For Thor - 57 - Body Language

Grief impacts me in profound and new ways each day. I move through the moods, moments, waves, lulls, anxious buzzing, pain, sorrow and heartbreak, one at a time or in combo-paks. Sometimes sleep eludes me for weeks on end. Sometimes I can't sleep deeply enough, and I fall away from conscious thought almost before my head hits the pillow. Even as these experiences shift and push me to process emotions and thought on new levels, my physical body is paying a heavy toll. I've told you before how grief hurts, physically. But what I am learning now, is that the long-term effects of cortisol (that amazing stress hormone that is designed to keep us from being eaten by tigers) can be devastating to a whole system.

We are moving up on seven months since you died, Thor, and in that time I've done a lot of inner work. The work of processing such a profound loss is never done; the lessons come daily. But now, I am tired. I am so terribly tired. Self-care, self-love, life lines, eating right, emotional support, writing, meditation, and prayer have kept me going all this time. I still employ these tools to keep me on my feet and moving through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Even so, exhaustion, unlike any I've ever known before, greets me each morning and lingers throughout the day. It's like there is a vampire living inside of me that eats all the energy, leaves me to languish in a drained stupor.

Before you get too upset with me, I DID go to the doctor! Just like I've tuned in to listen to what my emotional and spiritual bodies are saying through all this, I am listening to my body's language, too. We are testing to see if the body has gone into acute adrenal crash mode. I experience a serious lack of resilience or reserve of energy. One stressful day puts me in bed for at least two more. I feel this keenly because I get out into the world more frequently and in richer engagements, now. Interactions with people and places often trigger my grief-stricken emotional state. I have learned that no matter how well-intentioned people are, they will do things that hurt and trigger me. It doesn't matter if they know I am grappling with grief with or haven't heard the news. Inevitably, something happens that deals me emotional body blows, and leaves me bruised and breathless. I find myself wanting or needing to tell people who don't know, since the change in me feels so profound, that surely these people see it and need an explanation. I feel anxiety when stepping into a situation with people I know and situations I used to handle with ease.  My brain is rewiring itself with new neural pathways - my personal regard of the world altered forever. Does it show? Can anyone tell I'm different? Will my fuzzy brain recall the right words at the right time? Will what I say make sense or am I really out there on the edge of reason? And all of this triggers a full-blown stress-state, which triggers more cortisol, of which the adrenals are rapidly becoming depleted. So, I feel a little bump in energy (thank you, tired but faithful adrenals) and then it's gone.

Welcome to Crash City. Population, one tired, broken-hearted mama.

I have to learn how to walk in the world again, and learn to navigate or negotiate the certain triggers. It sucks when I crash and don't have the mental energy even to make coffee. It appears that I need to slow this reentry down a bit. I have taken on too much, too fast. The body-mind are sending clear signals that I've pushed too hard.

Among several recent intense forays into the outside world, last weekend was the first time I went to Yogaville for one of the festival weekends. As the 50th Anniversary of Integral Yoga and the traditional celebration of Guru Poornima, I wanted to join in. Many people who sent their love, cards, donations and prayers from around the globe in the wake of your death had come to visit. With conscious effort, I went there to experience the weekend with this spiritual family. What I didn't expect was how draining it would be on my modest and hard-won energy reserve.

Many people want to grasp my arms and look into my eyes when they see me. They want to peer deeply to catch a glimpse of what rests behind the veneer I painted over my bleeding heart; I'm well enough to be in public. They want to ask me that most horrible question; "How are you?" It's well-intentioned but horrible. These are people who care about me and want to connect with me. They do want to know how I'm doing, but time is limited in these hallway interactions. We have an agenda to keep, other people are joining us in mere seconds, there is no time to share. How are you? I hate this question. It forces me to do one of two things, neither of which is what's wanted whenever I've managed to get out. I either have to lie and say something trite like "I'm okay-ish" or "I'm well enough" or worst of all "I'm fine." Or I have to deliver the truth, which involves me removing that veneer (the one that allows me even to be there in the first place) to reveal to them the depth of this sorrow. Either way, I end up triggered and drained. The truth is, I would love to sit with anyone of them, quietly, and share if they want to know, but they are moving at a pace that is too fast for me. It looks like they are trying to fit 25 hours of doing into 24 hours of time. I just don't shift that fast anymore.

I'm more interested in being established in a state of love that pervades everything; that flows from the navel of creation. My goal is to do only what needs to be done at any moment, with frictionless ease and efficient execution. The first thing is to restore the body to a balanced state since it is in acute crisis now. The joints and tendons hurt all the time. This skin hurts to touch. An inflammation state has become the norm. Stress hormones make weight loss nearly impossible, and this exacerbates the other problems. This is yet another aspect of grief I need to reconcile. I promise I'll work on it, Thor, with the same mindful dedication that I've applied to the emotional and spiritual bodies.

I feel you here with me, in support and holding me close. You prove your presence often, and I love it that you show up in my electronic devices! I know it was you reaching out to talk to me when my phone turned on and started playing in the middle of a Zach Brown song. The night before I felt separated from you and was super sad about that and I told you so in our pre-sleep chat. The next morning while getting ready to go, I walked by my sleeping phone which was charging on the dresser, and it just started singing "I'm gonna hold you tight. Under my wing, as long as I can." It repeated that phrase over and over in a gospel chorus. And it was just for me - from you! It's mind-blowing how, on earth, I got to be your mom taking care of you. And now you're expanded to the angel realms with super-awareness where you are taking care of all of us. You will always be a blessing to me as my son. Now you are a blessing to me as my personal angel. I hope you can stick around a while, Bubby, I still need you.

I've been saying Our Family Blessing, every day. It helps. I added the Prayer of St. Francis to my daily rituals along with singing Amazing Grace and chanting along with Snatam Kaur. It's a hodgepodge, but it works for me to keep my heart out of the ashes and my eyes on the horizon. 

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 56 - Broken Shell

When I walk along the beach with the surf rolling up to kiss my ankles, I look for shells tumbling across the sand. I always like the whole shells, the ones that have all their little fins and whorls, that are perfect and clean. This year I've been to the shore a couple of times and found beautiful shells on both trips. The ocean offered them like little gems tossed onto the path before me. I pick them up and marvel at the intricate symmetry and delicate coloring of each one. It belonged to a living sea creature not too long ago, this piece of hardened silica and minerals are all that remain to tell the tale of their watery life in the deep. I can never collect too many shells, but I am pickier now about which ones I'll tote home wrapped in paper towels and stowed in my suitcase.

