Beauty and The Pain

Yesterday I was witness to an amazing experience that I believe was heightened by 27 consecutive days of a new yoga practice. I have spent hours retraining my breath and listening to my body while twisting and bending into purposefully expanding postures. Without it, I may not have arrived at the healing destination that took place on a long drive home, after a long and arduous day.

It only took three words to cut through me like a knife. Cast out through the snarled lips of the past, and out of the mouth of one of my greatest teachers in this life. Those three words triggered a painful history, leaving tears welled up and hovering at the edge of my lower eyelids. Held back like high-water at the dam's edge.

More than the words themselves, it was my surprise reaction to them. And as I enter my sixth decade in life's classroom, this particular assignment continues to keep me after school. The curriculum has been a coarse one and today's lesson sat waiting patiently behind my tears and blurred vision, as I stepped behind the wheel for the welcome drive home.

I took a different route home than was usual. One less congested and stop sign free allowing for an ease in driving. In that freedom, the day's concluding event replayed in my mind offering fully the effects of the opened wound, bleeding and raw. Recently read passages from my new favorite contemporary philosophical author, Mark Nepo, reminded me to feel these moments fully. And so I did. This, in tandem with my return to a yoga practice, had opened me to locating visceral experiences happening inside my body.

I could feel the pain, the hurt, so intensely as it first circled the area around my heart, taking a route traveling down the path along the spine, through the pelvis, reaching even further down the legs, and coming to rest at a tingling in my toes. By my own calculations about 80% of my body was fully engaged in the feelings of emotional pain—all at the same time. Connected and unyielding, heart to toes.

With a single blink of my eyes, the dam broke. In the very next moment, what laid before me, in the expanse of the sky was an unobstructed sunset in the making. I could feel my soul switching its gears, moving past the pain and into appreciation for the beautiful gift of nature. These words, like a yogi's mantra chanting in my mind, "This is real. This is the only thing that is real. Thank you." The feelings of emotion in this raw and open state, as I breathed in the expanse of sky and beauty of color, allowed the eyes of my soul to see beyond the pain of the previous moment.

I could feel the expression of joy in this moment so intensely as it first circled the area of my heart, taking a route traveling down the path along the spine, through the pelvis, reaching even further down the legs, and coming to rest at a tingling in my toes. Sound familiar? Yes! If I may answer my own question. The same physical experience of deeply rooted emotions around hurt, located in the depths my heart connected to the bottom of my toes, were exactly what I had experienced in the raw moment of appreciating beauty.

The lines completely blurred between beauty and pain. The heart-to-sole channels cracked open wide. The path of pain and fresh wound followed directly by the healing bandage of beauty. Perhaps it was in that order, or maybe it was happening simultaneously, I'm no longer sure.

What I do know or witnessed for myself is, created through beauty or pain, the sensations were the same. And with that, I believe I have found a tool for future healing. When the heart is broken open there exists an open portal of opportunity to seek the bounty of beauty that surrounds us, to sooth the wound when broken open or anew.

Consider this...it might just work for you too.

When Worlds Almost Collide

At a large and very busy intersection in San Diego, in the far left-turn lane, I rolled to a stop on a green arrow, my left turn preempted by the blaring sounds and rotating lights of an emergency vehicle. It was coming from the perpendicular direction. I could see the ambulance struggling to make its way through the congested traffic. As a former wife of a firefighter, I am hyper-aware and sensitive to these moments. I know what I am supposed to do. In this case, be still and don't get in their way. There was nowhere to go but forward. That would have put me directly in their path. It was also hard to gauge how long it would take for them to break through. My decision to stay put at a green arrow was solid.

Behind me, cars were honking for me to move. From their vantage point they couldn't see what I saw. The guy behind me, whom I could see him through my rear view mirror, was frantically waving me on. Another man pulled up alongside me, window down, shouting with animated pointing finger, "Go, go go!" What he didn't see either was the ambulance coming from his blinded direction.

 What I couldn't see, but was now coming into the chaotic script, was a second ambulance in my left-turn lane, also in code three (both lights and sirens) some three or four cars back. It was a strange time- and space-altering moment, as I watched this scene play out like a bad conversation. The involved parties unable to see or understand the other's point of view or perspective. In reflection, this event reminded me of the Academy Award winning movie "Crash." A collision of lives, scenes and points of view, vignetted brilliantly on the big screen. This however, was playing out in real-time and in my life.

