My Sister's Garden

The Muck That Is Essential to Your Being

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Fri, 31 Dec 2021 22:26:00 +0000

Muck

Dark, dank, brown, sometimes black, muck is not pretty. The last two years have been full of muck: election messes, misbehaving politicians and public office holders, self-entitled humans, mock shamans destroying public property, a pandemic that split the country into the mask-wearers versus the mask-deniers (not to mention the vaccine-takers versus the vaccine-refusers), the mounting death toll from that pandemic, and the personal trials that resulted from the pandemic and the general calamities and realities of living on planet Earth.

No matter where you fall in the muck described above or in muck I failed to include, I do not doubt you have had some muck in your life. I know I have. I imagine my muck differs from yours in its details, but it’s still dark and dank, and it’s often been scary not knowing what lies beneath that murky surface and how and whether I shall rise. But here I am, and here you are, with 2021 taking a bow as it leaves or in some cases crying out loud as the door hits it in the butt as it, well, butts out. The New Year 2022 won’t ring in for several more hours, and I won’t be sorry to see it leave, but I would be remiss to not be grateful for some of the joys and the gifts life in 2021 brought me. I am grateful, but I am ready to welcome a new year.

The muck in the above photo is part of the ponds and streams at McKee Botanical Gardens in Vero Beach, Florida. You might not be aware of it, but this muck (as well as mine and yours) has a purpose. Beneath the surface of the muck is an entire world of living organisms. The muck provides a home and nourishment for some of the loveliest plants I’ve seen—the lotus and water lily. The lotus doesn’t spring to life from a seed sown in the ground. No. The lotus seeds lie fallow in the muck and when ready, they germinate, they grow, and they grace us with the near-unimaginable beauty of their blooms. Those flowers rise above the muck that was essential to bring about their being.

The muck we confront in our daily lives—and years if one wants to count 2020 and 2021—might not seem like it has a purpose, and sometimes it might not. However, at other times, like the lotus and the water lily, the muck of our lives can be a fertile medium in which we can grow. Of course, like the lotus and the water lily, we also have to rise above that muck to express our innate beauty. To show that we have surpassed those dark, dank, murky areas, we must reach and stretch above and beyond the muck that threatens to keep our spirits below the surface. Perhaps then we can catch and hold the joy that awaits us, just as the beauty of the lotus and water lily await their rise above the water’s surface.

My wish for you all is that you step through and out of the muck and into the sun where you can experience the joy and beauty that await you in 2022.

“You Yourself Got Bigger, Able to Hold More Grief”

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Tue, 02 Nov 2021 14:59:00 +0000

November 2, 2021

“The ghosts and the pain didn’t lessen by confronting them, but they did grow more bearable—as if you yourself got bigger, able to hold more grief.” Mariah Reddick, the main character in The Orphan Mother by Robert Hicks, is grieving her son, Theopolis. That grief, a parent’s grief, is the most profound. Knowing this grief, her words resonated with me.

With the passage of time, our grief doesn’t get smaller, nor does it become easier to bear. Like the quote suggests, I believe we do, indeed, experience an expansion of sorts—some part of our heart and soul opens and continues to open. We gain the blessing of the ability to accommodate the days, months, years, decades . . . of mourning, of loss.

Grief comes; it always will, but we create space to hold it.

If we are even more blessed, we extend that space further and begin to hold others in their grief and longing so they, too, can do the same. Thus, they gain their own space to grieve and hold love.

This is the gift that Alexa gave me—a heart that didn’t close, but instead opened and continues to open. And in that space, I hold the finest of her offerings to me: Love, undying, enduring love.

No, dearest Lexie, I will never ever forget you. I will love you always and forever and continue to expand the place in my heart and life where I hold you.

Alexa Renee Provo: March 22, 1979—November 2, 1986

"I Can't Breathe."

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Thu, 04 Jun 2020 14:58:00 +0000

I Can’t Breathe

By Christine G. Clark

“I can’t breathe.”

Is it COVID-19 or a knee on your neck?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are your lungs filled with fluid and shutting down despite the ventilator breathing for you?

Or is that knee on your neck shutting down your respiratory system?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are you choked with wracking sobs because of the state of our country today?

Or are you mourning for yet another Black life cut short?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are you gasping yet at the ugliness in our land?