This last week we were on the Outer Banks, one of your favorite places, Thor. We celebrated July 4th with friends, and the ocean waves broke on the crystal coast under a bright blue sky. Families frolicked in the water and played games. Sometimes it's hard to see other families with their kids, all intact and…whole.

The beaches teemed with beautiful youth; they paraded past my umbrella-cast shade, cocky and loudly laughing oblivious to the fact that life is fleeting. They are so like you, not realizing it can be cut short in a flash. One crashing of the wave the shell breaks dashed against the rocks of fate and life ends. We know this is true don't we, Bubby?

The beach offers me a perfect place to feel the depth of grief I know over your death. Gosh, every time I write that I think it's going to be more real to me, but it's not. The grief is deep, the sorrow has substance, even. But my mind still has not accepted you are gone from our lives. Your dad and I took a long walk hand-in-hand along the shore one night and I remembered how utterly happy we were when we first met and got married. The elation we felt when we learned we were going to have you marked one of the best times in our twenty-two years together. And when you came into this world our hearts sang with such love and joy. We felt the enormous blessing of you coming to be with us, sweet boy. We felt so happy, blessed and…whole.

We are broken shells now, tossed on a beach and tumbled in the waves of grief and sorrow. Exposed and utterly at the mercy of the love that binds us, we are vulnerable and open. My points and whorls have been knocked off; I am smoothed and shaped by the tides of grief and the rivers of tears that carve my heart. One day earlier this year in Florida, I went for a walk. I rolled my pants up to my knees so I could feel Mother Ocean kiss my skin, and so I could let my tears fall freely into her waters. I asked her to show me a way forward on the terrible path of a mother who has lost a beloved son. I walked on, waiting, open and listening deep inside for that intuitive cue to guide me.

One by one I came across what looked like large whelks poking out of the wet sand and when I picked them up, they were broken. I would usually put these shells back, but something told me to keep them. Then I found shark-eye and moonstone snails, and giant cockles that looked whole, but were broken. I had a handful of these broken offerings when I stopped walking and sat for a while to contemplate what The Mother wished to reveal to me.

Are we not all like these broken shells? We work hard to appear whole, but we all have cracks and chips where we've pushed beyond the boundaries of our small selves. The Ocean offered me broken shells to remind me that even if something isn't whole, it is still beautiful. It has a story and maybe even has more to teach us than the tale of one that never experienced rough seas and high tides. I meditated on this for a while, sitting near the surf and watching the endless waves rise and fall. After some time I strolled into the water and thanked the Universe for granting me all my many blessings, even if they are broken, chipped or cracked in places. I gently laid the broken shells back on the shore, the message received. I turned my feet back to the house to see your dad and brothers. I carried peace in my heart, and a gentle smile lifted the corners of my lips. I felt a thump on my foot and looked down. There was a small but perfectly intact knobbed whelk, worn smooth in the surf. It was whole and beautiful. It rested my pocket and and I ran my thumb over the contours of its shape as I said my mantra.

I carried this lesson and the contentment it brought me with me these past few months. It helped me when I felt low and reminded me to be grateful, even when it's not perfect. I've learned a few things and realized that I don't know much at all, too.

So, when I went to see The Mother Ocean for the first time this past week, I couldn't wait to tell her Our Family Blessing. I strode into the water and let the waves roll up to my knees. I raised my arms to the sky and said The Blessing as tears fell into the water. I asked The Mother to share some piece of wisdom with me and that I would stand right there in THAT SPOT until I heard her. The very next wave rolled up, and I felt a thump against my foot. I looked down to see a beautiful, whole, intact channel whelk sitting on my foot (very rare where we were). I picked it up and smiled with my whole heart. It was like a rainbow promise telling me one day I would be whole, again. Maybe not the way I thought I would be, and maybe better than I ever thought I could be. It will not be easy, in fact, it hurts a lot. But feeling bereft and sorrowful is not going to last forever. I am a broken vessel now and slowly, I rebuild and form into something new, different, bright and...whole.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 55 - Wheel of Love

On December 31, 2015, a Thursday, at approximately 9:45 pm your heart stopped. Last night we observed the six-month mark of your Earth death, Thor. June 30, a Thursday, at 9:45 my heart broke all over again. I looked at pictures of you as a baby and young boy. I have to tell you, that as fine of a man as you grew to be, I will always think of you as my precious little bundle of love, my Bubby.

And I just want my Bubby back, you know. And I cried my eyes out for a while over that. Eventually, the tears slowed, and I settled into a contemplative state. I reached out with my senses to feel you. Sometimes I hold out my hand, and I sense your hand in mine. You've been hanging around a lot the past week or two. I know you're always here, but you've been making some effort to let us KNOW you're here. It's a huge comfort to me. And when I get to crying too long or get too sad, that's when you tend to make a big splashy entrance; like making my car dial your phone number over and over.

Anyhow, I got to thinking about the universe and time and the wheel of the year and specifically about this first year, peppered with milestones. The cosmos is full of bodies in motion, nothing is still or changeless, everything moves, dances, spins, floats, sails, caroms and even explodes in a spectacular display of light and energy. We are just tiny pieces of that show, doing our best to shine some light and make a difference. We establish references and relationships to our environment. We are on the planet, the planet spins day into night and revolves around the sun to birth the seasons. There is a circular motion to our existence, easily envisioned as a wheel. The Wheel of the Year for most people only marks the equinoxes and solstices, like Stonehenge.

For me, it's become something else altogether. When you died that was the beginning, this is the large stone in the center of my new Wheel. And the wheel has many aspects depending on the work before me. It is the Wheel of Grief and also the Wheel of Learning to Live Again, of Cherished Memories, of Sacred Tears, of Milestones that Matter, of Gratitude and Forgiveness. It is the Wheel of Love. Each day dawns to find me in a different position relative to your last day. Life moves on, I move on, but I have a new reference point in the center of the wheel; you, your life, your love and your death.

Right now is the apogee, the farthest part of the arc of the wheel before we begin to turn toward marking the first anniversary. We've come through so many milestones already, birthdays and holidays, turning of the seasons, friends' graduations and weddings, each one tugs at my heart and stings my eyes with bitter tears. I think, "You should be here." And you are, I know. But it's not the same.

