My Last Words on Grief

Recently I ran across an anonymous quote that not only summed up the last four years for me, but also a similar experience for my eldest son. The quote went something like this: "I felt so much, that I started to feel nothing." Take that in for just a minute. It's kind of a mind bender. And it wasn't until I saw this (somewhere on social media) that finally put into words where I had been. Past tense. 

For my son, he had lost his best friend of sixteen years, his soul friend, his Anam Cara—his name was Jeff. For me, this young man was as near of a son as you can get without birthing them. And he died. Unexpectedly at 37, in multifaceted ways of messed-upness and oddly divine at the same time. It is a day I will never forget and one of my worst recorded days on the planet, including being the chosen one to deliver the news to his parents. Twice. "Can you repeat that?" 

Being on the inside of grief, I've come to realize that I began to live some kind of new norm. I lost the vision of my own hopes, dreams, wants and desires. Try as I might, I couldn't see them anymore—let alone feel into them. I spent a good two years feeling very numb, going inward, not wanting to come out and play with the world, and then another two years taking baby steps to dance again with life. Occasionally, I'd feel a pang of joy and rekindling to my past yearnings and yet those moments didn't yield themselves with any kind of sustainability. My synapses were regenerating but they were on their own timeline. 

During what I will call my regenerative time, a romantic relationship presented itself, and I knew I still had a deep longing for one, yet it was just out of my emotional reach and more than anything it kept shining a light on where I was in my process. It was frustrating not being able to be on the same page as he (and equally frustrating for him) and I actually began to feel bad about myself. Which I finally got was not right and I forgave myself for exactly where I was. He wasn't wearing my shoes, and I wasn't wearing his and by no parties fault could places be truly understand, appreciated and without circumstances being taken personally. It's hard to be a human sometimes. And there isn't one library shelf full of 'self-help' books or a room full of good-willing people that can talk you or love you out of grief. In fact, there can be more harm than good when you can't allow someone to be as they need to be, and love them right where they are, unconditionally. I'm not saying it's easy. I'm just sayin'. 

They will be back. I am back. I'm so happy to be back! Sometimes you don't know where you went, until you come back. It's been a long time coming...

So what happened? How'd I find my way back? Who the heck knows! Time. Space. Time. Space. Time. Space. Nature. 

All I know is that the opening, clearing and reconnection to my feeling self started on a beautiful solo hike in Death Valley in March, one month from the four year anniversary of Jeff's death. Reconnecting more and more through every hike out into nature, and I've been on plenty since. Then profound opening experiences were exploding inside me during the road trip I made across four states, and back, in June. The answer(s) to the question I was repeatedly being asked, I could actually answer with all of my heart and authenticity: "What do you want, Lori?" My heart started to pound out of my chest with my own resurging information! I was dreaming again about love, marriage, kissing, travel, moving, dancing, playing...the list goes on and on. Life. Feeling. Joy. 

My last words on grief. Don't judge someone who is going through this process, don't take it personally, those are all positions from the ego. That is neither love nor loving. Don't give them books to read, or your own unsolicited advice or opinions. Instead, open your heart a little bit bigger and spread it wide into a holding place until we can hold ourselves fully open again. That is love.

2-2-2

Today is 2/22/16—February 22nd, 2016.

It starting happening in 1997. I would wake up consistently out of a deep sleep at 2:22 a.m. As a studier of numerology I looked up all the known meanings and symbolic messaging around this trilogy of digits, and nothing seemed to add up for me. The year 1997 marked a period in my life that was quite transitional, and these numbers showed up on the embryonic side of a life rebirthing process—of course at the time I had no idea (like most of us) what was coming down the path.

The numbers starting appearing more frequently in my awake hours; license plates, register receipts, signs...you name it. They even show up as part of the number sequence in my driver's license.