Or are you gasping because once again the life has been choked from a Black man—for being Black?

“I can’t breathe.”

Are you holding your breath waiting for the world to change?

Or are you holding your breath hoping the white person who is threatened by your skin will pass on by?

“I can’t breathe.”

Inhale, exhale, pray for change.

Inhale, exhale, make the change.

Nothing Left

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Thu, 07 May 2020 13:12:00 +0000

Nothing Left

Gulf Fritillary caterpillars continue feeding on the remnants of the Corky Stem Passionflower vine. To my eyes, it appears there is nothing left to call a vine, unless it’s the faded gray twigs wrapping around the tomato cage. Green leaves are few; green vines are few. Nonetheless, Gulf Fritillary butterflies haven’t stopped laying eggs on what’s left, which isn’t much, and the larvae keep munching on what they find to sustain them.

Nothing left.

Nothing left also applies to thousands of views this day, these days. Mothers at home taking on the role of teacher in addition to all their other roles feel they have nothing left. Healthcare workers on the front lines feel they have nothing left. Hospital janitors feel like they have nothing left. Grocery store clerks feel like they have nothing left. Morticians feel like they have nothing left. The grieving feel like they have nothing left. People out of work and almost out of money feel like they have nothing left. Sheriff deputies and EMS and firefighter teams feel like they have nothing left. Those of us throughout the Earth who feel like we have nothing left are part of a never-ending list—one that grows as each pandemic day begins with the sunrise and ends with the sunset. “Nothing left,” we say as we lay our weary heads to rest.

Nothing left?

The Corky Stem Passionflower vine might not have much left, but the caterpillars continue to eat the bits they find and they continue to grow.

Nothing left?

All the people—mothers, fathers, healthcare workers, the grieving, the first responders—each of them might feel like they have nothing left, but they show up for their children, they show up for their jobs, they show up for their family and friends and communities, in spite of feeling they have nothing left.

Something left?

Maybe something more important is left. The caterpillars ravishing the vines aren’t eating just to fulfill hunger. They have a purpose, a preordained path they are forging. The caterpillars, in the minutes, hours, or days to come, will leave those vines and not because there is nothing left. They move away because it’s time for them to seek something more—it’s time to transform. Somewhere deep within each caterpillar is an innate knowledge that there is, indeed, something left. Maybe each of us also has something more important that is left. Instead of feeling there is nothing left, perhaps we, too, can listen to and follow our own innate wisdom. Perhaps we can leave our vines and realize, that we, too, have the ability to transform.

Prayer in the Time of Corona

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Wed, 18 Mar 2020 00:04:00 +0000

Prayer in the Time of Corona

by Christine Clark

I want to reach out to you, God.

But part of me feels like you might say,

“Oh, it’s you. It’s been a while. This must be the time to reconnect because at least tens of thousands of people have reached out during the last month—people I haven’t heard from in not what I would call ages, but a long time.”

I hesitate because I am one of those people. I know I’ve been in touch via the Lord’s Prayer, but God knows and I know that far too often it’s been rote. And that is not the kind of prayer I want to pray today.

I have a lack of faith.

I feel guilty.

I feel ungrateful.

I feel heartsore and weary.

I am afraid.

In that fear, I know I must step beyond all that pulls me away from God and have a glimmer of trust that God is here, that God is listening. I must let myself once again be pulled toward God.

I let myself inch toward God, and I murmur:

“Here I am.

I am afraid.

I have so many fears, little ones and big ones.

Can I give them to you?

Will you please take my fears, if only for a moment, a sunbeam’s worth of time within which I can find some peace, some relief from the chaos of my mind and the uncertainty filling the Earth right now?”

I hear these words:

“Breathe into me. Look for the light and life of all that the Earth contains and sustains. Put down your fears. Remember my words and take them to heart:

‘Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’ Matthew 11:28–30.”

Tears in my eyes, I whisper “Thank you.” I put down my burden and step back into the Earth, less fearful and with more peace in my heart.

"Grief Was a Welcome Guest at Our Table"

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Mon, 09 Dec 2019 02:29:00 +0000

A Place at the Table

Tables are a feature of most holidays and this season is no exception. At our Thanksgiving table, we give thanks for family and the bounty of our lives. December holiday tables are decorated with lights, menorahs, Kwanza candles. Tables figure prominently in holiday activities—cooking, baking, eating, and gift wrapping.

