glimpse the connectedness of all that is. To let that go unexplored and uncultivated would be to walk away from you and the spiritual call to expand, grow, learn and radiate light.

I played with some images to envision and empower this idea of having melty edgelessness in juxtaposition to being clear, focused and incisive. The best thing I could think of was spicy, hot nacho cheese! Delicious, memorable, goes with just about anything, totally useful. The idea had me tipping my head back to whoop with wild laughter, only the trees and the outline of the mountains bore witness to what might have looked like a mad woman in the wood. But I know you were laughing too, shaking your head and wiping tears from your eyes. I imagined you saying, "That's nacho mama, that's my mama!" Cue more giggles.

I'm no longer seeking a job. I put myself out there in a way that was as honest and clear as I could be. I stumbled and fell as I grappled with the insecurity and vulnerability of that position. But the risk paid off, a job offer rests in my email inbox along with several other rich possibilities for additional collaboration. There is always energy behind the right thing, and this is the right thing, with the right people and at the right moment. I am not sure if crying "Uncle" is required for the gift of grace to be bestowed, but as soon as I surrendered and smiled from the melty nacho-cheesy Love in my heart, the call came.

Why take a chance? Surrender it all now. Give it up, now. Accept no praise, nor blame. It all belongs to God. My only job is to keep showing up, with that empty cup, like the ocean that rests beneath all the waters. Let Life be lived through me.

Be the ocean. Be humble. Rest beneath everything in a position of infinite love and patience. Everything comes to you there.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 69 - Stumble & Fall

Trying to keep my head above water feels like a full-time gig. As if dealing with the constant disbelief and grief of losing you isn't enough, I am now unemployed. Shit happens, they say. The money runs out, and things move on; the company pivots and leaves some of us behind to figure it out on our own. I am grateful for the time, space, afforded me to catch my breath. But it's too short; the world spins with a sickening lurch. It's too quick, and there is no warning, no sign; End of the Road Ahead. There is no solid ground under my feet as I frantically seek traction, like Wile E Coyote when he realizes he's off the edge of the cliff. I have to keep up, catch up, man up, pony up, get up…get up off the fucking ground where I fell when they told me you died and where I've been mentally for all these months…and walk ahead.

How am I supposed to do this? I still feel broken. Damaged. Not whole. I've made progress; it's true. I'd say was at 50% of the functionality, rationality, execution, decisiveness and the flat-out badassery that I had before Dec 31. But now I face a steep re-entry curve that looms over me. I read adverts for positions, jobs that I once would have eaten for lunch, and I feel threatened by the language in those descriptions. The list of must haves is intimidating and shines a harsh light on the jagged edges of the hole in my heart, my absence from the workforce this past year, the rusty skills and troubled mind…I feel unfit…and scared. The world is hard, and I am too soft.

Grief has tumbled me in the waves until I am smooth and edgeless. I lack the sharp elbows and pointy thinking that the world values so much. Wanted: Go-getters with can-do attitudes. Wanted: Sharp, professional, high-energy, high-performance Olympians with no emotional strife. Wanted: Someone who's mind is analytical, clinical, architectural, logical - not reeling and blown-away by the loss of her son. Good lord. What am I good for now? Being a grandma? Canning pickles? Raising sheep?

The urgency of finding a job has me scurrying in a rapid succession of "doings." And as that pace picks up, I am more and more despondent. I could hardly get out of bed this morning to face another day of "doing" something, but I'm not sure what and I'm not sure why and I'm not sure if it’s the right move for my family and me. I am not supposed to be "doing" like that. I've learned that in the past ten months. But if not that, then what? What? What the hell am I supposed to be doing? The bedcovers can't protect me from the harshness of the dialogue in my mind.

The energy is ALWAYS behind the thing that's right. Waiting for it to reveal itself is the hard part. Not filling the moments with frantic activity is impossible as the old paradigm of my chronic "do-ership" takes over. My heart is screaming at me to STOP!!!! I can hear you, Thor, telling me to STOP!!! And I do, for a nanosecond. Just long enough to realize that I'm freaking the fuck out and that won't help anyone. But then it starts all over, again, spinning up to drown out the sense of peace and connection I've worked so hard to reclaim over the past ten months.

I don't know the answer. I just know that the universe has decided to push me off the edge one more time. The journey toward the new me is not complete, so there is no point in resting here. I would start homesteading if I had found a single place where I could settle in and look around. Cue Universe: "Not so fast there, Cassandra!" a voice says as a bony finger reaches out to fling her into the unknown. I feel like a refugee in my own life some days; that's just sad, and I hate it. Or maybe it's inevitable for a seeker to be ever on the move, never settling down, always evolving, growing, learning. But what does that look like in practical, bill paying, grocery buying terms? I have no flipping clue.

All of this upheaval, as stressful as it is, is merely an echo of the explosion I realized when you died. I thought I might be stronger than this…and that may be true, but I don't feel strong. I don't feel good at all. Paper mache is more durable than how I feel today. I bullshit my way through, donning a mask over the swirling, sucking whirlpool of grief, and now uncertainty, that spins in my heart. Gut wrenching agony still grips me in the middle of the night when the memory of your death comes calling. All of this and I'm supposed to go forth and reinvent myself? Holy shit. "How?", I ask. What more can I give?

The worst part of all of this is that when the cacophony blares in my mind, I feel disconnected from you. And that breaks my heart all over again. I've tried so hard to face this head on, to feel everything, to learn how to live and breathe again. I feel more adrift than ever now. I've stumbled and fallen, hard, Thor. I need a hand up. But more than that, to have the way forward revealed would be great. I feel like I'm wandering around in a desert with no map and no destination.

A deep despondence blows in with the cold wind of early Fall; it is insidious and toxic. I know this, and I'll need to untangle myself from its tentacles if I am to survive. Grief and despondence team up in horrible ways; they make me feel that nothing is important, that nothing matters, that the struggles of life are inane and pointless. Yeah, I'm pretty fucking low right now, Bubby.

Glimmers of Faith and Grace do shine through, at times, like stars peeking out on a cloudy night. I know they are there and I can feel them working for and through me. But it's like I'm a patient in surgery, anesthetized and unresponsive, while they perform their transformation and healing. All I can do right now is keep showing up, with that empty cup. I check my mind for the wrong and hurtful thoughts, try to replace them with something positive. I sit in meditation, as futile as that is lately with the runaway team of horses in charge of my mind, for a few moments and say Our Family Blessing. I write to you, here. All the while I feel like I'm riding a tiny skiff down a raging river. I can hear you saying, "Hang on!" and "Have Faith!" The river must go somewhere, right? I just hope I don't drown before I find out where.