I delved more deeply into inquiry about their potential message—what does it mean and why does it keep happening? When the calendar date of February 22nd rolled around, year after year, I thought "something" was going to happen. Nothing ever did. Never won the lottery, of course I never played it on that day either, perhaps I will today. ;-)

It wasn't until 1999 on a return trip from my birthplace in Lancaster, Ohio that I realized the address of the home that I had been born into was 222 Maple Street. I didn't see it when we toured that little town preserved-in-time, and only after I picked up my photos from the photo lab did I make the connection. I couldn't believe it! The strange thing was, while I was there in Ohio visiting my grandmother, that I felt this incredible connection to it, even though I moved away and to California near my third birthday. The house was very modest, clad in white clapboard, where the numbers 222 hung quietly on a downward slant. Wow, I'm home! I also was remembered that my birth-time, NOT 2:22 a.m., was 2:12 a.m. Thinking about that now, I wonder if it took me 10-minutes to wake up to the fact that I had arrived, taken my first breath, cleared my lungs and head from my mother's anesthesia. Just a thought. Nonetheless, this WAKE-UP time on the beside clock in 1997 was a wake-up call. Literally. Three years later I would find myself divorcing, children coming to the end of their mothering needs, jobless and about to be homeless (not the living on the streets kind,) finding my way to a new life.

The numbers continued and continue to show up for me today. I've learned over the years that to bring some kind of meaning to them, is a forced exercise in intellectualizing something, that isn't THAT. What I began to realize and accept them for are divine pointers. If I had some unfounded doubts about something, that series would show up for me as if to say "Yes come this way!" Or "You're on the right track." "Keep going, keep showing up!"

I don't overthink them any more. When they show up I simply smile and offer them a quiet internal note of gratitude. Thank you 2-2-2 for being my divine pointer—my divining rod.

The Trip that Rocked my World – Part I (June 14, 2014)

I was beyond excited, already grinning at the mere fact that I was visiting a new city, staying in a beautiful hotel suite (feeling like a Queen) and about to visit the architectural work of Frank Gehry. I’m his #1 fan—but he doesn’t know that.

As we rounded the corner to the Pacific Science Center, I saw the Seattle Space Needle peeking above the tree line, behind it hints of the colorful and wiggly work of Gehry, his architectural signature in contoured lines of bended metal sculpting the EMP building.

Giddy as a teenage girl, I’m armed and ready with my Canon arsenal dangling from my right shoulder. I’m wide-eyed and smiling ear-to-ear. I can’t believe I am here!

Just around the next bend, we’re almost there, just a few more steps to my own personal amusement park of architecture and…BAM!

The pathway, lacy concrete block style pavers, specifically made for grass to grow in between the decorative gaps, proved to be more dangerous than met my eyes and greeted my feet. The ill perceived evenness skewed by its indifference to shadow and light, under the typical overcast Seattle sky. My right foot caught by an unexpected elevated section, sent me flying—and by no means was this first class with champagne and steaming warm towels.

I knew in my heart that I would not be recovering from my own body’s trajectory. It’s incredible just how fast the mind works. Tried as I might to adjust my core to right myself with invisible wings, I shifted into a preparation for landing, which was no more than a thought, less than a split second acknowledgment to myself that I was going down, with no landing gear to speak of.

I’m sure you’ve experienced the phenomena of time slowing down during events like these. Yet in reality, it all happened so fast. My hands instinctively lifted up and came forward to protect my body and my face from the now inevitable impact with the ground before me.

Down, down, down.  My eyes closed shut tightly. I mean who wants to see what’s coming right? Pain starts to register in so many places my brain can’t file the information quite that fast. What to attend to first? I feel the bulk of the impact in my right breast. I landed on my camera. The lens that had been pointing out and away had somersaulted inward and broken my fall. I would learn later that my fall had also broken my lens. (Side not to Apple, the rest of the trip was photographed with my iPhone!)

My eyes remained closed for a while. It was better that way I thought. I began to scan my body, check-in on my own collateral damage. I rolled over onto my back, knees bent and up. I hear Steve saying “Don’t move… don’t get up.” I wasn’t going anywhere. The information continued to pour in on me, over me. Broken bones? Nope, don’t think so. No need for the bone density test. Check! I can feel certain parts radiating out in painful reaction. The top of my right foot, palms of both of my hands, my knees and elbows and my right breast. That’s going to hurt. I had no clue then just how true my thought would actually manifest.

As I laid on the ground I could hear people as they passed by speaking in concerned tones, asking “Is she okay?” After some time, I slowly rolled up with assistance to a seated position and today as I think back to that very dazed moment in time, I was in some kind of altered state. Somewhere between here and there…

Fast-forward one year as I reflect today on the, count-them-on-less-than-two-hands, pain free days, I remain grateful and for the healing hands that continue to bring me back to my whole being. I’m sure there are many great lessons to be learned, as of this entry I have not met them all…yet.