Of course, our tables are used throughout the year when we sit at them to eat, and often, the table is the center of the home. It’s where we gather to talk, share, and connect with family and friends.

Like the seasons of our lives, our tables change. Who sits at them changes. Some of those changes are welcomed. Some are not. The least welcome change to our table is when we lose a child, grandchild, or sibling. That empty space forever changes the dynamic of our table. That empty place can become another weight of grief that we carry. A piece of our hearts has gone out of not only celebrations but also the simple dailiness of life. We can avoid the table, we can change seating arrangements, but that empty place remains.

My table has had an empty place for thirty-three years since my daughter Alexa died on November 2, 1986. In the early days, it was hard to sit there through the longing, the yearning, and the tears. I still miss having Alexa at the table and often wonder what it would be like if she were among us, laughing, loving, living.

That’s not to be. My table is forever changed. Sometimes, though, the changes after loss take on a different aura—one I wasn’t aware of until recently. My daughter Tarah lost her close friend Jimmy two years ago. As the anniversary approached, Jimmy’s mother reached out to Tarah. As often happens with those who are grieving, Jimmy’s mother wanted to be certain she wasn’t “bothering” Tarah. Tarah assured her it was no bother—that she was there for her at any time and any place. Shortly after that, Tarah posted the following on social media:

“I am comfortable with grief. I grew up surrounded by grief, it was a welcome guest at our table. It is normal and it doesn’t make me want to run away, but rather run towards you and help. If you EVER need someone to talk to when you are grieving, I don’t care who you are or how little we know each other, I am HERE. I want to help.”

I was struck by the phrase Tarah used: “Grief was a welcome guest at our table.” I had never considered grief a guest, but it was. I never considered grief as a welcome guest of all things, but it was. Alexa’s photos were always visible. We planted trees in her memory on the anniversary of her death. Three of my four surviving children were born after Alexa died, yet there never was a specific time when I sat them down and said, “You had a sister who died before you were born.” Instead, I spoke of Alexa as their sister. Her physical presence wasn’t there, but nonetheless she was and continues to be a part of our lives.

Because “Grief was a welcome guest at our table,” my children are familiar with loss. It was and is there—every day. Alexa’s loss became part of who I am and part of who they are. Loss has given all my children compassion and empathy they might not otherwise have had. They are sensitive to those who are grieving. They are comfortable with grief.

Grief will come to all of us. Our loss may the most difficult—a child, grandchild, or sibling. Loss may come in other forms. We cannot escape it. It is beyond difficult to sit at a table that is missing someone. I have come to realize, however, that there is something we can add to that empty place. We can leave a place at the table for loss. We can make grief a welcome guest by acknowledging loss, by acknowledging love, by instilling compassion and empathy. The physical place at the table may be empty, but we can bring something else of value. We can fill that place with remembrance, hope, joy, and love.

Grief's Value: Holding Others in Their Pain

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Thu, 11 Jul 2019 13:09:00 +0000

July 11, 1985

Using Pain to Heal

On July 11, 1985, my six-year-old daughter Alexa fell from a tree in her babysitter's backyard. She had a spontaneous brain hemorrhage while in the tree. It turned out the hemorrhage was from a malignant brain tumor. After sixteen months of treatment, our darling child died on November 2, 1986. For those of us who have experienced the deep sting of child loss—or any loss—anniversaries bring forth intense feelings and memories. It's important for our continued healing to mark those days, painful though they may be. They are part of our journey toward wholeness and finding joy in life.

July 11, 2019. It's been thirty-four years since July 11, 1985. That's so long. It's a lifetime. It's more than a generation.

I still remember what I wore that day: white pants and a sleeveless dark blue silk blouse. I dressed well because Alexa had her gifted testing that morning and I had taken her to school.

Her IQ tested at 133—with a brain tumor mashing against everything.

It's still so unfair. It will always be unfair. But it doesn't change.