If you stumble make it part of the dance, right? Sigh... Here, I'll try...

I pray for bold, courageous daring to flood into my sails and for inspiration to set the rudder toward a shining star. That's all I got for now. It'll have to do.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 68 - Autumn in the Air

The weather turned chilly over the past few days. We shut off the air conditioner and opened the windows to let in the smell of wet leaves and rain. Yesterday was the first day of archery season, and our hearts broke, again. It's your favorite time of year, and you aren't here to sift through the storage bins of hunting apparel and gear. You aren't here to don yourself in camo from head to foot and perch in a tree stand for hours waiting for a buck to pass by your line of sight. Hunting season lit a fire of childlike enthusiasm and genuine excitement inside of you; a time to be outside, in nature, with your friends and doing what countless generations of humans have done through the ages, hunting game to feed the tribe. It called to you from the very first time you heard the stories and saw your Pap and Dad head out into the woods.

Many nights the family casually gathered in the basement at Mimi and Pap's house or around the fire pit outside, and you'd say in your little four-year-old voice, "Let's tell hunting stories, Pap." And Pap would bring the hunt to life for you, how he and his buddies were here or there and the nature of the day, the hunt, the sighting, the kill, and tracking. Then your dad would tell a story about when he and his buddies went out. Uncle Daren would have us doubled over laughing with the tales he shared. And then you'd take a turn spinning up a story of your own, entirely imaginary of course since you hadn't ever actually been hunting at the tender age of four, but it was entertaining has hell to hear it! We didn't dare laugh; you were so sincere. The lore of the men in the clan is passed down to the next generation through storytelling. As Chaz and Xan came along and grew old enough, they got in on the stories, too. It was hilarious because you would make Mimi and me share one, as well. We appreciated the inclusion and could usually manage a decent tale, even if it was made up. And you'd laugh at us because we usually got something terribly wrong; my deer usually got away!  You paid rapt attention to Pap, Daddy, Daren, Dwight, Jerry and so many others who you considered your man clan. God, what precious times those were.

Your dad, brothers and I went outside and shot our bows for a while after I got dinner in the oven. You were in all our thoughts, I know. You should be here helping find stray arrows and cheering the great shots - especially mine, Ha! I nailed the target at 10, 20, 30 and 40 yards with the crossbow. Every time the bolt found the mark, I imagined hearing you say "Damn, Mama!" your brothers really did say, "Damn, Mama!" and someone piped up with "Don't piss her off!" And dad called me Belle Starr, his moniker for me when I prove I can shoot. I especially missed hearing you laugh and the mandatory bragging banter between brothers that always ensues when target shooting is involved. Chaz is fantastic shooting his recurve bow, he looks like an Elven warrior from a Tolkien book and is just as deadly accurate with that thing. Xan has the same casual approach you do and some of your swagger, too. He and Dad are spot on with their compound bows. All in all, we put a lot of holes in that target.

I plan on hunting this year alongside the fellas with the aim of putting food in the freezer, just like you always did every year since you were old enough to hunt. Golly, you were so proud to do that! We have just a few small packages of deer chops remaining from your last successful hunt. You and Travis were a force to be reckoned with whenever you two went out. Those last few packages of chops, well, I've been saving them. They have your handwriting on the outside paper, and I think of how happily you wrapped and labeled this meat for the benefit of the family. It's surreal to eat a meal provided by you, when you are ten months gone. Ten months! How the hell is that possible?

The temperature is dropping and the nights are growing long. The calendar rolls with an unstoppable current into this final season of The First Year Without You. This season will be the hardest one as we deal with the Big Holidays, and the worst day of all, the anniversary of your death. New Year's Eve is a holiday I doubt I will ever celebrate again in this life. I'll just quietly hang a new calendar the next day, and that will be that. So many thoughts about you and your life and death run in the background of my mind, a constant sidebar conversation and sometimes blatant interrupter of the moment. I still crumble in tears without warning, like on the first day of archery and you weren't here. Or the smell of a cold rain blowing in that makes the deer run in anticipation of the upcoming rut.

We find ways to connect with you, each in our way. Xanny played his guitar the other night, going through all the songs you were teaching him like "Life By The Drop" and "Die A Happy Man." He brought you to life in a bittersweet moment through the strum and pluck of guitar strings. I burst into wracking sobs in the living room, Xanny never knew. Chaz was putting away dishes and stopped to give me a hug. Dad did the same thing, one evening he just picked up your guitar and started playing it, running through the songs you two sang together. It broke me up as he sang "The Conversation" and had to sing your part, too. I can still hear your voice in my head. My Lord, we miss you, Thor. 

Autumn is in the air, my boy, and you feel more absent than ever. This feeling pushes me to seek you out in the places you loved best. I'll look for you in the woods and listen for you in the wind. Come hang out with me there, okay?

I love you,
Mom

The Ranch. More than Land; a Legacy of Love.

"The Ranch is sold." my dad told us the other day. I hadn't really thought of what this would mean to me all this time it was on the market. So when I heard these words of finality, I was stunned. Change is inevitable and there is nothing any of us can do to slow the river of time.  Still, I find that I am full of profound and mixed emotions as I think of this big change in the history of our family. It brings me some peace to know that the new owners intend to restore the old homeplace to its heyday glory, the woman who is buying it having spent her youth riding her horse past the fields full of frolicking foals. It seems she is as romantically sentimental about it as I am, and for that I am grateful. The Ranch will retain her wild, casual beauty and will continue to offer safe harbor to horses and those who love them. 

If one place on this earth could be called my home, it is The Metro Ranch. It is a small place, compared to other spreads that bear that grand title, its footprint barely covering fifteen acres. But to me, and to all who found shelter from the harshness of life under the ancient cottonwood trees and in the company of Mimi while sipping iced tea on the porch swing, well, the Ranch was much more than what a casual onlooker might see.

The Ranch rests at the foot of the Rocky Mountains just north of Golden, Colorado and a bit south of Boulder. My grandparents, Mimi and Papa, bought this place to put down some roots and draw an end to the somewhat nomadic lifestyle they had lived up to that point. After decades of zig-zagging across the nation as Papa's baseball contracts dictated, they wanted a place for the family to feel at home, for good.