Notes from the Purple Bench

Do you ever have moments where you wonder if you are doing enough with your life? I do. I'm not a rocket scientist, nor am I a PhD working on the latest cure for cancer. And for the most part, I am satisfied with how I've participated in the career world and in my personal life. It's curious however, that I continue, now and again, to have these kinds of 'less than' thoughts.

My greatest accomplishment to date [according to me] may be summed up in two really nice human beings I birthed and loved into this world. Yet there are times when in the midst of people with impressive educational acronyms behind their names, a shadow is cast in self-doubt and reflection of what kinds of value I have contributed here during my time of Earth.

Why is that?

It seems, in America at least, the standards of success and value are wrapped up tightly in what we do as workers, how much we bank, what kind of car we drive and where we live. This is the short-list of those sort of markers of "making it."

And so I wonder...am I supposed to be doing more, being more, making more, buying more? Just yesterday I actually had one of those damn thoughts waft through my head!

And then something happened to stop me in my thoughts.

I carry a belief the 'Universe' can hear what we think, say, question and feel, and will respond [sometimes in record time] in-kind with some type of message. On the heels of my thought/question [am I doing enough?], I found a note from the Universe in the form of a yellow sticky wrapped around a music CD I had left on my purple bench for neighbors to take, the one that sits on the city parkway for my neighbors to take a load off during their neighborly strolls.

I had just decided the day before to begin a collection of photographs of the bench. I occasionally see neighbors sitting on the bench, but more often I only know someone has been there with the obvious shuffling of pillows rearranged for each person's individual taste and comfort. Evidence that someone has been there when I wasn't looking. I snapped the first in the series and walked over to the bench to see if the CDs had all found new homes.

There were two remaining out of the original five and oddly one of them had a note attached. Strategically wrapped and tucked into the CD sleeve to keep it from blowing away, here is how it read:

"Hello Sweet People on the Corner. I really enjoyed listening to this CD. Thank you for sharing your positive energy and for also making this a happy corner in the neighborhood. My daughter and I come by every day on our walk. Thanks! Noelle & Grace."

A blanket of warmth ran over my heart as it grew exponentially with the reading of the note. This 3" x 3" yellow square a prime example of what money does not buy, the priceless value of humanity working at its best and a note from the Universe [and the purple bench] that I am enough, I am contributing something of value and making a difference here on Earth.

I've also decided that my curriculum vitae [the course of my life] may need a little rewriting to include a section titled, "Notes from the Purple Bench." Signing off to write a note back to Noelle & Grace and post it on the telephone pole.

Love: Lost and Found

At age 18, what usually marks the time to spread one's wings and fly free from the family tree, I fell fast and hard from the nest instead. My wings unprepared and entangled with the twigs and twine of the nest builders, only to become paired up with another fledgling.

I've often thought that my life as a budding adult, through what is deemed as the 'identity phase' [roughly18-25] was put on pause. Over the years, I've looked inside from the mature responsible woman's exterior and could still see and feel the 18 year old in me waiting for the fun, adventures and reckless abandon to begin. Hold please! The path of individual growth merged with the care and responsibility of other fledgling beings. Forty years down the road I still have a sense of her and through later-in-life experiences she has emerged ethereally a beautiful bird soaring at unimagined heights with layered depths of perception.

I've listened with big attentive ears to the stories of youth through the breathed memories of others. I can't say I ever really feel sad or a loss around my chosen path versus the path of [natural order]. It's as if I already knew it, through a past life perhaps, and so I walked before I crawled into adulthood, I mothered on the edge of transition between child and adult. Many of my ideals and dreams stowed away for another time. That time is now.

The recent passing of my 58th birthday has me reflecting on my wants and desires, the list of which has been tempered with time. Shortened to nothing that money can buy. A sincere soulful attempt to "do unto others" from the book I've never read and to love and honor myself. To understand and live the rest of this life knowing that, just as I am—I am enough. To no longer rely and look for praise and love outside of myself, for that path is entwined with the opposite effect that can clip our own wings of wonder. Everything else that arrives at this point is, as they say, icing on the cake.