I walked around in a triggered state for two weeks now. While I was freaked out about your brothers, well-being, that doesn't sufficiently explain the depth of how I feel. There is credence to this six-month marker, this half-way point in our first-year circumnavigation of your death. It is a call to reflect on how far I've come and to remember how much love we have. It is a time to soften and open my heart to where this journey leads and the insight gained. It's a reminder to bravely embrace the pain and learn the lessons, to sink deep inside and shine a light on my personal fears. Six months later I am so much stronger, but not in the way I ever expected to be strong. I am strong in vulnerability. My feet are planted in the richer ground of Universal Love even as my eyes look to the stars in wonder.  How did I get here?

Every day I say Our Family Blessing. I feel it working on me, changing my being, strengthening my resolve to remain open-hearted and loving. It is a beautiful gift that bonds our tribe more closely than ever, and that includes you, Thor.

We've come so far, but the road stretches on forever. I'm grateful, beyond words, to know you're here with me especially when we come upon these milestones that turn my awareness inward. The wellspring of grief seems to have an endless supply of tears for me to shed. As they fall from my eyes, I imagine them turning into crystal-winged butterflies that carry my love to you.

Oh, my sweet, I miss you so.
Mom

For Thor - 54 - Tears for Fear and Love

I am not happy right now, Thor. I'm trying hard to find my footing, to learn something, to glean insight, to expand my awareness, to open my heart, to make sense of your senseless death. The fact is, this fucking sucks on a scale of suckiness that is outside the realm of words and is beyond what a mind can comprehend. I can't piece together language that matches the depth of what I feel.

I've purposefully leaned into the pain and gone to the bottom of the well of grief. I marinated my heart and soul there in that oppressive depth trusting sorrow to show the way. And I've taken bold, brave steps along that path strewn with the litter of our broken lives. Yours cut short. Mine encumbered with the pain of losing my son. The sharp edges of shattered dreams cut my feet, but still I walk on. There is nothing else to do.

I got scared a couple of days ago and it triggered a tremor inside that stirred the pot, big time. I've been feeling somewhat settled, still in pain, but I could breath more freely and think new thoughts. Then, I walked into the house from a much-needed trip to the beach to find Chaz on the couch in his pajamas. It was too early for bed, being the middle of the afternoon. As I fluttered around the house, bringing in my bags and assessing the status of plants, birds and fish in my absence, I asked Chaz about his day. He said he was happy to be alive. I thought this a curious thing to say. Then he told me that lightning struck him just an hour before while he was on the back porch. The strike was close enough to him that he saw a blinding, white flash, and it buckled his knees out from under him. At first, I wasn't sure if it actually happened, or had he just been scared and exaggerated the experience. Then I discovered that the strike had tripped three circuit breakers, and I thought I was going to throw up. I froze inside. My emotional self shut down as a protective barrier wrapped around my heart. I heard myself asking clarifying questions about what happened. Asking if he feels okay now. Taking care of facts of the situation like a battlefront nurse; my emotional self, parked outside the story. I went to bed early not understanding why I was so drained.

When I awoke, there were tears on my face. I had been crying in my sleep. The tears wouldn't stop. I wasn't sobbing; they just ran like a river. The mere idea of fear of losing your brother in the wake of the pain of losing you was more than I could take. There was nothing to do but go there, to that dark place and let it all out.

Fear leads to anger. Yep. I was scared and it pissed me off, so I yelled at God. "No fucking way you fucking asshole! You CANNOT have another one of my kids! Just take your fucking lightning and all your bullshit and get the fuck out of my life!" Mama is not happy, Thor. I don't care about swearing at God; he can take it, the fucker.

When Chaz got up, I wrapped him in huge tear-sodden mama hug. I kissed his cheek and told him how scared I was and that I was so sorry for the delayed reaction on my part. I had totally freaked out inside and needed time to process. He is so sweet to hug me back, just as hard. We're both suffering, you know.

I took some deep breaths and downed a cup of coffee. There were things to do and appointments to keep. So, getting ready for work was the next thing. Somehow, I managed to find an outfit that I could stand to wear and got myself in the car. I cried all the way to Charlottesville. My eyes ran like faucets. I had a meeting, and I was gonna look like heck. Oh, well. This is what happens, right? I have to go to work and sometimes I just don't have my shit together, not even a little bit. A coworker gave me a hug and tears fell. The person at our meeting peered with apparent wonder at my red eyes. I told him the truth, I had lost my son and was just getting back to work. I blinked back a new rush of tears. Is it okay to cry at work? Is emotional vulnerability acceptable? I don't know how to stop it or to be any other way, so I just roll-on.

As if all this wasn't enough, I got another crazy curve ball thrown at me. I was so upset about Chaz and you that I knew I needed a sister lifeline to talk it out. So I hit the button on my steering wheel to tell the car to dial "Poorna" for me. Instead of connecting me with her, it dialed YOUR NUMBER, Thor! Gah! So, I breathlessly canceled that command and tried once more. It dialed your number AGAIN! New tears. Fresh, hot, terrible, sacred mama tears streamed. I probably should have pulled over. But I didn't. I drove on with the nickname I gave you in my contacts list, "Thorminator", glaring from the dash. I finally accessed Poorna by hitting the phone icon next to one of her text messages. Your name remained on the dash, even though the Bluetooth had dialed her. Lord, child! What are you doing to me?

I miss you like crazy. It makes me fucking nuts to think you're dead. I can't believe we are edging up on six months that you're not here with us. I want you to walk through that door for supper. I want to hug you and never let you go. I would give anything to listen to you play music with your dad, again, or to hear your laugh. I want to have a conversation with you because I still want to know some things...

Where are you?
How are you?
WHY THE HELL did you have to DIE? Did you wish you could change it? Or is the afterlife so great that you'd be nuts to want to come back?
One crazy ride. One dumb choice to not put on your seatbelt. One bump on the head and that was it. WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY??? Holy shit.

Yep, I'm back to the same old questions that swirl round and round.

But you know me, Thor. I can't stay here in this lamenting space for too long. The sense of right and purpose-driven living that is in my very core leads me to attempt to ponder some other truths; It's All God. Everything is purposeful. Ugh! It's so hard to wrap my head around these concepts, right now. But I take a deep breath and swallow hard to remember there is always more to the story and I refocus on the beauty of your short life. I savor and marvel at the impact of your nineteen years on all of us; your family and your friends. The legacy of kindness, friendship, service, and love that touched all our lives. The impact of your death, even, is enormous and far-reaching, bringing people and cultures together in one swoop.