It crushes me and it's so hard to write these words because I want to avoid these feelings. I want to put my pen down, get up, and run—outside, to the kitchen, to the computer. Or pick up my phone. Or fill my empty coffee cup. I don't. Instead, I push myself down and remain seated and continue the flow of words across the lines and filling the page. These many years later, I know that running doesn't help. It doesn't ease the pain. It doesn't change the arc of life and experience—the experience that continues to call to me saying, “Here I am. I am your pain. The only way to hold me and not let me crush you is to use me to heal yourself first and then use me to help heal others.” In a small voice, I accept with tears in my eyes. I say, “Okay. Show me the way to hold someone else in their sorrow today and every day.”

For me, that is the only value to grief . . . to hold others in their pain and help heal their sorrow.

Stopping the Dance of Stress

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Thu, 11 Apr 2019 11:58:00 +0000

Shoulders Rise in the Dance of Tension

My shoulders have become an extension of my ear lobes. Far too often recently, I feel them rise, rise, rise in a dance of tension as if they are hands reaching toward the gold hoops in my ears.

This is not the dance I imagine for myself. It lacks the fluid, graceful movements I prefer as I move through life. My imagined dance does not involve clenching, tightening, shoulders rising to where they don’t belong. My imagined dance has me light of foot, floating like mist through an English cottage garden.

Conflict with what I envision and the reality of what I feel as my shoulders tighten begin the ascent to my ears wakes me. I stop the dance of stress and breathe. I speak to myself in a gentle voice. I continue to breathe and lower those shoulders until they return to their proper place. I breathe again into the space and begin my preferred dance.

Grief and Loss Have Weight and Substance

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Wed, 10 Apr 2019 13:08:00 +0000

Carrying the Weight of Grief

Grief has weight. Like the lead apron at the dentist’s office before getting x-rays or exercise weights for your arms and legs, grief is heavy. When you are grieving, even the slightest movement is difficult. You can move forward with only the tiniest of steps because each of those steps feels like trudging through muck.

The weight is a message: Stop. You cannot move forward into any meaningful life until you recognize that this weight, this grief, requires an extended pause in your life. You must sit with the weight of grief. You must be with that weight and experience and process it completely, fully, so that when you’re ready, you can to return to life. It will be a different life, but you will not carry the weight of feelings unfelt, tears not shed, and love and loss not mourned.

Your life will have more depth, meaning, intention, and purpose because you felt and experienced the weight of grief, thus lightening the load of loss and life.

Tuesday Settles In

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Tue, 09 Apr 2019 11:58:00 +0000

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Tuesday Settles In

Like a Soft Cotton Shirt

Tuesday’s soft cotton shirt settles in as I begin the day. Monday’s frantic welcome and return to responsibilities, lists of things to do, and obligations to meet have settled down. Today, a steady, less-frantic rhythm of being combined with doing greets me as I contemplate the day.

Tuesday is much less concerned with weekend endings and workweek beginnings. It’s a day of now, of awareness of what awaits, yet anticipation for the remaining week. Tuesday lacks the pace of Monday—whether that pace was sluggish and resistant or pumped up with enthusiasm and can-do motivation.

Tuesday continues steps on the map I charted on Monday. Those steps are clear, concise, and measured, yet also as comfortable as my well-worn cotton clothing. Tuesday’s easy entrance into the balance of the week settles me, yet still leaves me open to possibility with open eyes and heart and mind.

Our Sentient Earth Mourns with Us

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Wed, 13 Feb 2019 17:26:00 +0000

Spanish Moss the Morning After Loss

Spanish moss tucked into leaves and branches dangles from the live oak and sways a bit with the morning breeze.

Birds trill early morning sounds.

A young man rides a bicycle path and sings a quiet song to greet the day.

Poles and tackle box in hand, another man moves to the lake edge to claim a spot in the life circle.

Clouds, heavy and low, obscure the sun, but like tears unshed brimming at the edge of the eyes, the rain remains suspended, not quite ready to let loose and fall.

Neither clouds, nor birds, nor Spanish moss, nor fish in the pond know the depth and dimensions of your grief.

But as integral pieces of the cosmic plan, they, too, participate even if unaware. The slight movement of the moss reminds us that the breeze brings facets of life and takes them away, just as other elements of life take their place in the universal plan, of which we are far too often unaware.

Birds will continue to sing us awake and soothe our weary hearts with a lullaby at evening’s approach.

A young man will send the notes of his song to the Earth, which will hear and become aware, even if human ears are not present.

A line will catch a fish, which quells a hunger.