I've arrived at this much spoken about [unaccepted] place of self love. Not withstanding going through some very low, alone and dark places. Those places might just be prerequisites and damn hard lessons in the cirriculum of life. (Insert smiley face here.)

I wish everyone could feel this kind of love. It is freedom, it is peace, it is love. It's our birthright.

This Moment

If all I have is this moment, then what?

I slide into the perfection of support from the genuis of an Adirondack chair.

I gaze out from the deck into the enchanting forest inhabiting the island.

I see the sun rising in a quiet peek-a-boo through the trees.

I listen to the sounds as the winds dance in whispers around limbs and leaves. 

I smile as the sun's shine paints in hues of warmth and glistening effects. 

I admire the fluttering leaves above dripping like diamonds against new morning skies.

I thank God for allowing me, in this moment, to be in "it."

Little notes from the A-frame on Islesboro Island, Maine. 

A Fork in the Tree

It was the last morning at the A-frame on Islesboro Island, Maine and the sun was shining in full strength for the first time in a few days. The surrounding landscape of trees, the enchanting forest, started to come alive.

In one unfolded moment, a beam of light projected itself onto a tree to my right, illuminating first a section of its branches then the leaves. The branches formed a couple of V-shapes with my mind bent toward this thought, "A fork in the tree."

What followed next goes a little something like this: A chipmunk scurried up the trunk of tree. Like a fork in the road it hit a point of decision, where two branches meet. One going this way, the other going that way. And unlike the human-way...the chipmunk at the fork in the tree, with great instinctual nature and without a moment in hesitation—made its choice.

Time and Space

A middle of the night thought, time and space, still present in the early morning waking. Time and space, time and space — on my mind.

It has been said by many, "Time heals all wounds." I believe that and have experienced this phenomena of time as healer. As time ticks on the density and depth of a wound fades to a misted memory. Like the fading memory of a distant dream.

Space a gap of time yet not ticking like time. A place of expansion and growth, like ground to roots. The absence of time, people, places and things. To be, to feel, to absorb the rich offerings from the passings of time — to fully embrace and understand and put them in their proper place. Inside the heart.

Photo courtesy of Paul Tibbets.

Divine Decades

When I first purchased my vintage Spanish Revival bungalow 10 years ago, it was a dream realized. I never dreamed however, that I would burrow-in as a single occupant for this long. Looking back, I never consciously had that as my intention—it was not my plan at all. Then there is that nagging saying, you know the one, "There is my plan, and then there is God's plan."

I wrestled with this reality for a good number of years during this past decade, coming off of an 18 year marriage and not seeing myself as one of those "single-people." I handed down a verdict of self-judgment that was reflected back by numerous people through their broken smiles uttering things like, "I can't believe you are still single!" Or, "You're so (fill in the compliment), how come you don't have a boyfriend?" 

The year 2012 brought in profound and significant losses that permeated my life, mind and heart. It paved a new road of thought and, in retrospect, became a pivotal time for the way that I would think about my world moving forward. I was still here, while others were no longer. I dug deep beneath my skin, burying my head so near to my heart, almost as if to ensure it was still beating. Grief is an odd and unpredictable station in life.

Fast forward and through most of it...grief that is, I arrived at a place of contentment. A profound sense of peace and joy with my life as it is, my place in and around it, an elevated sense of self and the release of mind as judge, jury and sentencer. Released out into a life with open hands and heart to the faith and fate of my destined journey. The mantra "Let go and let God" along with a few "Hail Mary's" and in alignment with my own acceptance, because that is the only way that miracles can get in, has brought with it a bounty of gifts that I could only experience through the light of divine connection and recognition of it as such. Oddly enough, (not really) the hand-held mirrors from other people were placed face-down. The once hard-to-hear remarks muted from outwardly conversations—and erased from my own internal struggle of a voice.

At the beginning of this year I heard Jacob Glass, a teacher of spiritual thought say "You are the glory and greatness," we all are. I scribed that on my bathroom mirror where I would see it every morning, and I would say it repeatedly to myself—no matter how hard or foreign it was to hear. It's true, it is how we were first delivered as babes unto this world and, in short order, sadly forgotten by many—and most of the time by ourselves. 

My life is and has been through a long lineage of divine decades, and this one in-the-making is proving everday to unfold more divinely than I could have ever imagined. 