Will I ever be able to reconcile all this honestly? I don't know. I keep walking on this path of sorrow. The pieces of our broken lives cut my feet, and it doesn't matter. This is where I am. It doesn't work to pretend I am somewhere else. I walk on leaving a trail of bloody footprints and a river of silver tears. The path leads me through my center and into the Love that connects us all. This Love is the only thing that doesn't change in this whole existence. I seek solace, comfort and strength there. I strive to connect with you, Thor.

Still, there are tears, they shine and reflect the ever-changing emotions that dance through my being like clouds across a summer sky. Some are sweet (I think of holding you as a baby and looking into your pretty eyes), and some are bitter (You'll never be a dad and I won't get to rock your kids and gaze into their pretty eyes). Some are hot with anger (I'm still pretty fucking ticked off at this whole situation), and some soothe with love (I am softened and melty in the world now. Love oozes out of and through me). All the flavors of all the tears; I let 'em flow.

I just have one thing to ask of you today. Keep those big angel wings of yours around your brothers, okay? I have a feeling you did just that for Chaz, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You're a darned good angel, sweetie. As if you could be anything else. Ha!

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 53 - Ramblin' Rose

It feels mostly good to get back into the swing of things. I also feel like I'm doing some of this stuff for the very first time. In some ways, I suppose that's true. When you died, and I began the terrible process of grieving which profoundly changed me. Now I am slowly learning how to live, again, from this new orientation.

I used to live out of my head. I thought, pondered, and analyzed my way through the day. I worried over words in conversation and held back heartfelt expression, unsure of its value in my world of busyness. I ran at a too-fast pace, missing so many beautiful details and opportunities for meaningful connection. I lost precious years of your short time here. I was tired, exhausted and lost in the craziness I had created. I struggled to find peace and joy in each moment, driven as I was. Then death blew my mind. All that buzzing bullshit came to a screeching halt. The grooves in my mind where years of thinking had worn familiar tracks were gone. That tsunami wave of tragedy crashed over, erased and wiped them clean like sand on a shore; a hard reset.

I can't live out of my head, anymore. Trying to do so gives me a headache and makes me feel physically ill. The well-spring of energy that moves me sourced much more deeply. It rises from through my heart from the soul. The mind is just a collection of functions that gets this body from A to B and allows me to do stuff, like write these words. I walk in the world now with a softness I maybe only had as a young child. I mean, shit, the worst has already happened to me. My beloved son is dead, and I have had to keep breathing. I don't have anything left to protect anymore. Your death left me wide open and vulnerable; I live from this space. There is no purpose for a mind that plots and plans out of fear. I live from love. I'm a big heart, with feet.

When I began my tentative ventures back out into the world, Nana coached me to have my response ready when people ask about the family…or you. I practiced a bit, rolling the words around on my tongue to see if I could utter them without bursting into tears. It's good to be prepared for social situations. People always ask about your family, Do you have kids? "Yes. I have three sons; two are living." or, Cassandra! Where have you been? I never heard back from you about xxx. "I'm sorry I haven't been in touch; I've been on leave." Why? "We lost our eldest boy this past New Year." Oh! I'm so sorry for your loss! "Thank you, sincerely." I can practice for the direct questions; this is good for me and the person I'm talking to who has no idea that under this fragile veneer of control is a swirling sea of grief that could swamp us both. Practice desensitizes me to the words. I can say them and not feel my heart twist. I can glide by them and blink away the sting in my eyes if I practice.

Being prepared is one thing. But it's the moments when my guard is down when I casually share stories from my life that are deceptively dangerous. Anyone who knows me knows I like to talk about you and your brothers. Any topic anywhere could eventually find me lending a tale from my life with you three. "One time me and my boys…" or "My boys tease me about…"Every time I made chicken and dumplings, Thor would show up for supper…"

The words dry up in my mouth. My mind freezes. I suddenly stop breathing in mid-sentence. I am so used to talking about my boys, my THREE boys. Who are now my TWO living boys, and my ONE dead boy. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

One. Dead. Boy. For as much work as I've done processing this horrible fact, this tragedy, I still get caught on the barbs of these words. They are cruel as they cut into my still-raw heart.

This is how I walk about these days. I appear fine, regular, unchanged. But I harbor inside of me a swirling vortex that spins down into the core of Life and connects me with something so vast and primordial, I barely feel human, at times. I am trying to figure out what's next, what am I supposed to do? All of this happens while I seem to be doing what is normal - going to meetings, buying groceries, working with my team, planning things for your brothers. My only refuge is to be present in each moment and allow whatever comes to express, which may bring tears. Sometimes I fall into the wellspring of love, and the expansion it creates in my being allows a wave a gratitude and peace to flow into those painful places to soothe and calm them. Sometimes I need to be alone, focused on weeding my garden or washing the dishes where I breathe out the pain in long, puffing sighs. It reminds me of Lamaze breathing in labor. That fits, this is labor for certain.

It's hard to talk about it, anymore. I feel like a record on repeat. Sad. Angry. Grateful. Sorrowful. Love. Hopeful. Wistful. Longing. Sad. Sorrowful. Wistful. Angry. Grateful. Longing. Love. And on and on. I spent hours, days, weeks and months processing these states of being through the lens of grief. How do I talk about them anymore? I've said all I can say. The facts never change. You are dead. I am not. You are free. I am grieving. Your story ended. Mine is twisted in tragedy. You are fixed in time, forever young. I've aged a decade in the past six months. You are my angel-guide, ever at my side. I feel you with me, always. You are dead. I play on.

I'm a Rambling Rose, today, Thor. Maybe it's because life gains momentum as I get back to work and attempt to find my footing and I don't have time to process and write to you as often. I only get snippets at a time, and I don't always have the hour or two to deeply explore when feelings surface. But it's okay. This is part of the story, too. I am learning to integrate and incorporate my continual transformation into something useful in the world. What good are all these insights if I can't share the light with others? I have less time to sit quietly in the navel of sorrow, but it doesn't matter, the current of love that runs through this sea of grief continues to work on softening and shaping me. I just have to keep showing up. The way will reveal itself.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 52 - Flashback

A new level of peace, you could even say joy, blossomed in my heart in the past week or so. A new spring animates my step. I feel wonderment at the beauty of the world and how life is supporting me. The animals and birds recognized this new aura; I could tell because they would put themselves in my path and linger long. I tapped into something bigger than what my finite human consciousness can comprehend. So, I roll with it, staying open, soft, willing, faithful, kind.