In the early days, this area was an outpost for horse and cattle folk. Smallish homesteads peppered the landscape in a patchwork of corrals, pastures, fence-lined lanes, barns, dairy and beef operations serviced by old pickup trucks and tractors. And, of course, there were the animals; cows of every breed and horses of every color, it seemed. There were rabbits, llamas, goats, and donkeys living good lives in the fresh air. No suburbs encroached on the wild and scrubby wilderness that framed these farms in green and yellow-gold. The view to the front range of the Rockies was unimpeded. And to my eye, the Metro Ranch shined like a beacon, a bastion of modest excellence, quiet pride, open-doored friendliness, earnest hard work -- and the unconditional love of family. 

I came home to the ranch from the hospital after I was born. It is the first place I called home and to this day, the Ranch is part of my very being. Winemakers tell us how grapes take on the qualities and taste of the earth they grow in; they call this effect "terroir." Well from day one, my feet were planted in that soil, and no matter where I would later roam, the Ranch seasoned and influenced the flavor of my life. I am a Coloradoan, raised on The Ranch. I grew up free and loved and unfettered in this safe harbor, protected by the family's love and a million blessings showered upon my head from the cottonwood trees above. I was a country kid raised in what was, then, a flyover state. I knew the clean, tangy smell of hay and horse sweat and dung in the hot summer sun, the sound of lazy flies buzzing and the sound of horse's tails swooshing them away. My nose learned to smell snow coming and could tell if a warming chinook wind was on the way.  I knew the deep love and bond of family as I played countless make-believe games with my sisters and cousins under the bright, blue bowl of the Colorado sky.

The family flexed and grew and the Ranch stretched and grew to accommodate all our needs. My dad had inherited a bit of a nomadic spirit, no doubt left over from his early days of life, so we moved around quite a bit. But we always seemed to land back at the Ranch in between adventures. Mimi and Papa welcomed us with open arms, even if there was some question of how to make it work. One time when we came back our family was too big to stay for long with Mimi and Papa in their house. There were three of us kids at that time. I was seven, and Sumati was four, and Lakshmi was three.  So, the project to remodel the old milking barn into a dwelling began, in earnest. When Papa, Dad, and Uncle Mitty finished their work the new place was dubbed, The Bunkhouse. True to its history, upcycling and new purpose, that little building had personality, and that's for sure. There used to be two big sliding barn doors that would let the cows in to eat at the milking stanchions. One of the doors was left hanging, but sealed off to become a wall, and the other door was left working. It opened out onto a concrete pad (perfect for biking and roller skating!) that sat on the edge of the back pasture. Papa and dad knocked the stanchions out with sledgehammers. By the time they got it done, there was a slope in the floor that ran the length of the room. It was quirky, but we kids liked it. We could slide on it in our slippers. Kids are more interested in fun than in flat.

The concrete block walls made the house hard to heat in the winter, so we wore warm pajamas. Sometimes we would wake up to find our blankets had frozen to the wall! But we didn't care. We just got up and jumped into our clothes as fast as we could or, if was a Saturday and there were cartoons on TV, we'd settle in the living room wrapped in our blankets. Our ears would prick up when we heard Papa outside feeding the horses, and often we'd go out and help him with the chores. He'd sing, and we'd skip along behind him.

The giggles and shrieks of little girls filled the air at the Ranch as we were almost always outside. We wandered around fearlessly barefooted and barely dressed, like aborigines, from the moment we left the house until mom called us in for supper. There was a line of cottonwood trees that are probably as old as the planet itself that ran the length of the Ranch along the ditch bank. The ditch bank was a high berm that was broad enough to drive a truck along and was controlled by a water authority. Mostly we liked it because the earth was soft and easy to dig in as we basked under the shade of those big ol' trees. Usually, there was a cluster of horses following us around to share the shade with us. We climbed fences to look into the deep brown of a mare's eye and pet her soft nose. We'd feed them handfuls of grass or clover that we'd pick and we'd laugh when the huge animals would gently pluck these sweaty offerings from our grasp.

There was a line of old box cars that ran down the center spine of the Ranch. These were more than merely horse shelters, to us they were access to the top of the world. We'd climb the sides of the boxcars because they had ladders built-in, to run across their tops and we'd leap from car to car like you see in the movies. We didn't know then how lucky we were for the absolute freedom we felt on those days. Never ones to miss a chance to build a fort, we'd drape sheets or towels over the tree branches that hung over the top of the boxcars and would eat peanut butter sandwiches in our little abodes. We were literally on top of the world here - our world, anyhow. And that's all that mattered. When we were up there, we could see everything for what seemed like miles.

On one side of the boxcars were the paddocks and the lane that ran from the main house to the bunkhouse. On the other side, there was a marshy area that we were not allowed to play around. The marsh drained into a little pond where we were allowed if we were careful. We plucked cattails and broke them open delighting in the billowy seeds that burst forth and then blew away on a breeze. We caught frogs, newts, pollywogs and garter snakes and brought them home to be pets for a day. We found out just how dangerous the sucking mud that surrounds the pond could be when a couple of horses sunk into the ooze and had to be pulled out with the neighbor's tractor. That scared the crap out of us, and we were more cautious around the pond after that. But that didn't stop us from strapping on ice skates in the winter when the ice was thick and the air was frigid. We'd go round and round that tiny ice patch until we nearly had frostbite and then would run home to huddle in front of the propane heater to warm our toes.

The winters were white and windy with snow drifting like meringue along the lane that connected the bunkhouse to the main house where Mimi and Papa lived. We would wade through it, our breath puffing out in clouds while the cold air made our nose hairs freeze. It was quiet in the snow, the sounds of horses chuffing and even our own usually shrill voices muffled by the white insulation. We tramped up and down that lane to and from the bus stop each day. There was hardly ever a snow day in Colorado. They put chains on the buses and away we went.

When the earth turned in her slumber and spring came it was mud season! Everything was drippy, wet, soggy, sloppy and cold. The icicles that used to hang on the horse's manes in February melted away in March, replaced by mud stockings that went from hoof to high above their knees. As messy as this was, we didn't mind. The snow melted into the earth, filling the underground aquifers and the grass in the glade began to look green again. But what was even better about spring for us at the Ranch was the baby horses! In the quietude of late winter, the mares had given birth. There is nothing quite so sweet as the nicker and whinny of a foal. And because we lived in the bunkhouse on the edge of the back pasture we got to see them every day. Baby horses are curious, and because the mares knew us so well, they'd let the foals come right up to us so we could pet their velvet noses.