The Fear of Being Loved

"All You Need is Love." The Beatles sang it, the sages proselytize it and today you can simply purchase the saying on a wood block as decoration. I own one. I chant it, I believe it at my core and at the same time I am challenged by it. 

If love is all you need—all I need, then why does the prospect of it with another raise an eyebrow of disbelief, or have my heart drift behind the clouds of self-protection? Why is something that seems so profoundly simple and innate to our humanness become a struggle, a fear? These are the questions before me today. Good morning Lori.

Of course, I believe to know my own answer. Somehow writing it out becomes a process of working it out. I'm fairly certain it begins with the beginning, my grand entrance into the world. Held in the naive pairs of hands that carried me home, to nurture and love me the best way they knew how—in that moment.

From there, etched in stone, were definitions of love—their definitions. The stone ultimately rolled out into the world, down a few hills (at times mountains), taking little or no time to gather the moss of its own identity. The etchings of what was known of love carved deeper and deeper in definition. Tumbling down farther along the bumpy roads of life and further away from the divine truth of love. 

Until one day, and there have been more than one, the stone came to rest—to stillness. The etchings of love halted and hiding, peering out from behind the bent brim of experiences. Allowing for a more peaceful passage of time. Time and space for the moss to grow, nurture what defines its core and ponder the meaning of love. Time as healer, smoothing out the nicks of pain and shaking off the dusty-heart of a jarred journey. 

The etchings are scars trying on new definitions for love—challenging my mind's heart not to be afraid. To roll on, now with a softer surface and understanding.

Wishing for it to be simpler or I were more courageous about living into the mantra of love. I'm still working on it. 

Shades of Doubt

If we are lucky enough to journey long enough through the human experience, we may more than once, reach out for a dangling cord—pulling down the shades of doubt over our heart.

A momentary reprieve from pain, loss and grief. In truth the shade is only a brief departure from the sun that is shining brightly in perpetuity on the other side.

In time, under the sun's consistent rays of love and light, the shades of doubt will dissolve. It's only a matter of time.

Love-in the Rocks

With little or no agenda we set out, Stevie and I, for an early morning breakfast overlooking the Pacific Ocean with a Santa Barbara point-of-view. Followed by a walk upon the sand—prefaced by a read-out-loud entry of May 3rd from The Book of Awakenings—author Mark Nepo. My arms will not tire from raising the glass of appreciation for this modern-day sage and the moment the title jumped from where I first saw his book on a coffee table and into my heart.

The prologue, inserted here, is necessary in order to fully digest and appreciate the (unplanned by us) universal and miraculous events that were about to unfold, literally appearing in a path of rocks. The rocks, unlike the kind you stumble over—were smooth, yielding and symbolic in foundational support to a miracle in the making.

Prologue: Pre-breakfast conversation hovered around love and relationships. Heterosexual, bi-sexual and homosexual and my long-time thoughts on how it shouldn't matter who you love, but more important, how you love. And the societal prominence of labeling love and relationships, the prejudice and judgment bastardizing the only thing that we need...love. Ahhhh, pre-breakfast conversation—in the deep end of the pool, right where I like it!

Our walk along the rippling tide produced beautiful gifts newly freed from the sea and a few that showed themselves, but were not quite ready for the souvenir of taking. Each of us found a heart-shaped rock, honed in asymmetry and, when placed vertically in the sand for their photo op, their shapes cast out as shadows in heart-shaped perfection. Click, click—preserved by the camera. Slip, slipped into the pocket of my bag as treasure.

With our barefoot impressions erased, as quickly as they were made, the journey along the shoreline in forward motion presented more gifts. The living mollusk in its seaside nautical home, the lobster trap—trapped between rocks and a hard place, and other rocks bored through in curious circular designs. Each step softened and surrounded with feelings of pure joy, walking hand-in-hand with another, in wonder and awe of this moment.

The two-hour parking restriction marked our memory of time, and we began the trek back over where we had just been and—not been. The waves had gently smoothed over the past. My sandy feet begged for a washing—we have time. An out-of-the-way shower brought into view a rock-constructed stairway; my photographer's eye set its sight at the top where lacy openings allowed the blue sky to pierce through in glorious contrast. "Do we have time to go up there?" Stevie following behind—honoring and encouraging my child-like ways. "We have time." He says. "We have time." The depth of irony parked behind those words. For another essay.