One realization that helped me turn this corner, which is more like a deep knowing in my very cells, is that you are always with me. I feel your presence as surely as if you were still walking this physical plane with me. My mind visualizes this sensation as the purest, bright light that shines from inside, beneath and behind me all at once. You reside in this light where we are all connected to one another.

The delicious and sweet feeling of you right here greets me in the morning. I don't have to conjure your memory in my mind all the time to sense your presence. I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I had found some solid ground. Maybe each day wouldn't be shadowed by death, but rather an expression of delight in BEING ALIVE! I applied myself back to work with more zeal and at a higher level of commitment than I had in months. I greeted each new day with profound hope. What did I have to be sad about? You are right here with me.

This perspective refreshes my capacity and ability; it's energizing. But it's very precarious as it shifts and turns, becoming inaccessible at times. Tears come in sneak attacks of grief and they flow freely when I think about how many cool ass things we won't get to do together. I want you here, playing, living, laughing, loving with us! Regret over lost dreams tarnishes my newfound joy and shakes the ground beneath my feet.

It occurs to me that life is like a video game. We are all playing together but separately from our unique consoles. We each have a role, characteristics, resources and skills. We play our best, interacting with other players, trying to conquer whatever objectives we set for ourselves. You lost your life, Thor, and can no longer play the role of my son, here. But the energy that animated your life in the game is hanging out with me, watching as we all play on. Just like when you played Xbox with your brothers, and one of your avatars "died" in the game, the game continued, and the player who operated the avatar that "died" is still alive, in the room. For the players play on, our attention completely engrossed in the display before us. We are unable to see those other players who "died" but who are still in the same room.

And this is the dual vision that I live with these days. I know the ultimate, existential Truth that you are free, eternal and right here with me. I also express the deepest anguish from a mother's broken heart that you are not right here with me. I still play this game. When I realize it's a game and can soften my gaze and expand my awareness to see more, feel more, that's when I find you hanging out, just waiting for me to say "Hey, Bubby."

Glenmore Fire Department had a chicken barbecue fundraiser yesterday. Your dad was there all day, and I popped in to help for a bit. I enjoyed volunteering, laughing and chatting with the ladies of the auxiliary and the firefighters. This is the team you were planning to join in January if the cards had dealt differently. The fine men of Glenmore VFD are the ones who responded to the scene of your crash. It's one of the hardest aspects of being a volunteer in a small community; first-responders likely know the victims of fires and accidents, the families of the wounded or deceased share your church pews and your kids go to school and play soccer together.

It was the first time many of them had seen me since that horrible night. They are our neighbors and now are your dad's brothers in service. We are tied together in many ways, but they will always be the ones with us on the worst night of our lives. It's a different kind of intimacy and vulnerability than I've ever experienced. As the chicken was cooked, tables set and drinks put on ice, everyone bustled about and joked with each other. I couldn't help it; I kept looking for you. In my mind's eye, you were right in there, making a joke, hauling buckets of chicken, passing out dinners, making all those who came in feel welcome with your cheerful, fun-loving countenance. It was a "You should be here!" moment. I didn't realize until later how much it gutted me.

I slept fitfully, last night. Anxiety and sadness kept me agitated and held sleep at bay. On top of that, your brothers went to see a movie and were not expected home until 1 am. We got a phone call from Chaz telling us that they planned to be home and were not spending the night at their friend's house. I kept half an ear turned to listen for a car on the drive and their footfalls on the step. At one point, in a frustrated attempt to get comfortable I rolled over and noticed that the porch light still glared. In my sleeplessness, I had not real idea of time, surely it was earlier than it felt. No. It was 230am. I went to see if Chaz and Xan were in their beds. No. I went to see if there was an update text message telling me they had changed their minds. No.

Time stopped. My knees shook.

I went from sleepless angst to a full-on flashback of that terrible night in a nano-second. All I could see in my mind was flashing lights on a dark road. I went all the way back there like I had never left. My heart pounded in my ears and my heart raced. I took a deep breath and punched a text into my phone; don't sound too freaked out, don’t assume anything, sometimes no news is good news, right? Hit send to Chaz and Xan. I dug my fingers into the bedcovers as I waited for a response and tried to curb my reeling thoughts and emotions. After a few minutes that seemed like an hour, Xan responded to let me know they had decided to stay at their friend's house after all. The movie ran later than expected; they didn't want to wake us. I responded with only a hint of the devastation I felt, but mostly I felt flooded with relief and said my goodnights with several kissie-face emojis. I washed the sweat off my face and filled a cup with cool water. My mouth had gone dry.

Restoring sleep continued to elude me. At one point my flailing around actually knocked Lady off the bed.

This morning I awoke to a jumbled mind, a troubled heart, anxiety coursing, tears falling. I avoided the news again today, as the horrific shootings in Orlando would only stab this already bleeding heart and push the anxiety through the roof. I had to get my shit together for a critical meeting and product demo today. I ran through all my lifelines in an attempt to find my core peace and reserves of strength; meditation, Hatha Yoga, listening to beautiful music, sitting in the garden with my coffee and Lady by my side. I fed my fish. I called my mom. I started writing you.

When the boys finally came home, I didn't yell. I told them they were not allowed to do that to me; I can't be left in the dark not knowing. And I cried. Chaz immediately hugged me and was sorry. Xan, being unconvinced that he'd done anything wrong, was less appreciative of the direness of the situation, but he came around. I am trying so hard not to suffocate them under the anxiety that losing you produces. I want them to live their lives and feel me supporting them as they learn to fly. All I need is for them to text me. Often. I need hyper-texting. And they know this. They had been doing so well with texting me, that the lapse in judgement last night set it up for me to believe that something really could be wrong. Gah! What a fucking mess.

The Universe, as ever, looks out for me and provided me some space. I got a call to ask if I can reschedule the meeting for today. I felt my whole being collapse in relief. More tears. I have some time to get my feet back under me, again. I'll seek out that connection with the light and you, Thor. That's the work before me for now. Return to that feeling of peace and that glimpse of joy that I had last week. Whatever it takes.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 51 - Keeping it Real

I have a new companion, and his name is Death. I reckon he's been around me since I drew breath almost 51 years ago, but I only became acutely aware of his icy presence on December 31 when his bony fingers reached out and snatched you away from us. I know Death is everywhere, as pervasive as life, keeping things in balance. And I've experienced the appearance of Death in my life before, but never like this.

When our elders pass on after a life well-lived we miss them, it's true. When death calls our wizened and aged ones home, we celebrate those long and full lives. We come together to offer tribute to our closest ancestors as they pass into that ethereal realm and take up the mantle of carrying on their names and legacies.