Ambulance #1, as I will call it, finally made its way through, I followed quickly behind, pulling over safely to the right to allow ambulance #2 free passage, each on its way to the needed. I was left shaken by the thought of what could have happened with any given edit to the situation and the frustration of not being able to communicate to those behind me what was happening outside their range of site. Especially the guy passing me with finger pointing and shouting, "Go, go go!" He never saw the ambulance my action was responding to. I imagine he was thinking something along the lines of "Women drivers!" More questions swirling around the after math in my mind. Did the two ambulance drivers know they were there competing for control of the intersection and civilian obedience? Did those behind me get that ‘Aha!’ moment when they saw what I had been waiting for? Did the "Go, go, go!" guy long ahead of the chaos ultimately pull over to the right with both ambulances screaming free from the tangled mess? All questions remain unanswered.

Minutes rendered in slow motion with moments of panic and secondary reactions to the panic—not having the benefit of the whole picture in wide screen, or hovering above the tangled conversation at the intersection like a bird.

The chaos did not end in a physical collision, but one more transparent in nature and one for the books of how situations can go strangely awry—depending on your point of view, presence and participation in the moment.

Staying grounded amidst the chaos, to the truths that played out before me. It served everyone well today, at the very least, where worlds almost collided during one intersection of life.

And I wonder how many times this plays out in our own lives, partial views, limited experience, narrow perspectives – all getting in the way of our fuller, bigger-picture view of any given situation. Ever happen to you?

Heart Rush

During the 23rd consecutive day of yoga, I experienced something there that I have felt at other times and places, and perhaps because it didn't come during a time of stillness, it came and went in less than a momentary notice. It didn't hang with brilliance and longevity like the twinkling star waiting to be named, dangling above in the dark sky of night.

The front of my heart in a posture hovering above the grounded earth, the back side open, soft and vulnerable, greeting the sky. In stillness for a period of time, long enough to bring about change, to open barricaded channels built over time and experience.

What I speak of, the thing I have named, is an inexplicable feeling, like a wave of warmth and goodness blanketing the soul. A brief encounter with what I believe to be our true nature, and it came to me in a "heart rush." Those were the two words that came to me, unsolicited, magically popping into my head. The wakeless feelings of pure joy and connection happened twice during my practice. The gratuitous naming both a blessing and a curse. The blessing, honoring it with a name in recognition and appreciation. The curse, giving it a name and wondering if it will visit me again.

Every day on the yoga mat brings with it a new experience, just like the rhythms of our lives. Some days nothing but bliss and ease, other days the chaos of the mind can only simmer down to a whisper. The body bending into postures promoting delicious releases of histories in pain and dis-ease, and gloriously, like this day, in an unexpected and welcome moment, a "heart rush."

Dedicated to my teacher Cindy Angelina Shaw, who provides the safe and loving environment for release, transformation and love.

Namaste.

Children at Play

It was a random weekday night, with a spontaneous invitation to dine out in a nice (without being stuffy) French restaurant. The feel of the decor, a reminder of three weeks in Paris seven years ago. White candles in candelabras dripping wax, settling happily at the silver bases with an occasional spill onto the tables. Stone walls, dimmed lights and tables lined with their best white—butcher paper.

With dinner under wraps and a few more sips of wine to be savored, this was the perfect time to use the paper, lining the table, to toss out a few ideas for issues of great importance. Some of the best ideas have been worked out on a paper napkin in a bar, you know?

With business behind us, and pen in hand a doodle happened. I think it was a circle, it's hard to remember now and not really important. What is important is the sequence of events that happened next.

One piece of paper, one pen and two adults. A circle drawn, calling of course for a happy face. The pen and ink rendering grew from there. The pen being passed from one to the other, politely taking turns, giggling like little kids at what the other had just contributed.

Just plain silliness! As the scene played out, we were no longer aware of our surroundings, or who was watching. An unadulterated and unplanned curriculum of cooperation and collaboration. One stroke of the pen building upon the other. Completely without ego and waiting to see, with the energy of "little-kid" excitement, what the other was going to lay down next. Insert giggling after each one's turn. No one trying to outdo the other. An exercise in co-creation. If only this is how adults behaved all of the time.

We left that drawing behind on the table that night (not without first taking a picture of it, of course.) Grinning and laughing at our little masterpiece as we walked out the doors of the restaurant. No need to bring it home to mom to hang on the fridge or frame it for the family wall of fame. Laughing at the thought, now that we were back in adult mode, of who would see it next and if they would laugh too. Or would it be overlooked without amusement and tossed away, to ready the table for its next diners.