This moment is a bit of a blur for me, as I was in my photographer's Zen place. Two women meet us on the stairs; we make room for them to climb up. There is a polite exchange between Steve and them that splashed quickly into a deep dive of human emotion, connection and compassion. I was pulled in. If there had been clouds in the sky, and I'm not joking when I say this—they would have parted the skies, with trumpets loudly playing as sunbeams from the heavens shined a bright light of love upon this place in the rocks.

The women, both weary and teary-eyed, began a tale of their postponed wedding plans to one another as one of their moms had suffered a stroke and they flew out from Boston to be with her. She lay in a nearby hospital in an induced coma. They had come to the beach for a respite from the heaviness of all that was before them, making their way from the very beach we had moments before been walking along, to the rock structure that had caught my eye. The disappointment of their altered wedding plans and the sadness in the news of the mom, who would have been flying to Boston to attend their wedding. We could feel their pain.

Stevie and I turn to each other, without a word or deliberation, through a mutually unspoken eye-balled agreement—he says to them, "Well, I can marry you?" "And Lori is a photographer." They can't believe it, I mean, who would? There we were—Steve, who has performed wedding ceremonies in the past, and me, who by all accounts is a professional photographer—albeit equipped only with my iPhone 5S. The conversation from there exploded into full glow serendipitous disclosure as we prepare for a wedding in the rocks. I'm multi-tasking with a keen ear listening in on the wedding prep between Steve and the ladies, while looking for the right angles, direction of light and positions to document the event. Right here, right now—this is happening! This is neither the time nor place to pause and wonder, or question the timing. The right thing to do—the only thing to do, is to flow through the moment handed down on the wings of angels. Ceremony conducted. Vows and rings exchanged, as raw and unrehearsed as you can imagine. Wishing I had with me my "All You Need is Love" sign and quickly realized that love—was all that was up there on the rock-solid wedding platform.

Following the ceremony, which I was witness to, photographer and videographer of (Apple iPhone ad coming soon), we sat on the steps of the rock cathedral—sharing the stories between the four of us. How we came to arrive at the same place at the same time. The events and conversations that prefaced our meeting. We hugged, cried, and smiled in the glory of the miracle—swapping business cards (equally as synchronistic) for future connection. “And if you’re ever in Boston,” they said, to which we replied, “We’re there next month!” And another connection unfolded.

To give words to what all of this has meant is equal to giving God/Universe a definition of boundary. So I won't.

As the four of us descended our communal place of "Love-in the Rocks" I lifted my arms overhead in the air and shouted "I love miracles!"

I really do you know.

Just before we parted ways, I felt this tug to give away the two heart-shaped rocks Stevie and I found earlier as a wedding present. In mutual consent the two rocks that had paved our way to this moment, slipped their way up and out of my treasure bag and into the hearts and hands of two beautiful women who needed them much more than we did.

Love will forever be embedded in those rocks.

Open Hands—Opens Heart

Imagine closing your eyes, your arms outstretched with the palms of your hands open and facing the sky. In the practice of yoga this is considered receiving mode. Then imagine a gift being gently placed in the cradle of your hands. It doesn't matter the nature of this gift, its size, shape or monetary value, what matters is the way it is being received. Does it feel heavy, like a burden? In the moment of receiving are there companion thoughts? What does this mean? What does he/she want from me? How will I reciprocate?

Or...are you able, as I am learning, with open hands to allow in the gift from another—of another? For nothing more and everything of—the offering itself? To be thought-less in the moment of the thought-full exchange? Can you/I allow the gift to dive below the surface of the physical, swim the channel of extended arms toward an open heart—an opening heart?

Last month I spent 30 days gifting—paying it forward. My reflection toward the end of this practice concluded with just how easy it was to gift for the pure pleasure of giving—much in anonymity and letting go of any sort of self patting on the back. Heading into this month, there was this little voice speaking from the archives of "things I once heard," that receiving was also a gift back to the giver. With that in mind, I set out in April (also happened to be my birthday month) to experience 30 Days of Receiving.

