Now. This moment.

Now. What are you feeling and experiencing right now? This moment.

Yes, Now. Where are you? What do see? Sunlight through the window or leaves on the tree. Your hands with a callous or a broken nail. The laundry to be folded or the inbox to be perused.

Now. Close your eyes. Feel the ground, the air, your body, each muscle, each movement, your breath, your breath… your breath.

Now. what do you smell? The bread on the counter, the plant in the earth, the soil, the wood on the floor where the sun excites the molecules. The potatoes in the bubbling pot or the fresh, soft linen on your bed. Sunlight like the warm rind of a lemon or rain like ozone and earth. Good. You are centering. Keep going. 

Now. What do you hear? Silence? No. Listen closer. Breeze in the trees, waves lap-lap-lapping, children laughing in the distance, insects buzzing around flowers, your air conditioner hum, the bird outside your window singing a familiar song.

Now. Go deeper. Within. What emotion are you experiencing at this moment? Pain is the past… let it go. Fear is the future… let it go. Now. Right there. Now. At the centre of it all. Gratitude. Gratefulness for the here, for now, for sight, for hearing, for touch, for breath, for sparkling sunlight and living soil, for bright birdsong and buzzy pollinators, for happy children and cooling rain. Breath deep. Sigh. Gratitude.

Now, did you find it, the gratefulness? Consider it, form it, feel it. And what is inside your rich, joyful gratitude? Yes. Now. Love.

Now… Love.

Dear chickadee

The sound of your voice caused me to pause for a while and listen to your sweet-weather love song, three clear notes repeating among branches and blossoms. You called, I answered and you moved ever closer with each response.

I heard, then saw, a mouse go scurrying by. He scampered, rushed and rustled then stopped to hide beneath a leaf – to catch his breath and bearings, to watch for hawk and fox.

Our eyes met briefly and each recognized, I think, a kindred soul.

We would not have met; however fleeting, if not for your song and I thank you for the introduction.

Note: The photos of mouse and chickadee are not mine; however, the other pictures are ones that I took during my walk this day.

Forward into darkness

When you lose someone who has been such an essential part of your life, of your everyday, of…you, it shakes you to the core of your being. You are shattered on the floor in pieces and, at last, you understand Humpty’s predicament. There are no horses, no king’s men, no king.

You wrap up the business of dying, the paperwork, you’ve sorted through most of the pieces of your loved one’s life, the friends and family who gathered to support you have gone back to their lives and you sit alone. Very alone. You realize that an expansive, dark abyss exists in front of you. You slump at the weighty greatness of it. It has a terrifying beauty of its own. Your eyes widen just to try to take it all in.

This is the bulk of the dim and drab years ahead of you. The rest of your life without The One. Your future was woven and stitched together with the life of Your One. Now, you begin to pick at the glittering stitching and unravelling artful threads. Like the canker sore in the mouth, you continue to poke and pick in spite of the pain, maybe even because of it. A reminder that you still live, you exist, if only barely.

Some days the abyss gapes and you get dizzy at the stretch of years yet to come before you can rest from the agony of that damn soulful ache in the arms of love once more. Miles to go before I sleep.

Other days, the warm sun shines, the vivid flowers bloom, the sand and sea kiss and tickle your toes and you can focus on just today, just this moment. Then, without warning, you remember that The One loved days like this. Your hand clenches and unclenches. Nothing there. You hear laughter on the wind and gorgeous, excruciating memories swirl and buzz like gnats inside your head. Again the spinning void opens and vertigo swirls. The One is not there to catch you and yet…they are. They stand firm in your memories, your heart, your soul.

You know them – every smile, every turn of the head, every sound they make means something. You know. You know what they would do and say right now if they were standing beside you. You steady yourself and take a tentative step forward.

We hold on

I have been absent from my blog for a while – 10 months according to WordPress.