Clouds, like eyes, will fill and release, raindrops and teardrops alike changing the landscape of the Earth and the heart.

I believe the creatures, plants, and moisture of the Earth are sentient. They wait with patience until those tears fall from your eyes and moisten all that is precious around you.

You, too, enrich the Earth every time you grieve because all that is present becomes aware of your love and care. Your sensitivity to all that is holy and precious and thus, its loss, affects the Earth, sustains the Earth, and takes its place in the revolution of life within and around us.

* * * * *

In the early morning hours the day after my father died, as I sat on my granddaughter’s balcony, I realized just how in tune we are with the Earth, and the Earth with us, even as we mourn.

The Cancer, The Chemo, The Chrysalis, and a Bit of O'Henry

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Tue, 29 Jan 2019 19:13:00 +0000

The Cancer,

The Chemo, and

The Chrysalis

With a Little Bit of O’Henry

It wasn’t emerald green, more a milky wedding mint green, but its faceted shape and closure of gold gave the monarch chrysalis the appearance of a gem. She spied it hanging from the tomato cage she used to support the Cuphea in the flowerbed. A beetle infestation made it necessary to trim the cuphea to a height of only a few inches, so the chrysalis was visible, unlike the majority of them. Most are hidden until the appointed time at which a monarch appears in all its majesty: A Monarch incubated in a jeweled case—how fitting is the name!

Environmental threats have diminished the monarch population in the United States, in particular the indiscriminate spraying of herbicides—weed killers that have destroyed much of the monarch larvae’s primary food—milkweed. Knowing this and encouraging the population in her yard—she planted milkweed and kept the supply going by planting more seeds and always leaving the new plants wherever they sprouted. Abundant flowers of several other varieties contributed to the nourishing nectar for the butterflies as they visited her yard.

Awareness of the cycles and seasons of the plant life around her tendered a deeper consciousness within her of the monarch lifecycle: the butterflies performing their mating dance and ritual; the female monarchs laying eggs on the milkweed, the emergence of thread-sized larvae; the “hungry caterpillar” stage as the larvae feasted on the milkweed, decimating it, stripping it to bare sticks devoid of foliage, all the while plumping their bodies to store the nutrients they would need during their transformation—their metamorphosis from larvae into royalty. Leaves stripped, the chrysalis-ready larvae lumber off and find a twig—or a wire tomato cage—hang upside down, and spin until they’re encased in a jeweled urn.

She knew all the steps of the transformation, yet she continued to be caught in the thrill of observing it. This latest chrysalis was in full view, providing an unusual, yet exciting, opportunity to keep track of the process—to be aware of each phase, to mark the days until the transformation was complete.

Transformations aren’t limited to the life of flora and fauna. Transformations—welcome as well as unwelcome—also are an aspect of the human experience. Sharing those transformations, or at least being aware of them, are yet another part of being human. While she gardened, her heart was troubled by another transformation of which she was aware. Her children’s seventeen-year-old second cousin was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in the autumn. Quirky, artistic, zany, wise-beyond-her-years are just a few limited adjectives to describe the cousin’s esoteric personality. She and the cousin had seen each other only once in recent years, but when she last saw the young woman, she had experienced a connection unlike most in the transient nature of relationships in our mobile, fractured society.

Geographic distance meant the connection would be continued only through Facebook, but she watched as the teen experienced some teenage love, teenage angst, and shared her soul as she spent time at school, at camp, and with her family.

Of course, it’s always difficult when someone receives a cancer diagnosis and it’s never what one will imagine will be part of their teenage experience. The honesty the teen expressed about her illness was striking—raw, intense. To see—read those emotions expressed was different from the woman’s previous experience with childhood cancer. When her own daughter was diagnosed and treated in the mid-1980s, such raw, intense observations during the course of a life-threatening illness were limited to the spoken word—in conversations both in person and over the telephone. The urgency of the day-to-day experience didn’t lend itself to letters, and social media did not exist, so rather than a broad swath of emotions and reactions being shared, those emotions and reactions had little to no audience. It was a more introspective time—although the rawness and grief and despair were similar.

What was/is even more different was the cousin’s cancer isn’t rare. Unlike the woman’s daughter, this teen’s medical team had a protocol to follow—one that demonstrated cures. The odds are in her favor—not that those make the disease and its ramifications any less frightening or threatening.