Shoulders shrugged, simultaneously, in a who cares gesture. The afterthought of how a spontaneous moment, that came out of the ether, we were children at play. And quite frankly we would all be better off if we allowed ourselves to be more like that, more of that. Lessons are everywhere if we choose to see them that way.

By the way, what do you think of our masterpiece?

The Three Breaths

Breathing, an automatic response in rhythm, right along side the heart's own beat. Breathing, one of the most essential and life sustaining things that we do, that we must do. Much of the time it is taken for granted. Unlike the heart (unless you are a skilled yogi) we can guide and direct our breath. The amount of air on the intake, the length of the air streams filling the body, holding it in place for short intervals of time and even the direction of airflow inside our body.

During ninety minutes of a yin-yoga class, I experienced a very moving practice working with the deliberate and focused flow of breath. Breathing, an act so automatic that rarely gets a notice, yet we do have the option to be more fully with it.

Prāṇāyāma is a Sanskrit word meaning extension of breath. The word composed of two Sanskrit words, prāṇā, life force, and ayāma, to extend or draw out. The practice is not forced, it is without constraint or control. A deepening of awareness and appreciation for this thing called breathing. An exercise in gratitude for it.

I was guided through an experience that left me with filled with grace. Lying on the yoga mat drawing in purposeful and deep breaths, eyes closed, with the first in the series of "the three breaths" directed toward the area of the lower belly. An imaginary, in my minds-eye, triangle formed on my inside. I could see it being painted like jet streams in the sky, with solid lines at first, disappearing into thinned air. The foundational breath starting at the base of the belly, stretching and expanding out to the sides of the ribs, spiraling upward at mirrored angles to the top and center of the chest. 

A perfect triangle, drawn with equal sides in breath trails. Reversing the sequence from the chest, out toward the ribs, coming to rest at the belly base. The continued sequence of "the three breaths," happening easily with an intentional mind in cooperation with the body and spirit. Bringing to mind a clear connection to cross-cultural threes. The Trinity in Christianity—Father, son, and holy spirit. Heaven, man, and earth in Eastern Philosophy. The Triquetra of Celtic Wisdom—earth, air and water. And right there on the yoga mat, through "the three breaths", the connection between body, mind and spirit. 

What also came to mind were the three organs receiving the sequence of breaths. The stomach, the lungs and the heart, equal partners in the nurturing and sustenance of our living and breathing self. The holy trinity within the body.

Breathing is not an option, but breathing fully and deeply is.

Crickets Beneath My Pen

College ruled lines on the paper

Clean, crisp and fresh

Waiting patiently—excitedly

For the flow of fresh ink

With a sweeping motion

The writer's hand with right posture

Dances the pen to paper

Waiting for the music to begin

Only to find stillness

Beneath it are crickets

Bamboo in the Wind

In the practice of Qigong, there is a lovely sequence called "Bamboo in the Wind." Qigong, deeply rooted in Chinese philosophy, is the synchronization and alignment of breath to movement. "Bamboo in the Wind" is the gentle swaying of the body, from side to side. A movement in allowing, rather than doing. The polarity of moving in stillness.

The bamboo with its firm bond to the earth, yet yielding to the winds of challenge from any direction. An admirable quality to possess as a human being on earth.

Strong and flexible. Grounded and light. Breathing in the moment, effortlessly embracing change. The wind as refreshment, tossing old patterns of leaves down to the earth. Opening up spaces for new sprouts of growth. The wind and the bamboo, always in harmony—mutually arising.

Bamboo in the wind, a metaphor for life.


All content and photography ©2014 Lori Brookes. All rights reserved.

Platform of Reflection

Unfurling the mind like the sailcloth on a jib, 

set free to catch a fresh breath of wind.

The body stretched out straight and strong,

a plank reaching out beyond the bow of spirit.

Breathing in and out the ocean sounds,

mimicking the ebb and flow of the sea.

Looking deeply into the depths of blue, 

reaching down to bottom of the soul.

Reflections of self,

through the eye of the dolphin

mirrored under ripples of waves.

The invitation to expand and open,

from the platform of reflection.

Paving my Way

After a long two year period of being very tethered to home, wondering where did my enthusiastic, motivated and I-can-do-anything, self go. I remember. Oh yeah...she was grieving. Two losses in less than two months of each other, both equally soul shattering.

The second one stripped me to my core. The unexpected passing of my eldest son's bestie, of sixteen years, who was in all ways but one, a son to me. Receiving the news that he, at the young age of 37 had left us, is underscored here as shocking. It couldn't be, this must be a sick joke. The date ironically, was April 1st.