As years went by, we eventually moved away from the Ranch, landing in other places that added their terroir to my life.  We moved on, and it was someone else's turn to find shelter from life's storms at the Ranch. Everyone lived in the Bunkhouse at some point; all my dad's siblings and their families, if they had them. My aunt came with my cousins after her divorce, my uncles both lived at the bunkhouse with Geoff staying on long after we'd all gone to continue helping Mimi and Papa. Some of us grandkids even came to the Ranch as young adults, in between chapters of our lives. There are countless stories of hardship and sacrifice as each of us landed at the Ranch in need of a place to get our feet back under us, find our way or make a new start. We weathered family squabbles that melted into family forgiveness and happy reunions.  We helped with the back-breaking work required to run the place, when we could, out of appreciation and gratitude for the gift of this haven bestowed upon us by the patriarch and matriarch of Clan Metro.

I came back to Colorado virtually on the eve of my 21st birthday, penniless, but strong in body, rich with ideas and full of aspiration. I found shelter at Mimi and Papa's and with Uncle Geoff in the bunkhouse. Geoff, being only four years older than me, was more like a big brother. We had a blast hanging out with his friends, riding dirt bikes and shooting bows, cooking out and fixing cars in the shade of one of those, you guessed it, big ol' cottonwood trees. Geoff and I shared the responsibility of taking care of the place when Mimi and Papa went traveling. One summer I repainted the sign out front for them as a coming home surprise.

The late winter and early spring brought foaling season. For a couple of seasons, I slept in the barn next to Mimi so I could help her do her most important work; bringing those foals safely to life. We cleaned stalls and fixed new paddocks for the moms and babies to feel cozy. We administered shots and oral medications which usually involved me or Geoff rolling in the mud with a 150lb foal while Mimi deftly gave the shot. At the end of the day, we'd retire to the house, cook supper and get ready for another night in the barn waiting for the next foal's feet to hit the ground. As spring warmed up, Mimi and I would sit on the porch swing sipping coffee or iced tea, depending on the time of day. We'd watch the squirrels and birds scamper about in search of the corn she'd thrown them. Papa would usually be cutting wood but sometimes he would join us in conversation. These were peaceful moments before the next flurry of chores that kept the Ranch thriving and alive. We fed it so that it could feed us. 

For fifty-five years this little patch of earth has been the real and metaphorical beating heart of the family. It remains a fixture in our memories as the place where we, The Metros, were established, grew strong and bonded so tightly together. I know I romanticize how I feel about Christmases here and playing hide and seek in the hay barn. But that's okay. It is a romance. I love this place, the memories and the way I felt when I lived there. There is not one single place on this earth, well until George and I built our place, where I laughed, loved and lived more fully. In no other place did I learn more about myself and what kind of person I would be in the world.

To this day, when a summer storm rises out of the west and frames sun-limned trees in stark contrast with deepest periwinkle purple, I smile from my very soul. I am transported to my youth and those carefree days on the Ranch with the sound of horses running before the storm and the cottonwood trees singing as the wind blows through their leaves. 

For Thor - 67 - Death. It can ruin a life.

Last night I was up. Lady had to pee, and I was restless. I wandered around the living room and kitchen for a while, and Lady wandered around the bushes in the yard. Both of us roused from sleep in search of relief. Happily, for her, a patch of grass that smells just right will do the trick. For me, well, I'm not so lucky. I'm churning through the rough emotional seas that rage and swell inside me like some ill-fated tugboat in a storm.

The light switches remained untouched; there was light enough to see by coming from the single perpetual candle that glows like a beacon from beside the box that holds your ashes. In these small hours of the morning, I feel your presence around me more strongly, and the warm glow of a candle envelops me like a honeyed hug. In the small hours of the morning, I don't have to ask, "Where are you?" You're just here, waiting for me to be still enough to listen, to feel, to know. I exhale once, twice and a third time before I feel my shoulders fall, and my chest expand. When I sense you near, the tears spring from my eyes like a well-spring that waits just beneath the surface.

A month of milestones has come and gone. Three birthdays and an anniversary have seen the sun rise and set without your smiling face to celebrate with us. With so much activity, it's been hard to find time to settle down inside, just to be with whatever comes up. A buzzing feeling grew in my chest over the past week as I tried to focus back on work. By the time Friday came around, I was agitated and cranky, off-kilter and seriously questioning the intelligence of universe that has my feet walking this road. The day had many demands of me, too; it was a marathon of back to back networking events meeting with important work colleagues and new potential clients. The events ranged from professional casual to high-level political to music festival tech mixer. By the end of the night, I was a mess - and I still had and hour to drive home.

Saturday brought more opportunity for fun and distracting activity. Shopping, picnicking, friends, music, another party without you here. Another family event that you would have loved, but no. You're gone. You're gone in a way that I still can't get my head around. Starr and I talked about this, we both keep thinking you're gonna walk in that damned door one day. I keep thinking about all the close calls that I've had in my life, that you had in your life. From fevers and ambulance rides to you being a two-year-old trying to drive the dang backhoe and countless hours on the road in stormy weather. We escaped tragedy so many times. Grace smiled upon us and carried us safely to the next moment of life. Even the scare of your birth and wondering if you were going to breathe or decide to join us in this life was a close call. And then came that night when it was no longer a close call, there was no deliberation by the Great Umpire in the Sky - you were clearly out at the plate. You left the game, left us to play on without you.

So many people tell me how strong I am, Thor. I say I don't feel strong. I feel tired. And crabby. And like a failure at times, too. I pray for Grace and peace and love to radiate through me. But those prayers are sometimes choked by bitter tears and a mother's broken-hearted longing. Is it the strength that keeps me waking each day and showing up? Maybe. Some other friends tell me, "I guess you have no choice but to…be strong." To that, I say no, I do have a choice. I can choose to ignore how I feel and bury all this pain deep inside then wrap it up in some numbing coping mechanisms. I could decide to shut out the thoughts that make me wonder "What the hell were you thinking when that truck went airborne? Were you scared? Did you know you were going to die at that moment? Did your life flash before your eyes? Did you cry out for help? For me?" I could choose to walk away from the memories of your sweet life because it causes such pain to contemplate that this is all we get of you. I could want to shut-down, shut-out, shut-off from anything that makes me feel too much. But I don't. I don't because I know making those choices is how death can ruin a life. My life.

My life is full of purpose and meaning. I know that. I just don't know what it is at the moment. Your death delivered me a new agenda with new priorities and a new direction; the details still hidden. The work of establishing clear interiority and reconciliation continues. The world tugs and pulls at me with all kinds of possibilities for distraction, opportunities for involvement and some of them resonate as possible pieces of my new life. It's hard to engage in anything with any seriousness when the world is so temporary and fleeting. Life is short, and all that matters is love. My questions about how to spend my day are "Does this bring love into the world? Does this bring light into the world? Does this make my heart feel light?" I have to muddle my way through sometimes. Because like this past month, the pace is fast-moving and the emotional waves are high. I feel like a blind whitewater rafter; I know the rapids are fierce and laden with deadly boulders, but I can't see them. The current of grief rages, tossing me in random directions.