Remission is the trill of the songbird, the first crocus in March, the burst of green in an opening spring leaf. It was a word the woman never heard during her child’s illness. It was a condition never experienced, because her child died.

Carrying the weight of her child’s death made it difficult to cross the threshold of silence toward the teen, who being a family member was aware of that loss. However, the woman’s experience in life as well as on Facebook had taught her an important lesson: When someone reaches out, it is a plea for those who receive that message to take that person’s hand, hold it, grasp it, use it to support, enlighten, soothe, cherish.

Who among us has so little heart that they refuse the hand beseeching one’s grasp—to hold them, to carry them?

So, reach out she did and began a measured dialogue: one that was met with love and gratitude. She sent her teen friend encouragement and flower photos.

When she spied the jewel dangling from the tomato cage, she knew it was ideal: The teen was nearing the end of her chemotherapy and soon would emerge from treatment. Who knew what life would be or become for her once she broke through the confines of that treatment—broke through the chrysalis enfolding her?

The woman believed the timing of the chrysalis appearance was fortuitous. She took a photo and sent it with a message wondering what the amazing girl would show us after she, too, emerged.

Just as she knew that not all cancer patients emerge from treatment, the woman also knew from observing the jeweled cases in her yard that not every chrysalis is successful at incubating a monarch. Disease and insects and other distresses of the natural world mean that some larvae do not complete the transformation—some chrysalises turn dark and wither and yield nothing but dismay.

So, she watched the chrysalis over the next few weeks with increasing hope that this one would transform and become a Monarch. One of those January weeks ushered in an unusual bout of cold weather, including morning freezes. She debated covering the chrysalis with a blanket, much as she had often covered tender plants before a frost. Experience had taught her, however, that often her interference—meddling—had led to less-than-favorable results both in and out of the garden, so she left the chrysalis alone.

When temperatures returned to the winter norms for her Central Florida home, she was relieved to see the chrysalis still dangling from the cage, still green, still in its phase of suspended animation.

She continued to watch and wait. Close-up, she could see the chrysalis begin to darken as the monarch took shape. Hues of orange began to hint their presence. She anticipated the moment of emergence, certain she would be there to observe. She planned to share the experience with the young woman.

One morning she observed the chrysalis from a distance of several feet. It was solid black, opaque. Black as death—black as the death of numerous chrysalises she had mourned in the past. She turned away, feeling despondent, experiencing an unwelcome wave of superstition and dread. What would she now have to share with the young woman? There was no way she would share the blackness—there was no way she would risk unbalancing the fragile health and psyche of the teen.

Knowing she was putting too much of a negative interpretation on the black chrysalis, and the black thoughts that had intruded on her conscious awareness, she made the effort to redirect her thoughts—and failed.

Knowing she would never share the fate of the chrysalis, but at the same time knowing she didn’t want to ignore the end result or even have the young woman think the transformation didn’t happen, she decided on an alternate plan.

In the style of O’Henry’s “The Last Leaf,” she decided to find another spent chrysalis and photograph it. It would be the “last leaf” painted on the windowpane. She already had captured numerous photos of monarchs in their just-emerged state of plumping their wings before taking flight.

There would be no disappointing sharing of a blackened chrysalis pod—she would never engender that sort of despair in someone else. She would keep the loss and mournful fate of the black chrysalis to herself. She would not exactly lie—but she would create an alternate outcome—O’Henry style.

An O’Henry-style outcome would facilitate hope: The leaf stays visible, the young woman survives her pneumonia. The monarch emerges, resplendent, plumps its wings, and flutters off to drink nectar, pollinate flowers, mate, lay eggs: The life cycle would continue. The young woman, too, would emerge from the hospital, her treatment a success, the cancer in remission and her life would continue, changed like that of the caterpillar into a monarch, but now beautiful, alight—aflight and free.

The O’Henry narrative was much more inspiring and soothing—replete with hope and promise.

She turned her eyes and heart away from the once-jeweled, now blackened urn, determined in her resolve to create the happily ever after scenario we all crave.