When Death insinuates itself into Life in a surprise, sneak attack to steal you away before you even have a chance manifest your dreams, it feels flat out wrong. When you died before your life was lived, I sparked with indignant outrage! "How dare you take my boy!" I yell into the silent maw of the deepest parts of my being hoping that there will be an answer, an accounting or some God damned assurance that it unfolded as it was supposed to. "I did everything I could to keep him safe and help him grow to be a good man. The kind of man we want to keep on the planet! And now he's gone!" These are the agonizing thoughts, the ones that keep this wound raw and bleeding. They crop up from time to time to torment me anew and spin me into bouts of tears and pain.

Thankfully, I am mindfully open to what grief and sorrow have to show. I see and feel more than the anger and the agony. Beyond, beneath and behind the outrage of my traumatized mother's heart is a newly crystalized awareness. I am keenly aware that each moment could be the last. I feel like I walk around with Death's fingers ever on my shoulder, a specter that shadows my every move. I can't shake the feeling, the knowing, that each breath I draw is expressly a gift of Grace. At any time and for no reason at all, Death can call anyone of us away from this field of play, this life.

This awareness is admittedly a little creepy, and it sometimes spawns anxiety. I worry for the safety of your brothers and dad. I send prayers for protection to encompass your cousins and friends. I have to breathe through this fear to help me remember that nothing has changed. The daily risks any of us take are still here. Driving to work on Hwy 20 is just as safe as it ever was. Xan riding his bike is just as safe as it ever was. Chaz walking to work is just as safe as he ever was. Only now, I have a heightened sense that Death is very much in play - and always has been in play. When I settle in and remember that nothing has changed except for my awareness of the possibility of death, I can let go of the gripping fear, and I can even flip it. I can refocus my attention to tap-in and feel sincere gratitude for all that is, in each moment. I am forced to remain hyper-focused on the gifts engendered in each nanosecond of life, because I know, all too well, how fleeting they are.

Yesterday I had the delicious pleasure and honor of visiting some friends who just had their first baby. The sweet energy and love of welcoming a new life into a family are one of the most beautiful experiences in life. I rocked the baby in my arms, and my heart bloomed, spilling over with poignant love. I remembered holding you, Thor. I remembered those first few days of utter bliss blended with utter exhaustion. I tapped back into that very moment when you and I looked into each other's eyes, and we saw each other. I felt you with me, my angel, surrounding that moment, that memory with perfect joy.

I held that new precious life with same hands that bore and lost a dear son, with the awareness of all that transpired inside of me since that horrible day. Right then, I knowingly witnessed the encompassing and coupled natures of Birth, Life, and Death. I knew, really knew, that each one is here, with us in each breath, playing its role. They are the warp and weft of our existence, creating the very framework upon which we weave our lives. One cannot exist without the other.

Timing still bothers me. I still hate it that you left us after only 19 years. I still want you here with us for more time. I wished that could hold your baby in my arms, a first grandchild for your dad and me. Regret over lost hopes and dreams yields bitter tears. And as angry as I am that you are gone, I know now that Death is and always has been in its rightful place in existence; the primordial counterpart of life, the price we each pay for living. Each breath is a gift, a treasure to be used to enrich, enhance, enliven and enlighten the world. Where will I invest that treasure? Where will spend the coin of Life while that currency flows? Who are my investment partners and what are the expected outcomes for a life well-lived?

Your short life was a testament to how to do this right. You gave all. You laughed loudly. You befriended all. You released pettiness and judgment. You were humble and kind, never boasting or bragging, just quietly going about the day spreading your unique brand of joy, love and goodness. So when Death came stealing in the night and swept you into the other room, the memory of the impact you had on us all is what remains.

I've been listening to Zac Brown Band, again. Well, a lot, actually. This week the words to "Remedy" run incessantly in my mind, a welcome earworm to encourage me to ponder…

"Remedy"
https://youtu.be/6_-G6YvOPpg

I've been looking for a sound
That makes my heart sing
Been looking for a melody
That makes the church bells ring
Not looking for the fame
Or the fortune it might bring
In love, in music, in life

Jesus preached the golden rule
Buddha taught it too
Gandhi said eye for an eye
Makes the whole world go blind
With a little understanding
We can break these chains that we've been handed
I've got the medication
Love is the remedy

Pray to be stronger and wiser
Know you get what you give
Love one another
Amen (amen), amen

I've been thinking about the mark
That I'll be leaving
Been looking for a truth
I can believe in
I got everything I need
Let this heart be my guide
In love, in music, in life

I'm not saying I'm a wise man
Heaven knows there's much that I'm still finding
Making my way down this winding road
Holding on to what I love
Yeah, and leaving the rest behind
For love, for music, for life

Pray to be stronger and wiser
Know you get what you give
Love one another
(Love is the remedy)

We're all in this world together
Life's a gift that we have to treasure
Happiness, now that is the measure
Love is the remedy
(Love is the remedy)

Everyone can be forgiven
One love and one religion
Open up your heart and listen
Love is the remedy

Pray to be stronger and wiser
And know you get what you give
God is love one another
Amen, amen, amen!

Isn't that a great song? It uplifts my heart so much even when it makes me cry.

So, with Life coursing through my veins, Love blooming in my heart and with the ever-present specter of Death on my shoulder reminding me to keep it real and focused on the fleeting nature of this life, I continue to learn to walk anew in the world. It's good to have you as my angel guide, sweetness. I am grateful to feel you near as I find the way.

What a trip, Thor. Mind = blown, for real.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 50 - New Ink

The ink of my life, my purpose, my very understanding of anything, erased the moment you died. I became a blank page. The inner landscape rendered featureless and barren. All that I thought I knew had crumbled into rubble. The pathways once drawn with the ink of service, duty, relationships and even sense of self, simply vanished. In one shocking moment, the utter temporariness of this world was forcibly thrust upon me. Our lives are sandcastles on the edge of a rising tide, never meant to leave a lasting impression, only to be appreciated and shared for the short time we have to share them. The stories of our lives are written in the sand, too, they are not even ink or pencil, merely soft indentions in the plasma of manifestation. It lasts as long as we hold them in our thoughts.