There is a long list of pain around this loss—feeling the emotions empathically from my son, those that belonged to me and the incomprehensible loss from his parents. Thinking about what they must be feeling, well, it took my breaths away.

From the moment the call of disbelief came through from my son, through the moment I made the call to his parents, delivering a parent's worst nightmare of news, our block-long house of cards came tumbling down. All of us—forever changed.

The road back from grief has not been as smooth as a newly paved one. With those neatly painted straight lines in bright white and bold yellow, stretching out the distance of boundaries and direction. It has been a bumpy ride, full of potholes, lots of noise under the tired treads and faded of a clear destination.

The corner turned into a new year. The view ahead started to feel much clearer, as acceptance—the final step in the process began to settle in. Not without times of hitting a little rough patch along the way. Kicking up some loose gravel of emotion, only but a temporary loss of traction. "That is life" as they say.

The signs ahead indicate I am paving my way back. Exciting new terrain to explore, with windows washed, radio up and a full tank of gas.

On the bright side of my road.

Sacred Spaces

As I prepared for the start of an early morning and much-needed yoga class, I scanned the room where the other yogis were stretching their way into the first posture. These are people I don't know and know at the same time. And from the silence of the quietly-dimmed space of yoga sanctuary, I felt completely and strangely known. Safe and loved.

As we started with the first round of cleansing breaths, I marveled at this space filled with people breathing-in and breathing-out, all from the same source of flowing air. Breaths exchanged with ease and without argument. My mind clearing, but with one final wandering thought to my sanctuary at home. I call her Casa Milagro (Spanish for Miracle House), she is my everyday sanctuary—sans people. Both spaces sharing a breadth and depth of commonality with sheltering and unconditional embraces.

I have discovered other profound moments and places of sanctuary in my journey. Hiking and camping alone in Yosemite. The drive there alone is worthy of the title. The powerful drive to Big Sur on Highway 1. Sanctuary. Leaving behind the world-wide-grid to the "Land of Bel-Aire," even if only for a few days. Embraced. Greeting the day from the "Zen Bench" crafted by my sojourning friend for my in-joy moments. Sanctuary. Deep conversations with a trusted friend. Sacred.

The word sanctuary—descriptor for my sacred spaces. The containers of our holiness and wholeness. And from that place comes my wholeness in mind, body and spirit—where nothing is asked of me and everything is possible.

Where are your places of sanctuary—your sacred spaces?

Bel-Aire

The Zen Bench

Stillness is an Option

Delivered through the lips of the yoga instructor, "stillness is an option."

A single and short phrase of something so profoundly simple, easily overlooked as an option in the life filled with a calendar of distractions, hurried decisions, wasted with worry and fear.

The slavery to continue doing or saying, without pause, compounding exponentially. 

The natural flow of deep breathing constricted as the heart beats rhythm out of control.

There exists divine permission to do or say nothing—until you can again. From an open space, a more loving and compassionate place.

The world will wait. Stillness is an option.

Have you ever had moments when the more you say the worse things seem? Like painting a mistake on a piece of canvas, adding more and more layers of paint of correction only to create a muddy mess. Have you considered taking the path of stillness as an option?

With New Wings

Where am I on this journey?

I have just made my way out of a long period of cocooning. I experienced the process of disintegration, and have fully emerged with a new pair of wings. A new dawn, a new perspective—the next leg of the journey.

The garden of life's delights looking delicious as I'm flitting about.

The winds and the rain sometimes chasing me into safe harbor. I find within me, the nearest nest of respite.

My wings are beautiful, strong, complete and complex. In their polarity they are delicate and vulnerable.

When the rain clouds lift and the winds die down to a lofty breeze, I return to my freedom of flight.

I am the butterfly—with new wings.

In the Hush of a Sunrise

What I love more than the colors themselves, is the quiet and assuming way they present themselves. Without chatter or clamor, not an echo is spoken to draw the slightest bit of attention. You either are awake for the experience or you are not.

The presence and gifts are available everyday—without condition.

I thought of Vincent Van Gogh this morning. I didn't know him, yet I have a sense that when he painted, his brushstrokes were also an outward quiet expression of creation. His paintings not presented with the condition that someone must love them. They were created with the same universal beauty of a colorful sunrise. They had to come out. Channeled as a hushed expression of all that is right and true.

I have the same experience many times with my writing. The words spilling out, doing their best through me, to paint in phrases of sunrise. Quietly resting on a page to be read and taken in fully—or not.