Several hours later, her workday ended, the woman returned to the garden. She wanted to resist another glance at the chrysalis, but her eyes were drawn to it as if it were the hypnotic sway of a pendulum. She couldn’t see it from where she stood, so she walked closer, expecting to see a blackened remnant on the nearby ground. She did not. Instead, she saw the transparent chrysalis hanging from the tomato cage. Her heart soared as she remembered that at the last phase of metamorphosis, the chrysalis would be clear and unless one were close enough, all that would be visible would be the folded black wings of the monarch just before it moved between worlds. The dark mass she saw earlier that day showed the butterfly’s wings, ready to burst forth, and not a black chrysalis. Relief spread throughout her heart. Continuing to be superstitious, she interpreted this as the best-possible sign for not only the emergence of the monarch, but also for the emergence of the teen. Perhaps she, too, would now spread her own wings and venture into a transformed life.

She checked the area close by to see whether any monarchs were in a post-emergent stage of pumping and plumping their wings—filling them, readying to fly, but she saw none.

A short time later as she sat musing on her patio, a monarch flew near her, fluttered its wings as if to be certain it was observed—and perhaps even recognized—and then it left. Monarchs flit throughout her yard, but this was the first time she’d seen one on the patio.

As happens on social media, sometimes a person steps away—and the woman stepped away during those cold January weeks as she observed the chrysalis. In early February, she once again signed on and began the familiar motions of scrolling and reading and scrolling and reading—and then she stopped at an announcement: The young woman was in remission—a successful twin metamorphosis had occurred.

“Ah,” the woman sighed, smiling through tears and recalling her decision to create a “last leaf.” As it turns out, neither the young woman nor the caterpillar needed her intervention, and she got her heart’s desire for now—a happily ever after.

The full text of O’Henry’s story “The Last Leaf” can be found here. https://americanenglish.state.gov/files/ae/resource_files/the-last-leaf.pdf

Awaiting Your Transformation?

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Tue, 01 Jan 2019 14:39:00 +0000

Questionable Beginnings?

Start Where You Are

The edge of an empty, near-abandoned flowerpot doesn't appear to be an auspicious spot for a transformation. Nonetheless, the emerald and gold gem on that edge encases what one day will be a monarch butterfly. The pot sits on the bottom shelf among pots that have green plants thriving in them. The empty pot was set aside and forgotten in the maze of the daily must-do list each of us has.

Who knows what made the no-longer-hungry caterpillar decide this was its launchpad into its next incarnation? Perhaps it was convenient. Perhaps it was simply there. Perhaps the caterpillar procrastinated until no choice was left except to stop and spin.

Stop and spin it did. And here it is on this New Year's Day awaiting its transformation. When it begins emerging, it will still be in the empty pot on the bottom shelf, which doesn't at first glance appear to include everything it might need to thrive. But all those things—moisture, greenery, sunshine, and nectar from flowers—are nearby.

When it emerges, the butterfly will start where it is. Today, whether you're on the edge of something or maybe not in the best circumstances, you can choose to be like the monarch. When it emerges and as you emerge, regardless of your situation or surroundings, you can start where you are. You can begin. Your personal nectar awaits to nourish you and send you on your journey into 2019.

Balancing the Scales of Grief and Joy

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Sat, 15 Dec 2018 16:17:00 +0000

Your Grief and Joy Are

Holding Hands in Your Heart

Each year the Compassionate Friends hold a worldwide Candle Lighting Memorial service on the second Sunday in December. I am honored to have spoken at the last several services in Vero Beach, Florida. In my absence this past December 9, Gina Wattles was kind enough to share my words. The December service is often the only time during the holiday season that we who have suffered great loss pause and reflect on loss and love. My reflection on loss, love, and joy follows.

Balancing the Scales of Grief and Joy

Those of us who have suffered great loss have that day—the day life changed. The day that reminds us once a year that we grieve the loss of our child, grandchild, sibling, or other loved one. Sure as clockwork, the day we most wish to avoid comes back, whether it be one year or thirty years since it signified our greatest loss.

Each of us approaches the day with our own set of fears, longing, and dreams that the day had never happened. Each of us also manages the best we can. We grieve, yet we celebrate life; we hold our memories close, wishing we had more. We might plant a tree, sit on a beach, look at photos, or reminisce about our loved one's quirks and personality. How ever we spend that day, each of us marks its significance, even if that means hiding under the covers until the day ends.