It's true; death can ruin a life. Will I allow it? I say no, that is not what you would want for me. I choose to walk toward the pain, learning to smile through the tears and gain strength from each day I survive this agony. I lean into the grief and sink with it to the bottom of the well, where the spring of love flows with sweetly with sustaining succor and solace. I just have to remember that I need time, time to settle in this space. I need to remember to unplug and retreat when the buzzing agitation has me restless as a fly-stung horse.

This is when it's best to be still, in the small hours of the morning. I listen for you in the deepest chambers of my heart to tell me it's going to be okay.  I remember that all I have to do is keep showing up, with an empty cup. It will get filled up. 

Have faith, Mama. Just have faith--and patience.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 66 - Kayak

People keep asking me what I want to do for my birthday and I can't answer them. I feel myself withdraw from the question as my awareness turns inward looking for something that sounds fun or festive or celebratory. The fact is, none of those things are how I feel right now. Celebrating is not in the cards. I don't want to celebrate the fact that I've lived another year, through the most painful experience a mother can endure. Singing and candles and cake and gifts for me seem so incongruent with the deep sorrow that is prevalent in my heart.

What do I want for my birthday? I want you back. I don't want to have to keep living with this horrible burden. I am tired, Thor. I am tired of trying to rise above it and look for the silver lining and always staking out some ground to stand on to declare "I'm doing better today." It's exhausting because I always fall back. One step forward three steps back and maybe one or two off to the side.

What do I want for my birthday? I want to run and run and run and run until I outrun this fucking pain. I want to stop crying all the damned time because my broken heart bleeds out of my eyes in salty tears. I want to see your face again and hear your voice. I want to worry about you and fuss at you for making the brash decisions of the young. I want to dance with you in the kitchen and eat a pile of nachos while cheering on the Broncos.

What do I want for my birthday? I want for your dad and me to be able to love, live and talk again without this vast gulf of grief between us. I want for your brothers to live free without the specter of your death hanging over them. I want to smile from my heart and through me eyes again; not being blinded by tears and choked with unspoken sorrow.

I know, I know. I want a lot. But that's nothing new.

I look at the road ahead of me, still strewn with the rubble and in ruins from your death. It makes me tired to think that this is never going away, that I'll have to figure out how to live with a hole blown in my soul, heart, and life. How do I continue to pick up the pieces and arrange them anew when the wreck is so devastating? Nothing is the same, all my relationships and understanding is different because I am completely altered.

Aunt Radha told me she was more concerned about me around my birthday than on yours. I had thought that to be odd, but I accepted it since she seems to have a good handle on this grieving thing. And holy smokes, your birthday was so difficult for me. I felt like a fly-stung horse inside of myself, unable to settle into any solace or comfort for very long before the sting of loss had me in tears, again. And that agitated agony has only ratcheted up in the days since. Four milestones in a row with little to no time to process in between has me on the ropes and bleeding today, and we're still two days away from "My Birthday" I just want to hide. In a hole. For like, a million years. I wonder if that would be enough time to feel "better"?

Nana must have sensed a tremor in the force because she called yesterday to tell me she is free on my birthday to be with me, whatever I want to do or don't want to do…or whatever. We attempted to make some plans for the family to come together, but they dried up like dust when I consider doing any of it. How can we celebrate me and life when you are dead? It feels so inadequate or unimportant or even wrong to light candles and sing when I am at the very bottom of the well of grief where there is no air, only sorrow.

I am grateful for the lifelines that tether me to the sweetness of gratitude and divine grace. I can feel how I feel without the fear of being stuck here forever. Sometimes this well is more like a raging sea, and I am swamped, sinking to the bottom where there is still something to be learned in this airless, sorrowful place. So I cry and scream and want to outrun the pain, but I know that it's pointless. No matter where I go or what I do in this life, there will be one agonizing fact; you died, and nothing is the same. I don't know where I am going or what the new landscape will hold. The certainty of walking with the weight of grief is so tiring that I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep for a long, long time. The uncertainty of what my life will look like in the days, months and years to come is equally draining. The only way for me is forward, through the rubble that cuts my feet. You can follow a trail of bloody footprints through my heart from where I had to wake up on that first horrible morning with the ugly reality that you are gone, to now, nine and a half months later and that same ugly truth is still staring me down.

What do I want for my birthday? Resilience. Joy. Peace. Solace. Comfort. Love. These don't come easy, and we can't buy them at Amazon Prime. They take work, cultivation, practice and patience. It takes mindfulness to monitor my thoughts and emotions so I can recognize and release them. The key is to allow for their full expression, with compassion and self-love. So that is where I am…in the bottom of the well, feeling heartbroken and exhausted. I am experiencing these things from the space of Trust and Love, which is a safe space for me to just BE SAD, which is the emotion that arises today.

What do I want for my birthday? Dad said he'd like to get me a kayak so I can be on the water. Being near the water, I can more readily experience Joy, Peace, Solace and Comfort. I feel Love more freely when I am in nature and being near the water is like sitting next to a huge generator of emotional healing. Your dad and brothers and I could go out together and have some fun fishing and paddling across the rippling waves.

Hmmm. He might be onto something there. Ok. A kayak. I'd like a kayak for my birthday.

We'll see you on the water, Bubby.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 65 - A Gift from Thor

Today is 9/11. I remember this day fifteen years ago when I sent you and Chaz with our friend Linda to join in the weekly homeschool co-op in a nearby town in western Pennsylvania. Your brother Xan was just two weeks old, and we had just celebrated your fifth birthday at Mimi and Pap's house. You got a go-kart and were over the moon!

I settled on the sofa to cuddle your little brother, watching the end of Good Morning America when the usual signing-off banter suddenly stopped, and they played that first video of a plane striking the North Tower. We watched in horror and tried to make sense of what we were seeing; the speculation ranged from it being a misguided military plan to being a disabled plane that crashed to being a full-on attack. We didn't know about the other flights in motion. We didn't know that our nation was under attack. But the hairs on my neck stood on end as I sensed the horrible truth.

When the second plane struck, the reality of what we were seeing clunked into place. I immediately picked up the phone and called Nana in Virginia to find out where, exactly, in NYC was your Aunt Radha and Aunt Poorna, who lived there. Nana had already clicked off her morning news and started her workday. They didn't know anything was happening. I told them to turn on the television and CALL RADHA! CALL POORNA!