Day 24: I can't begin to tell you how liberating this has been. To be free of thought and be in pure acceptance of bountiful gifts. From gestures of smiles, kisses, well-wishes, and compliments to the traditionally wrapped varieties. Gifts freed from the sea and the garden to notes filled with gratitude for me just being me, and one PBJ sandwich lovingly wrapped, bagged and scribed with my name—LORI, a heart shape dotting the i. Accepting the mirror of glory and greatness in being human. Miracles delivered from God. The month is not over and my heart runneth over.

A visual now formulating in my minds-eye as I write today, two people in profile facing one another with arms stretched forward and in the exchange of "the gift," the symbol for infinity appeared. The figure eight flowing from heart to hands, hands to heart, heart to hands, hands to heart. A symbiotic event, the definition between giver and receiver dissolving. The path of infinite possibility illuminated—from open hands to open hearts.

Letting go-ward

I've been debating (with myself) how to write about my experiences during the month of March, where I lived into the intention of philanthropy. I chose "pay it forward" as my 30 Day Project, a month long daily practice of conscious giving.

To write about it seemed a contradiction to the practice, and somewhere in the archives from my rather non traditional Catholic upbringing was a teaching about that very thing. I'm not much of a bible quoter, and I found it here in Matthew 6:2; "But when you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing."

After some careful consideration and this morning's ah-ha moment/title I am prepared to move forward typing with both my left and right hands open to what spills out next on the page. No celebration, only a share.

There were lessons learned, times of giggly grace, faces left in confusion—sometimes my own and at the end, which really is only the beginning is my own experience of me, my actions and thoughts. In these moments, like a dropped rock in waters still and deep—the concentric ripples of deed spreading infinitely wide with invisible reach, their effects unknown. And like the rock breaking through the water's surface—with varying height in splashes, having no attachment to the ripples in destination on the surface above. The only concern of the rock—if any, is in the depth of its own being. 

Some of the hidden and revealed gems from this project, shined a light on where I still need to grow, and was also reflected back from my co-habitants of humanity. Here is a little story of one pay it forward, the one that kicked off this project. It will be the only one I share, as it is the shining example that allowed the rest of the month to unfold easily and unpredictably. 

It started at the 7/11 down the street from my house. I was in line purchasing my morning ritual coffee and at check-out I asked for a lottery ticket. The clerk while in mid-stream of handing me the potentially million-dollar-life-changing piece of paper, I asked her to please give it to the next person who came up to the counter. Insert her scrunched up face here. She didn't quite understand my request, so I said it again. I left quickly as I didn't want to be a voyeur into what happened next or who received it. As I was making the short walk back to my car my thoughts on two wheels were speeding laps around my mind. "Oh my God, I think I may have just given away a million dollars." My ego mind leaking out its history of missed opportunities, positions of lack and the holding things so close—the clear fear of dying. Death to the ego. I couldn't believe my thoughts and at the same time the clerk with the scrunched up face was reflecting back to me in a look of bewilderment that perhaps was saying—"Is she crazy? She may have just given away a million dollars!" 

I took my thoughts, thanked them and wadded them up like a cashed-in winning lottery ticket and tossed them in the trash with a smile. I think it may have been with my left hand, and I don't remember what my right hand was doing. That moment became the catalyst for the rest of the month and my life.

This morning as I contemplated writing this essay, I knew there was more here than the mere act of paying things forward—money, lottery tickets, a cup of coffee or a smile. For me it became clear that this was yet another evolution in my spiritual development, the practice of leading with a loving heart for no other reason than I believe that to be our innate and best feature of being human. 

One more layer in the practice of non-attachment, letting go...letting go-ward. 

The Eve of Unforeseen Grief

Todays marks the 2nd anniversary of the day before life shattering news would arrive at the doors to many of our lives. I can feel the sobs of anticipation that hover over the clouds of tomorrow. Portions of my own heart remain broken open. It's hard to be human sometimes. And this is one of those times. The presence of grief is acknowledged, "enough" time has not sufficiently passed.

My current day philosophical mentor— Mark Nepo writes in The Book of Awakening that, "It is brave and simple to say you are hurt when you are hurt, to say you are sad when you are sad, to say you are scared when you are scared." As I move further along the path of my own existence, the public face of holding strong is shedding. I am sad. Deeply sad and if you ask me "How are you?" on this day or any other, I have finally learned to tell my truth.