I’ve had a busy year. I was hired at a great job in April and learning the ropes and getting back on a workday schedule took much of my time and concentration. Basically, I was at the top of my game – a new job perfect for me working with databases, married to an amazing, loving man, and a cute, little house for two. With two solid jobs, we started planning for trips and adventures to celebrate our milestone birthdays next year. We got ourselves on a new healthy regime of exercise and simple, organic foods. We couldn’t be happier. And we held on to dreams.

In August of this year, my husband started getting headaches. We attributed it to the humid summer that Eastern Canada was experiencing at the time. While asking our pharmacist what to do about the persistent pain, he got physically sick in the store. I drove him to the local ER. They treated him for the pain and nausea and sent him home. The next day his regular doctor sent him for a CT scan of his head. With my husband’s history of melanoma in 2014, his doctor just wanted to rule it out. I was at work when my husband called. “They found a lesion on my brain. I need you.” And we held on to hope.

Our world since has been a blurry whirlwind of scans, x-rays, surgery, and more bad news of cancer in the liver and bowel. The tumour in the liver is inoperable. It is just too large and in a delicate spot. When the doctor said to my husband, “This WILL take your life in 6 months to a year,” my heart froze, then it broke. It shattered like a rose fresh from a liquid nitrogen bath that has been dropped to the floor. The doctor quietly dismissed himself from the room. We held each other so tight and sobbed. We whispered our love and promises between moist, gasping breaths. And we held on to strength.

Since that day, there have been hospital stays to combat nausea, too thin blood and pain, doctor appointments, blood transfusions when his hemoglobin dropped too low, more surgery, then chemo, immunotherapy and radiation in an effort to buy a couple extra months or even just one more day. And we held on to love.

Today is the 11th anniversary of the day we met. I felt that meeting coming in my solar plexus for months, like the wild excitement before a big vacation away. We met at Christmas time at a bar. At the end of the night, we were slow dancing, oblivious that the music had stopped and the lights had come up. My friend gently pulled us apart and held up my phone number for him. On Boxing Day we had our first date. The rest, as they say, is history. I have told my love that, for the rest of our life together, he never has to buy me a present. There is no way he could ever top the first present. Him – Best. Present. Ever. And we held on to each other.

And we hold on. We will keep holding on until he let’s go. And then I will hold on to memory.

Update: My beautiful, funny James passed away with his loving family by his side on January 21, 2017. He will be missed. He will be loved. He will be remembered.

Hope Springs

My part of the world, Eastern Canada, is experiencing many spring-like days this winter. Last year at this time we were battling snow, piling it higher than our heads. No, really. I was shoveling snow up over my shoulder and, during a break, made a snow angel WHILE standing up. I’m 5’8″. You do the math.

Anyway, today has been a perfectly lovely spring day…in February. I was outside in my sandals, yoga pants, a t-shirt and a cardigan. My search for a new job continues, but this is the kind of day that lifts the spirit and allows one to open the windows of the soul. Throw open the sash and let the sunshine and fresh air in. It is a great time to sweep the cobwebs from the corners of the mind and sleep from the corners of the eyes.

People on my social media feeds are posting pictures of bright purple and yellow crocuses, curly points of tulips and pussy  willows. Oh, the joy these little buds bring!

This feels like the time of year when the heart stirs and quickens, the limbs shake off shivery thoughts of heavy quilts, mulled wine and Netflix. We start to dream again of bonfire sparks floating up to dance with the stars, of the cooling lick of salty waves on our toes, and of sultry kisses on sun-dappled, perspiration-dewed skin. Sigh.

We might be thrown back into a blizzard in the next few weeks, but, Hope, folks (yes, with a capital H), it springs to life and screams its rage at winter and sorrow and death. It stomps about and yells, “Not yet! Not today!”

If you are in a part of the world where winter still holds you in its icy grip, here are a couple of songs that helped inspire this blog as I danced around my living room. Be sure to crank the volume so ol’ man winter can hear the music through the closed (for now) windows.