Meanwhile, we got reports of other planes across the skies crashing like missiles into targets. Your dad worked in downtown Pittsburgh, and when news came through of Fight 93 that crashed in Shanksville, they were going to close all the tunnels and bridges which would have stranded your dad at work fifty miles away. I called and told him that America was under attack and that he needed to get home, now!

I put Xan in the car and headed out to the homeschool co-op. I wanted my family to be together. If the world was going to blow-up, it was going to happen with us all holding each other. I ran into that school building, tears streaming down my face and found Linda. I told her "We are under attack!" and I shared what I knew at that point. I gathered you boys up and went back home, counting the minutes until your dad walked in that door.

I was glued to the television talking to Nana as she watched, too, when the first tower fell. Our hearts fell with it. We still hadn't heard from Aunt Radha. Her subway stop, her office, her friends, and co-workers were all right there - her place of work just a block away from the towers. Had she been caught in the rubble? Had she even made it to work when the collapse happened? Did she get stuck in the subway? We couldn't find out anything since all the phone lines were overwhelmed with traffic, much of it from the doomed individual souls spending a few moments on the phone to say farewell to loved ones as the horrible truth was made clear; these would be their last moments on this earth.

We eventually got word from Aunt Poorna and Aunt Radha. They had a scary story to tell, one that gives me chills to think about. Aunt Radha was lucky. After being trapped in her building by debris and the dust cloud, she and others from her building made their way through the basement to emerge on the opposite side of the structure. She and Aunt Poorna joined the parade of gray-walkers, those people who staggered, hollow-eyed and shell-shocked out of Manhattan and away from Ground Zero covered in the ashes of the fallen.

That day gutted us and galvanized us, too. We grieved, together. We cried, together. We shook with fear as the illusion of security was revealed to be just that, an illusion. But we resolved to carry-on even if we were afraid. We united and reconnected as a nation out of one of the darkest days in our history.

How do we recognize darkness? It is the absence of light that allows us to appreciate even the subtlest rays of moonlight. How do we recognize a blessing? It is because we have known the hunger and thirst driven by hardship and strife. How do we know love? It is because we have felt the utter cold of being bereft and feeling alone. How do we know faith? It is because we have experienced the terror of fear. Without contrast, we cannot comprehend that Grace. Sometimes these darkest moments are what sets the stage for real transformation.

Out of the darkness emerges the seedling of hope, light, truth, love and joy. Living through the hardest times pushes us beyond our human limitation so we may experience Divine Grace. We must allow our hearts to break so that they are no longer too small to contain the blessings of life; blessings that are so vast it defies comprehension. But even more than that, we need to be grateful for the opportunity to learn and grow, to see and make changes, to be trusting and faithful.

Nine months ago, my life plunged into darkness. My heart shattered, and my world blew up. When you died, that single moment changed me, sending me on a new trajectory. For the rest of my life, I'll carry the wound of losing you, and this makes me vulnerable in new ways. I could walk in fear; the fear of death, the fear of loss, the fear of living at the mercy of Life. But I choose to turn toward love and compassion. I wish to embrace and allow room for blessings to take root, grow and blossom in my heart. Like sunflowers rooted firmly in the dark earth that reach for the sun, I allow Grace and Love to overshadow fear and doubt.

This past spring several of the women in the family came together to do the work of picking up the pieces of our shattered hearts to seek a path forward out of the rubble and into the Light. We had been given a gift from you in the form of a posthumous message that came through a friend of ours. In this message, you challenged us to use the tragedy of your death to learn to love even more. You invited us to allow our sorrow to create a heart opening through which we could bring more goodness and light into the world. You reminded us that our family could more fully express the divine light that shines through us all. Then you told us that our family is an energy base that needs a charge, and that we could do that by experiencing this new heart opening. And you said that this heart opening is open and inclusive; it is for anyone who wishes to embrace and share LIGHT, it is for anyone who wants to cultivate a state of being that allows for a greater experience of LOVE. It is an opportunity to live fully, fearless, trusting, loving and free.

But how to do that? How do we take such a Call-to-Action and turn it into something that we can embrace and integrate into our lives? I remembered a beautiful wisdom-sharing experience I had participated in before you were born. The Native American Medicine Wheel provides a profound means for us to explore and express collaboratively for the benefit of all. We came together for weekly for a couple of months as we examined a single question from the multiple "lodges" or perspectives -- represented as the cardinal directions on a Medicine Wheel. The center of the Wheel represents the clear sky and access to Spirit, God or the Universe (as each of us sees fit). The East, where the sun rises is the place to illuminate an issue, to shine the light of the sun upon it and talk about it. The South is the lodge of youth and strength where we consider our question through the eyes of a child or a young person. As the Wheel moves into the West, we turn inward in contemplation of the emotions. How do we FEEL about the question? Swinging North we begin to take all that we have learned in the previous lodges to form an action plan. The final lodge in the North-East is where we determine - unanimously - if the action decided is beneficial not only for us but for seven generations to come.

We first had to home in on our question which we formed together. "We choose to reconnect from our individual vantage points. Like facets of a crystal, we radiate LIGHT together. How does this look?" This is what we carried around the Wheel from week to week, through the Lodges and visualizations to gain insight into how we can walk into the heart and shine LIGHT. From the perspective of strengthening the family "base", it was clear that we are like a crystal, with many facets that through which light shines brightly. It is when we spiritually and energetically connect to that base, allowing that divine light to shine through us, that the crystal's illuminating strength multiplies. We shine brighter together, but individual gifts are important, too. We just have to envision reconnecting to that source of life that we all share to discover how easy it is to shine collectively in light and love.

Since contrast often helps us see what we are looking for, we explored the concept of connection through the lens of being disconnected. How had we drifted apart? What keeps us together? What makes us feel trusting or not trusting in the family? What is needed to stay steady in connection? How can we remain uniquely "us" and still be part of the whole? What are the blockers to trusting and forgiveness? How can we be more compassionate? Let me tell you what, Thor; this was one of the most moving experiences of my life. Perhaps because my heart is so wide open from grief, I can dive deeply into these questions and answer them with total honesty.

At one point it became apparent that creating a prayer or blessing would be a goal of the Medicine Wheel work. We already know that saying a blessing together has great uniting and empowering strength. Ours is a family that holds hands and prays. Writing a new blessing out of the directives shared from you could help us experience a more loving, real and compassionate way to live. It could lift us up if we are feeling weak, reconnecting us to the energy base of the group. It could, as blessings are proven to do, transform our lives and the lives of those around us.