Once in a while I will go back and read something I have written. More times than not I think, "Who wrote that?"

Just like in the hush of a sunrise, God did.

What Isn't Said...

It's six o'clock in the morning. Gently being nudged to open my eyes by the hand-rung bells echoing from the Carmelite Monastery tower. At last count, twelve cloistered nuns live in a beautiful peaceful setting complete with ocean views—behind the white walls of their sanctuary. Sounds nice.

I've made friends with one, Sister Roberta. She walks Maggie, the black Labrador Retriever, twice a day. Maggie is the service dog to another sister who is wheelchair bound. Sister Roberta is our resident 'town crier.' She loves to schmooze with the neighbors, mostly those who have children. It's very sweet, the relationships she has created with them. I'm not sure how I was brought into her circle of grace, but I like it.

One day a few years ago another sister I had never met was out walking Maggie. Sister Roberta had flown north for her annual trek to visit her family. Maggie, who knows me by now, is pulling the sister over my way to receive her ritual pat on the head. The sister and I began a neighborly chat. The ease of that conversation turning quickly into (this happens to me all the time) full disclosure. Not me, her! She was relatively new to the Carmelite order, and in particular our neighborhood Carmelite Monastery. She was a divorced woman, and after her daughter turned twenty—at fifty years old, she turned to her calling, God.

A bit in shock by this news, I put on my best poker face and continued the conversation/inquiry. I had no idea you could do that as a Catholic. She spoke about how, in a go-ahead-and-read-between-the-lines manner, that she was the only one of her 'kind' at this particular order. I was getting the feeling that she wanted someone to talk to, and there I was. Outside the walls, outside—where no one was listening?

Her subtle hint of not belonging didn't deter me from wanting to know more about the peaceful life inside those walls. Eyes wide, I was yearning for stories of peace, joy, tranquility, inner freedom, a life free for love. Yes, I went to their website. And it's all there spelled-out in the things that matter to the Carmelites, but I wanted to hear it chanted in the sister's words. With starry eyes I ask her about life inside the Carmelite Monastery. "Don't you just love it in there?" Except for their outfits (better known as 'habits'), I dream it's this joyful endless sleepover with your sisters. Praying, eating, gardening, more praying, singing at mass, watching a sunset and maybe a little dog walking.

Her response, "I love God." With a musical-note upward-emphasis on the word God.

She didn't have to say another word. I totally understood what wasn't being said. At that moment, and rewind a bit to her previous statement of being the only one of her 'kind', my idyllic fantasy of running off to the sacred spaces of nuns and monks were squashed. No matter where you go, there you are. And so are other people!

Honestly—it's probably more magnified inside those walls. As for the Sister, I saw her once or twice more walking Maggie in Sister Roberta's absence, but she avoided me and my corner-of-confession like the plague. I wasn't going to tell anyone. Besides, God was already listening.

As the universe would have it, I 'coincidentally' just ran into Sister Roberta, who, by-the-way, I haven't bumped into in months. Making her neighborhood rounds, walking the evening walk with Maggie by her side. As if 'someone' heard what was being written, but not being said.

Back Side of the Heart

During a recent Yin Yoga class, our instructor lead us through a series of cat and cow postures. In her very best yogi-voice she whispered, "Relax your belly, let it drop down towards the earth. Lift your head and chest upward toward the sky, opening your heart." Me, breathing-in, breathing-out, breathing-in, breathing-out. She begins again with, "Now, slowly drop your head and arch your back toward the ceiling like a cat. Bring your chin to your chest. Feel the stretch of your spine, opening fully—opening the back side of your heart."

My ears perked up immediately. The flow between postures momentarily disrupted. What? How have I never heard that before? In all the years I have practiced yoga, I had only been taught postures that were about opening the heart from the front. But of course, without speaking those words, postures like the 'cat' were doing exactly that. Opening the back side of the heart. An aha moment. And why wouldn't we address all sides of the heart, whether speaking about it physically or symbolically?

Not having ever breathed in that intentional opening through the back, I imagined my own heart looking a bit lopsided, dim and neglected. Very excited by this revelation, I began the breath-work of resuscitating inhales and noticing how happy my heart was starting to feel. To finally be receiving some long overdue love and attention—from both sides.

You know how once you hear something you can't un-hear it? In this case, I was grateful for her words. Locked forever inside my senses and intentions toward my heart. Another moment of grace—received.