Twenty-two weeks ago a rogue wave crashed upon the shore of my heart. It flattened everything. Every effort since then is centered around learning to cope and reconciling the experience of losing my beloved son with faith and love. Some moments are easier than others. Enjoyment and comfort seep in to shine a sunny warmth upon me as I heal. Some moments are excruciating in their rawness. I feel separated from you and everyone. The sea of grief rages and tosses me roughly. Nana gave me a magnet the other day. It says "You can't stop the waves from coming, but you can learn to surf!" What I never knew about learning to surf is that one spends a fair amount of time getting tumbled by waves and crashing into the shore. It takes practice. Learning to surf on this sea requires mindfulness and daring.

I am at once on the ocean and the shore. I am consciously rebuilding the landscape of my inner life. To do so with the full understanding that it may fall into nothingness in a nanosecond, takes courage. I am learning to draw new lines with new ink.

The lifelines I called upon in the earliest days of this horror have become new habits. Creative, spiritual and faith-driven exploration and expression are, once again, part of my daily being. I am softened and smoothed on the edges sinking with melty openness into life as it unfolds before me. Thoughts and emotions that inspire anger or frustration find there is less and less inside of me where they can thrive. In this space, I am aware of you, Thor. And I am aware of life. I plant my feet and tip my face toward the sun, and I draw new lines with new ink with each thought, step, smile, hug, touch, and ounce of effort. And you are so close these days.

A few weeks ago, I took the art for the new tattoo to an artist in Scottsville. After we had finalized the design for placement, we set an appointment. It's just as I said it would be; tribal-style totem animals represent our family. Dad is a snow leopard for silent, strong leadership and efficient use of energy. Chaz is a raven for the playful and creative use of language, and joyful, mystical understanding of the balance of light and dark. Xan is an otter for playfulness, loyalty, family, adventure, daring and fun. (Doesn't that sound about right?) And eagle represents me, for high-level vision allowing me to see the connectedness of all beings and the patterns that emerge as we interact. You, darling, are a beautiful buck for the generous kindness of your heart and your ability to love and befriend so many. Also for your sense of adventure and fun. The totems are framed with turquoise, coral, and silver. The coral represents the earth, the womb, birth and this manifest world. The turquoise represents the cosmos, the Creator, and the spirit world. They are held together in silver that represents purity and allows for the highest expression of each. This frame is shaped in an infinity symbol to represent the cyclical nature of birth and death. In the lower loop of the frame is the sun shining rays upon the world and in the upper half is the moon floating in the cosmos. In this way, our Earth is referenced in the scope of all that is. And so our whole family is rendered together, in one spot, right here on my arm.

As we prepared to etch these powerful, meaningful images into my skin, we did one more thing; We added your ashes to the ink. This simple act was intensely profound; it allowed me to reclaim you to myself as your mother. Your body was of my body from the very beginning, and now I carry these final pieces with me, under my skin, for the rest of my days.

Yes, I am drawing new lines with new ink, Thor. What they will ultimately reveal and where they may lead is yet to be seen. I only know that I am drawing them with love from an open heart, with you as my angel guide and with your dad and brothers, and all the family by my side.


I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 49 - In the Other Room

The rain continues to fall. The earth is plump. All the cracks are filled in. Seedlings gently push through dark humus to emerge into the fresh air, their potential unfurled, reaching out to greet each new day. The app on my phone says this is the last of the long rainy spell. Sun and heat will return tomorrow making this the last day in my weather-driven retreat. I am grateful for the extended time afforded to me; contemplation and processing take longer these days. There is more busyness, now. There is more to do that needs my attention. Then there is the whole notion of learning to be me in the new paradigm; the one where you have taken up residence in another realm and I have a new scar on my heart.

A few months ago a beautiful message came to us through a friend who can do these things. It was clearly a message from you, and it included a call to action for me and all of our family. You threw down the gauntlet, daring us to pick it up and accept the challenge; Be aware of our purpose here. We are meant to LOVE and share LIGHT unconditionally. Messages that come from the angels should never be taken lightly. And messages that come from my personal angel who was so very recently my flesh and blood son, well, you can bet I'm going to take that challenge.

I wasn't sure at first how to get this message shifted into action, and it was clear that the message was for the whole family. One day as I read and reread the message from you, I swear I heard you say "Medicine Wheel." I knew at once this was the answer, to call the women of the family together into the sacred circle handed down to us from our Native American ancestors. We would offer this query from our hearts and process it together through the lodges of a Medicine Wheel. Aunt Sumati and Nana and I had all participated in Medicine Wheel work in years past. In the tumultuous years of child-rearing and general survivalism the wisdom and power of The Wheel had been forgotten. To return to it now, with my heart smashed to smithereens, when we are all processing the deep, lasting, effect of your death, Thor, it's nothing short of perfect.

And so we convened and completed the work of the Wheel over seven weeks. The beauty, power, wisdom, honesty, humility, humor and bravery expressed by all the women as we moved step, by step, together, from lodge to lodge asking, How does it look to radiate LIGHT and love? We felt your presence there with us, my darling son. There are times when I can feel your wings wrap around me as you whisper into my ear so only my heart can hear, "I Love you, Mom. Keep doing the work. Stay open. Show up. I am right here, helping, every step of the way."

We came up with a plan that we all vowed to do our best to enact. No matter what happens with it, I know that my heart has grown softer, sweeter and more trusting as a result. They say, be the change you want to see in the world. At least, I know we are doing that much.

Another message came to us, too. Someone asked the revered Guru, Dada Vaswani, how a mother who suddenly lost a son could learn to live, again. Nana and Grandpa along with several others in the family were there to hear this in person, and they knew they had to share it with me. The answer to that question shot straight to my heart. He said that first we must understand the nature of death. No one ever dies. The living part of each of us is alive forever! All that changes is the form. When the form here changes, it's as if that soul only moves into another room. Then he quoted Jesus from the Book of John 14:2, "My Father's house has many mansions." So, you've slipped into the other room, eh?

Meditating on this over the past week or so has shifted the grief for me. When it shifted, my body had a visceral response; I got so sick. My stomach purged, and intestines flushed, I spiked a fever and had to go to bed. It was like preparing for labor. In the aftermath of that short, but intense physical clearing, I feel you, there, in the other room. I can reach out to you and sense your presence, much like I know your brothers are in their room when I am in mine, out of sight, but very much in my awareness.

When I watched the video of Dadaji, he told a story to illustrate his point. The fact that the story featured Sharada Devi, for whom Sri Gurudev named me, simply added to its power, personalizing it so pointedly. Sharada Devi was grieving over the death of her husband and was about to strike a hammer to break the ivory bangles on her wrists. A sign of mourning in India, at that time. As the story continued, I didn't hear Dada's voice any longer, I heard yours. "Sharada! Sharada! What are you doing? (her husband had manifested before her and asked as she was about to hit her bangles) I am alive! I have not died; I've only left the room!" You've only left the room.