We carefully selected each word, weighing them all and agreeing, unanimously, before moving on. Each line and couplet were read, felt and considered through the insights learned in the Wheel and lens of seven generations to come. We felt that future generations might be agnostic or atheistic or Buddhist or Christian or Hindu or maybe something entirely new that we don't even now of, yet. The Blessing needed to be universal and compelling, truthful and engaging. It needed to represent the momentous circumstances through which we created it; your death and the surge of sorrow and love that swept through our family core. More than a rallying cry and memorial, the blessing is offered as an expression of our love for you, your life and the lasting legacy you've invited us to take up.

We kept The Blessing private for a while to give us a chance to say it individually. We wanted to roll it around on our tongues and feel it's truth before we shared it widely with others. It is a gift granted out of the darkest hour of my personal life, and one of the darkest times for the whole family. It gently shines a light on the path forward out of the agony of sorrow and into the LIGHT for anyone who wishes to use it. We shared it, officially, with the family as we gathered on your birthday. We held hands on the top of the hill with the breeze blowing sweetly through the photos of your life. We said The Blessing together for the first time, all of us who were there. I felt you there, so strongly.










We created it with love and tears, out of hope and sorrow. The beating hearts of the women of the family used the pieces of our shattered hearts to create this blessing like a quilt, each one offering a treasure from the depths of our souls to lend vibrant truth to the Whole.

I have been saying this Blessing, which is definitely a gift from you, every day, several times a day for months now. It brings me comfort. It empowers me in moments of weakness. It reminds me that I am not alone, that I am part of a vast and beautiful Creation that is part of the Divine. It reminds me to be edgeless and melty in the world because there are enough sharp edges that cut and divide. Being melty came out of the Medicine Wheel as we shared how soft and loving we felt in the weeks after your death. We melted into long hugs from this vulnerable place in our hearts. The Blessing reminds me of the love shared with you, Thor, and with our family, extended family, earth family, and universal family.

Today is 9/11, fifteen years later and I am heartsore remembering that day. I am still heartsore from your first angel birthday just a few days ago. What better time to share a blessing that is purposely created to help us find our way into the LIGHT, than when the darkness draws close?

How do we know the LIGHT? We recognize its brilliance best when we've been in submerged in complete darkness.

Wherever you are, Bubby, here it is. I think of you whenever I say it, and I know you are close.



Our Family Blessing
~A Gift from Thor


With a great, full heart for all that is,
We are thankful for our many blessings.

We choose to reconnect
from our individual vantage points.
Like facets of a crystal,
We radiate LIGHT together.

With our feet firmly planted,
We are present and aware.

From our authentic state of Being,
With Love and open hearts
we find compassion to forgive
ourselves and others.

We aspire to be melty,
Allowing us to be
trusting, vulnerable, humble and kind.

In Service of the Highest Good,
Aho!




I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 64 - Happy Birthday in Heaven

Hey, Thor, my sweet boy. On this day twenty years ago you made me a mom. Your entry into the world was intense for everyone including you. We weren't sure you were going to stick around. You didn't breathe right away after you were born like you were trying to decide about taking on this life. I remember watching in stunned horror as your perfect little body, blue from lack of oxygen, lay on the towels while the midwife worked to stimulate you. After pushing for nearly three hours, I was in an other-world state of exhaustion, not comprehending what was happening. All I could think was "Take a breath! Just breathe!"  And you did finally hiccough and sputter to life. As your little lungs filled with air, the blue tinge faded away. You turned a lovely shade of bright red within moments. I nearly collapsed with relief. 

You had decided to be here with us. I didn't know then it would be for such a short time.  But if I did know, and there had been a choice of having you for nineteen years or not getting to have you in our lives at all, I would choose the first. Over and over again. Even knowing I would have to walk this road of mourning and grief; knowing you, loving you, being your mom and having the privilege of your presence in my life is worth all the agony of loss.

I never really knew what love could be until I had a child. You opened my eyes to a new kind of selflessness and unconditional love that had not bloomed in my heart until I saw your eyes. I love your dad, fiercely, but there is something different about the love of a mother for a child. Children are born of and by us. You are of our bodies and are a piece of our souls. You embody all the hopes and dreams for life that we imbue you with as you grow in the womb. You hold our hearts in your little hands from the very first second of the very first breath. We fall into the depth of your newborn eyes never to be seen again as our former selves, for now, no longer who we were before; we become your mom. This transformation is total, and it happens in an instant. 

The first time I held you was awkward. I had held babies before, but this time, I was responsible. Adapting to the new role of mom took a little while, but you were a good teacher! You'd let me know if I was doing it wrong with a forceful cry that sent me scurrying to figure it out. When I got it right, you rewarded me with the sweetest little smiles or you would settle peacefully to sleep on my chest, nuzzled up and cozy.

I sang to you every day, little ditties that were our secret lullabies. I made up a version of The Carpenter's "Close to You" and modified "Pretty Irish Girl" from Darby O'Gill to be love songs for you. For about a year and a half, I was the only one who could settle you to sleep. You reached for me with those little hands seeking the solace of Mom; a place all humans long for and treasure. As tired as I was from sleepless nights walking the floor and no-nap days that meant I couldn’t get anything done, I loved it that you needed me.  

Gosh, you were a smart, sweet and funny little guy. You loved to read books (at least early on). You learned your ABC's, could read fifty words and could count to 20 by the time you were one year old. You were fascinated with guitars, tractors and trucks. You loved Tickle Me Elmo and would belly laugh with him over and over. For the longest time, you wouldn't eat cheese - on anything except for mac & cheese. This put a crimp on pizza night! Eventually, you came to like the gooey stuff, but it was so funny how much you hated it at first. You had the most precious long curls that framed your sweet face.  As you grew into boyhood your kind heart and inquisitive mind really began to express themselves. You loved to help your dad, pap and grandpa with anything they were doing. You were curious about the way things worked and would watch with rapt attention if any machine was being taken apart. You loved anything with a motor and speed. Hunting, fishing, camping, mudding, jetskiing, dirt bikes, quads...you name it, you were up to your eyeballs in it, having a blast and getting dirty and hungry. 

Cooking for you was a joy. Your appetite for good eats was as big as your appetite for living life. You liked anything I made, but you had some favorites; chicken & dumplings, chili, london broil on the grill, beef stew, my homemade dinner rolls, fried chicken and mashed potatoes, collard greens and gumbo! I made a pot of chicken & dumplings in your honor last night for supper.  It was a really good batch.