I am curious now. What does the back side of the heart actually look like? Combing through the images I found during my research, the posterior view (back side) of the heart organ, anatomically carried the familiar lines and contours of the heart symbol in illustration. You know—the shapes we girls romantically draw in the sand, on paper and sometimes as the dot over the letter "i".

Who knew?

Now what—you might be asking? Nothing more really, other than to acknowledge the heart holistically. With equal breaths in-and-out, attention, healing and opening—front to back and back to front. The image of the heart etched in my brain. I will never be able to look at someone's back without also seeing—the back side of their heart.

Meet Yourself

If you ever have cause to wonder where you are on your journey, go outside into the world of people and—meet yourself there. In the safety and sanctuary of our private spaces, we can only come to know some parts of ourselves—usually the parts we like. The other parts become 'revealable' bumping up against others.

Yesterday I met myself at the corner gas station in an encounter/altercation with an angry man that quite frankly, rattled my sensibilities. The gas station, partly torn down, was creating a challenge for those of us wishing to use the three remaining pumps with two possible points of entry. All the pumps were full. I wasn't in any hurry, so I waited patiently for my turn. I move toward the first open pump and a woman swooped it and took it. Maybe she was there before me. I didn't see her and maybe she didn't see me. Practicing my best Mother Theresa impersonation, I let it go.

I evaluate the other two cars parked at the pumps, one man was just beginning to fill his car and the other was underway. A man pulls up behind me and I logically decide to pull forward and circle around to get in line behind that one further along in the process. This also allowed the guy behind me to keep the backend of his car from spilling out into the busy street.

Finally, the woman in front of me finishes and leaves. But before I can put my car in motion, the man who was behind me in the street, swoops in and blocks me from the pump. I can't believe this is happening. I calmly got out of my car to walk over and have what I thought was going to be a rational, polite conversation—which quickly turned to him spewing out his anger. He firmly stated that he was not going to move. It was a stand-off at the pumps.

From his perspective (and my 'I can't-get-a-word-in' attempt to explain), I was indecisive in choosing a pump. He's shouting and waving his hands in the air "Which one is it going to be lady?" I, on the other hand, didn't see it that way. I was by all accounts first in line for the three precious pumps. I soon realized that he was not open to listening—at all. My heart was pounding fueled by the rage coming out of his mouth. All I could think to say was (with no explanation mark), "You are an a--------." He of course, responded in kind.

The man next to us, still filling his tank, yelled out of his window to the pump-jumper, something along the lines of "Dude, that is so wrong." Other cars started to pour in from both directions. With my car facing in the wrong direction for my tank, I decide to walk over to the next two cars in line to let them know I needed to turn around, pointing over at the pump I was going take.

Ordinarily a situation like this wouldn't really affect me. For some inexplicable dip on the biorhythms chart, it cut through me like a knife. I felt completely helpless.

After my car was full with fuel and I was heading toward home, I began to cry.

There is a phrase "If it's hysterical it's historical." I knew what I was meeting at the pumps were a host of people in my history, where I felt physically and verbally defenseless. And lord knows what kind of day or life the angry man in the white truck was bringing to the moment.

With triggers like these, my mind races to the sanctuary of home with thoughts of never coming out again. More importantly, in times like this, there exists an opportunity to meet ourselves. A real-time look at what remains to be revealed and healed—if I am willing to meet myself there. And for you, if you are willing to meet yourself there, too.

Note: I went back this morning to photograph the gas station, finding all of the lanes open and the construction crew pulling up the last of the caution and closed signs.

The irony in timing—don't you just love it?

Quiet Mind

As my mind

 becomes a quieter,

gentler place, 

the noise

 from the outside world,

 seems to be getting 

louder.

Sometimes too loud.

The aWAKEning

Grief, like a boat motoring at sea, leaves behind in its path a wake. Similarly, in the wake of loss, grief doesn't travel a straight line to recovery. It carves through the range of emotions—from the deep waters at our bow, bruising past our once-even keel, and churning out the turmoil of rocky waters aft. And in those early moments of disbelief and despair, everything you thought you knew—has been lost at sea.

As the wake fans out behind the boat, with time and distance, so follow our emotions. Softening the turbulent churn, smoothing out the sharp ripples and waves of feelings. Not that we ever forget. However, as the saying goes "time heals all wounds."

How long and how far must we go to restore equilibrium? That's anyone's guess, as we are all individual in our processes of recovery and our life journey.

As the wake lessens—the life lessons begin to appear, like a clear horizon after the storm. In my own navigation with loss, I have found this to be profoundly true. This is the year of my—aWAKEning.