Today, grief is present, I am missing the light and being of my son of choice—Jeffrey Weinberger and at the same time grateful that he was a presence in our lives—my life.

Songs of Silence

It's raining this morning in California, pre dawn and I can hear the chirp of only one particular bird singing in the rain. Braving the elements of mother nature and in the dark. I don't know why but this moment sparked a thought about songs and silence...this is what silence means to me.

The golden silence of an early morning rise, when it seems that no one but myself is up and greeting the world. A comforting moment in darkness and in stillness. Everything painted with a hush allowing for my mind, body and soul to connect, to plug-in gently before dawn breaks into song. Blank sheets of music yet to be written.

The purposeful silence in meditation lasting for minutes, an hour or a week. The path of following only the direction of the breath. That is the goal. But then there is the mind. Our trickster heard louder in silence. In the absence of our conscious distractors, the volume of the monkey mind is turned up. When the monkey sleeps, silence sings a light through our heart lighting the way for the path of the soul. Truth rising to crescendo.

The destructive silence, where two people come together and no longer have anything to say. The withholding of relational lyrics in pained retaliation. The thought of a cold shoulder that still brings shivers to the spine. The absence of song for this dance brings stillness into a different frame of reference. This form of silence, sounds much louder than the rest. The passage that brings us to the end of a movement in relationship.

The songs of silence are many and these are just a few for me.

What does silence bring up for you?

Seasons in My Life

By Twenty

Life's lessons came hard and fast

Encounters, unkind and non-consensual 

Lessons I was not prepared for

How could I have been?

By Thirty

A phase of contentment

Settled in by a place called home

Surrounded by my created family

I longed for nothing more

By Forty

Chords of dissonance

Crawling before I walked

Clearing the unwept mess of the past

Realigning with self

By Fifty

Freedom responding to life's open invitation

Procreation giving way to creativity
Higher wisdom in thought and action
Connection with love as priority

By Sixty?
It's peeking around my corner
I will wait in 'wonder'
And...
Listen to my heart for what beats next

Serenity

Serenity
A word in perfection

describing the time of day

when darkness of night has not quite yet

 yielded to the break of a new dawn

Serenity

When the wind's whisper is gentle

 soft as sweet nothings in a lover's ear

Serenity

The color of the world muted

its vibrancy hushed and blurred

 like the waking mind

Serenity

Eyes fluttered closed in silence 

the sleeping with minds open 

drifting their dreams towards 

the catchers in the winking sky

Serenity

The symphony of sentient beings on pause 

my heart swells in the enormity of quiet

I have the whole world to myself

Guardian Crow

You made yourself known

With impeccable timing

Deliberate cadence in your voice

Raised above your brother

"Caw, I am here"

Caw, caw, I am near"

"Caw, I am forever watching"

Messages left behind

In feathered trails

Roosted above my sanctuary

Beside me on desolate paths

"Caw, I am here"

Caw, caw, I am near"

"Caw, I am forever watching"

You take the branches I shed

Building your territorial home

On a street you've known before

I'm under your watchful eyes

"Caw, I am here"

Caw, caw, I am near"

"Caw, I am forever watching"

I hear you resting near my heart

Uncanny encounters 

Transcending space and time

I'm grateful, as I answer you back

"Caw, caw, you will never be forgotten"

In memory of Jeffrey Weinberger, my son by choice. He is our Guardian Crow.

The Lines of Time

My face is graced
with the recording of time.

Etched with appointed
lines upon the surface.

Stacked horizons stretching across my brow,

the lineage of life's surprises.

Grooved verticals in-between,

the questions and the unanswered.
Disappointment, curiosity,
and determination
leaving the same deep marks.

The growing creases on my upper lip

exposing the journey of kisses.
Kisses as a mom, kisses as a woman.
All paving the way for more to follow.

Crow's feet webbed,

the channel for tears.

Eyes like the river's dance,
guided through moments
of laughter, sadness and joy.

Miles of smiles 

rippling like waves on the sand,
from cheekbone to cheekbone.

Lines drawn like those on a roadmap.
The surface reflecting where I've been.
The mirror, a snapshot of where I am.

But in my mind's eye,
a smooth surface prevails.
Who I feel I am on the inside
and spaces I have yet to discover.