Today is your first Angel Birthday. I hadn't ever heard that term until a friend shared it with me, but I like it. I awoke this morning to a September 8 that is forever transformed for me, again. It marks the day you came to us, and also is a poignant time to realize that you're gone from our midst. I like to think that you're celebrating your birthday with other family and friends who've left this realm. In my heart's eye, I see you playing guitar and singing for the joy of everyone. Nana and Pap Anderson, Nana and Pap Stish, Papa, Aunt Sue, and so many others are gathered around wearing angel wings and radiantly beaming with the love that connects us all. I know you're taking the opportunity to jam with Jerry Garcia, Merle Haggard, and David Bowie, too.  You're an angel after all, and you can do whatever you like.

I sipped my morning tea today and leafed through several photo albums. I started with a photo your dad took of my very pregnant belly on the day before you were born and went right through to the very last picture I have of you - the one where you and I are dancing in the kitchen just a few moments before your final exit. I am so grateful to have these images of your life, of your splendid and happy life, to keep me from despairing too much. Tears are falling, even as I write this note to you. It's a thoroughly bittersweet day. Sweet for all the delicious and wondrous celebrations we shared in your life with us. Bitter with regret that there will be no more to add. I don't think that will ever go away. 

I stood on the porch as the dawn sky shifted pink and purple hues and I sang "Happy Birthday" to you, a couple of finches and crows joined in the chorus. Wherever you are, I hope you heard me. I hope you feel the love I have for you, that we all have for you, on this day and every day, Thor. 

Happy Birthday in heaven, Bubby.

I love you,

Mom

For Thor - 63 - You, Your Dad, ZBB and me

Your dad and I went away this past weekend, to celebrate our anniversary. We needed the time together, just the two of us. Just like I did so I could be joyfully present for Xanny's birthday; I cleared room in my heart for this experience. I rooted myself in the moment and went to Norfolk determined to be light hearted, easy going and loving on our trip. The conversation rolled smoothly. We didn't talk about anything heavy or intense, both of us understanding that a respite from the intensity of our lives since you died is what we needed. The past nine months have taken a heavy toll on us. We are different people than we were, the forces of death molding us into new versions of ourselves. The world looks different.

Several months ago, Nana and I were hanging out at her house. I was in a particularly heart-sore state. We turned on some music to ease the moment; my go-to favorite, The Zac Brown Band. The songs played, and I sang and cried along with the lyrics that express my heart and soothe my soul all at the same time. Then there are the songs that were your favorites; the ones you've sung for years. To this day when I hear "Chicken Fried" or "Toes," I hear you playing guitar and singing along. I see you in my mind's eye on the couch in your pj's picking out the notes and tapping your toes. I think of you and your Pap driving around in PA listening to ZBB and laughing it up. My heart breaks for your dad who loved playing guitar with you, these songs among the favorites in your duo repertoire. But it is "Bittersweet", and "Remedy" brings me to a special place inside; that place where the brokenness and sorrow meet Grace and Hope. Nana insisted that I must see ZBB live - to be there in concert and feel the music in my bones. She gave me cash to buy tickets for my birthday. So, I did.

Last summer I was excited about the new ZBB album, and I enthusiastically encouraged you to learn some of the new stuff to play for me; "Homegrown" being at the top of that request list. You said you would get to it, but that your favorite song was "Sweet Annie." You were already learning to play that one, for Starr. Well, a mama knows when she has to take a spot in line behind the woman in her son's life. So I would wait. It wasn't too many days later that you and dad began picking out the first few notes, strumming and singing along to Homegrown. My heart smiled. Heck, my whole body smiled, all the way down to my liver.

So, last Sunday night, the day after our anniversary, Dad and I went to the Zac Brown Band concert in Virginia Beach. I felt so many emotions all at once that I couldn't contain them all. Daddy took exquisite care of me, even though I know it must have been hard on him, too. I told him that when the tears came (it was inevitable) that it's not because I'm sad. It's just the wholehearted expression of all the feelings; Love, Joy, Sorrow, Remorse, Longing, Remembrance. I gripped his hand tightly and rolled with the ride. I kept thinking how much freaking fun you would have at this show. And I know you were there, but, well you know. It's different and pales in comparison having you there in spirit and not in the form I've loved all these years.

The concert set list changes from show to show. I didn't know what we would hear, but I knew it would be good. It is ZBB, after all! There were some cool, surprising cover songs, like Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic" and The Who's "Baba O'Riley" and Mellencamp's "Jack & Diane". But it was the classic ZBB songs that took me away."Tomorrow Never Comes" felt like an anthem which rocked me hard and had me out of my seat. 

And then they played it. When the first notes of "Sweet Annie" pulsed through the air I knew you were right there. I sang my heart out through the tears streaming down my face. Then something funny and kinda wonderful happened. Right in the middle of that song our next-seat neighbors passed me a bottle of Fireball. Dad had told this sweet young couple why I was crying. She handed me the bottle with tears in here eyes and said, "He's here." I had to laugh. I could hear you plain as day saying, "Mama, this is all for YOU. Have fun! Dance! Sing! And for God's sake, woman, do a shot!" So, I did.

The show was excellent, but I felt blown-out and tired afterward. So many emotions exploded inside me all at once that I couldn't tell what I felt. Dad and I made our way back to the hotel bleary-eyed and ready to get some food and sleep. I couldn't process the experience, yet. We were still in anniversary trip mode. I stayed steady (a sign that I'm getting a bit stronger), and we shared a lovely day meandering home on Monday.

Monday night everything came crashing down. The grinding truth of your death with your birthday looming large overwhelmed me with sorrow once more. We are on the doorstep of this milestone.  The biggest one to me. Your birthday without you here. I cried all night on Monday and woke to puffy eyes and a tear-stained face on Tuesday only to have to buck up and head to Richmond for a meeting. I managed to keep it together, somewhat, on the trip into town but the ride home was not so great. The utterly devastating agony of your death hits me sometimes and it is ruthless. I had to stop several times along the road to breathe and blow my nose. I even stopped in to see a friend at her office in search of some advice; she's walked this horrible road and would understand. She was not available at the time, but getting out of the car and talking to other people gave me enough of a break to make it safely home.

One moment I am up where the air is clear. Where I can feel connected to the rightness of this life and all its expression. And the next I am plunged into a dark and swirling sea of grief.  That's the way it is. 

It's the eve of your birthday and I find it hard to breathe today, Bubby.

I love you,

Mom