I didn't want you to leave this room. Part of me yelled, "What was so wrong with this room that you couldn't stay?" But it's not that something was wrong. You just had to go. I don't know why, only that you did.

The story of the life you had here, in the form of Thor, my son, is over. That story was only nineteen years long. It was a good and beautiful story. Full of love and life and laughter. Full of friends and joy and heartache, too. Light shined brightly through those beautiful blue eyes, and your big heart moved you to care for so many people. The ending of a gorgeous story is what we mourn. Not having new memories to share is what we grieve. What I see now is that the story, your story, is continuing. Your time here with us was a chapter, not the whole book. I don't know when or where or how, but I know I'll see you again. We'll get another chance to dance in the kitchen and smile knowingly into each other's eyes. Our souls are connected, so we can always find each other.

Not too long ago in our history, when a person decided to move west, across the ocean or the plains, it was very likely they would never see their family again. The journey was so arduous and long made it a one-way trip. In my mind, you've gone pioneering, taking the point, scoping out the way and blazing a trail. You send us messages through many means to let us know that you are well and to help us to stay on the path of Light.

With love and an open heart,
Mom

For Thor - 48 - Keystone in the Valley

Time. Supposedly it heals all wounds. The jury is still out on this as far as I am concerned.

Tomorrow marks nineteen weeks since you died and while I could argue that I am better in some ways, the absolute reverse is also true. I lack clarity of purpose or even just sufficient reason to do anything, at all. And it's not depression that grips me in this lack of ambition and drive. It's indecision. I don't know how I want to reemerge into the world and what I can bring of value to share. Your death has triggered a fundamental shake-up of my entire priority scheme. Things that used to matter to me, well, they just don't anymore. This would be good if I'm talking about ridding myself of unwanted or useless habits and thoughts. But when I don't have the mojo to move back into a productive life, when nothing compels or intrigues me beyond strolling about in nature and writing prose or poetry, I have to wonder how I'll ever pay for my living again. How or when will I ever decide on a course and take those first declarative steps that return me to an engaged and serviceful life?

I am trying to stay open and tuned-in to hear the call from my heart, the call that connects me to the highest good and lays the path forward into conscious living. It's hard to know what I am hearing or seeing by way of a message to lead me back into Life when grief muffles my hearing and clouds my vision.

My life before you died was intense and densely populated with opportunity and vision and daring. I instigated and convened, innovated, argued and intrigued. I danced a wild dance with charismatic people in interesting places. But now, I look on that level of activity and shudder. Where was my heart in all of that? Who was I serving? Why was I running at such a pace? Was I happy? Did I cause harm? What the hell was I doing out so many nights? What did I miss that I wish I hadn't now?

I am standing on the precipice looking into that swirling eddy that is the remnants of my so-called life and, frankly, it scares me. The new me is at once too fragile for the rough-shod world and yet has no tolerance for bullshit and is willing to tell someone to stick it (in a most loving way, of course).

I still don't have much mental or emotional stamina. Four or five hours of work is all I can muster before I get a terrible headache or choking anxiety grips me. It's like the drain in the bottom of my pool of reserves is continuously open and no matter how much it rains, the pool will not fill. I carry grief with me like a two-ton stone tied around my neck. It is inescapable and threatens to drown, choke or crush me at any moment.

Right now the stone is terribly unwieldy. Juggling and balancing it makes me tired and exasperated. There is no comfortable way to move about with this burden. I have to learn to carry the weight gracefully since it is my new constant companion. This stone is chiseled with your name, birth and death dates, just as the truth of your death is now carved deeply into my life. There is no alternative to learning to bear this weight, unless I elect to stop living, that is. And I do want to live, with joy and dedication to usefulness and beauty. Perhaps time doesn't heal this wound, but will eventually allow me to set this Millstone of Grief in a new way. Perhaps I can learn to use it as a keystone in a new archway, the centerpiece of a new doorway into living. Repurposed into being a keystone, it not only lessens its weight but the weight of other burdens, as well. Something to think about, to use the weight of grief to leverage against life's many obstacles and travails would be a blessing, indeed.

As I explore the inner landscape in search of clues to where my heart may lead, I continually test the stability of the ground beneath new possibilities. Ideas arise, and I give them some attention, frame them up with language, set them sailing into the world through electronic mail, phone calls or personal conversations. So far, nothing has stuck. Nothing is singing and dancing on the horizon just begging me to come and DO THIS! So, I have picked a few things, modest things, to do that are designed to help me rebuild the muscle of my resolve. In some part of me, I am worried about energetic atrophy, that my mental and emotional bodies have not been working out enough in these practical and worldly ways, and that I may lose my ability to engage at all. Part of me is worried, yes. And part of me wonders if it's such a bad thing to melt so softly into the source of peace and just dwell there. Just BE there. Not DO-ing anything. Something else to think about, what's so important about doing anything if it doesn't bring love and light into the world?

Yesterday you regaled me with cardinals while Lady and I were out walking. And today a beautiful cardinal couple seems to have selected our cedar tree to be their home for the season. I have never been so happy to see a bird in my whole life as I was to see those cardinals today. I feel that you brought them my way as I contemplate the wide-open terrain before me. It is a gray day, again, a day that calls me to look inside and still in stillness. Which way will I go? What calls to me across the horizon to set course and take steps to travel there?

In the 23rd Psalm it says, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, For thou art with me." Most people take heart in the "thou art with me" part of this psalm, I am drawn to the part that says "I walk through the valley." Walk through. Don't stop and set up camp. Definitely don't stop to build a cabin and hang fucking curtains. Keep walking, fear not. The cardinals and a million other signs are proof that you are with me, Thor. The Grace that showers upon me and my life is evidence that the Lord is with me. Maybe I don't have to worry at all about where I am going. I need to remain open, a vessel for love and light, walking, showing up when I can and being willing to share whatever is happening in each moment as it unfolds.

23rd Psalm (KJV)
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
For the faithful, and I consider myself to be full of faith, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. Huh. This is where I learn to reconcile "What is GOODNESS?" "What is MERCY?" with the terrible fact of your death. Something else to ponder as time ticks on. Still not sure if it can ever heal this wound, or will at the very least see me learn to bear it.  I just have to keep walking, juggling, balancing, praying, crying, writing, loving and hoping, Thor. 

I love you,
Mom