November 2, 1986, is that day for me. At 1:47 p.m., my darling Alexa took her last breath. Often, especially in the years of my fresh grief, as the day neared, I was full of fear, projecting my thoughts back to that worst day. I found that planning for the day eased some of my profound grief and fear. I planted many trees in the last thirty-two years. I said many prayers. I reminisced with family and friends. I remembered my sweet child with love and longing.

Since that day, much has happened to remind me that although the signal event in my life was Alexa's illness and death, my life is much more than loss and grief. I have learned to embrace the moments that transcend the sadness of loss. I have learned to embrace the moments that remind me life has much to celebrate, to laugh about, to smile about; although at times, I still cry about that cruelest of events.

Still, November 2 doesn't go away. As sure as the seasons, it approaches me every fall. I don't fear it as I once did, but I don’t welcome it.

This year on November 2, I woke early and for just a few moments I didn't remember it was the day. It was simply a day. But like rain in a Florida summer, the date crept into my consciousness. Enough years have passed since that first November 2 that I wasn't crushed. Instead I felt more of a quiet acceptance.

Later that morning, my daughter Tarah called so my two-year-old grandson Shawn could FaceTime with me. They live in New England and it's how we stay close during the long months we don't see each other.

During our chat, Shawn decided he wanted to make Nana comfortable. In the photos Tarah sent, Shawn has "me" (the phone) nestled in pillows and covered with a blanket with just my face peeking out. In one photo he sits and talks to me. In the most precious photo, he is lying down next to the phone. Shawn made sure Nana was snuggled and held close by the pillows, blanket, and his darling self. The sweetness of Shawn's actions brought an indescribable joy to my heart. Shawn had no way of knowing that day is my saddest day. Shawn had no way of knowing he brought so much joy to me on a day that often brings so much pain.

Snuggling with Shawn via FaceTime and feeling his love and care made my heart sing. November 2 is not usually a day that my heart sings. But it did that morning, and in spite of it being a day of loss, Shawn's little heart carried me; it held me throughout the day.

And there it was: The perfect juxtaposition of grief and joy. I am again reminded that the two go together. Alexa was one of my greatest joys; thus, her loss is my greatest grief. There is no way to separate the two. What we lose matters so much because of the joy and love the life once held for us. As we go forward in our journey of loss, it's important to never lose sight of the joy our loved one gave us. It's also important to never lose sight of the joy that still awaits us. We must continue to be open to receiving and embracing joy, just as Shawn embraced me that November morning.

As Kahlil Gibran wrote in his classic poem on "Joy and Sorrow" in his book, The Prophet:

"When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

"When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

Gibran knew our sorrow and our joy are forever entwined. I agree.

As Shawn showed me November 2, on the one hand we have our grief and on the other hand we have our joy. Sometimes, if we pause long enough and look deep into our hearts, we can see that our grief and our joy are holding hands. I know that's how my heart looked on November 2.

Some Plants (and People) Do Quite Well When Left Alone

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Sat, 20 Oct 2018 16:15:00 +0000

Leave It Alone!

Keikis are clones of orchid plants.

Put that person, place, or thing aside, leave it alone, and it might turn into something of beauty all on its own.

A mini-me growing from your arm or leg is not possible in the human world (yet), but mini-me growth often happens in the orchid world. Orchid growers know about the keiki (kee-kee), which is a clone—an additional plant that grows on a Dendrobium orchid cane or a flowering stem of a Phalaenopsis and some other orchids. I’m not an orchid expert, so I don’t know exactly why this happens. In my limited experience, it’s often another chance at life for a neglected, soon-to-die mother plant.

I overheard an accomplished grower say he places keikis in a basket until they mature enough to pot or mount. Because he’s a pro, he probably has separate baskets and his keikis have name tags, so he knows what they are. My method involves tossing random Dendrobium keikis into a plastic basket and abandoning them for a year—or longer.

Leaving things alone to thrive (or not) in their own way is not my MO. I named myself Interfering Mom years ago because I pick, I advise, I threaten, I beg. I offer the most helpful suggestions, but most of the people I am certain would benefit most from my advice ignore me. I know about being ignored, but not so much about ignoring.

However, I ignored a lot the last several months. I stayed inside because of the brutal heat and my flower and herb gardens are an overgrown, weedy mass of plants. I also wrestled with some physical limitations since late May, which presented even more opportunities to ignore growing as well as non-growing things. During that time, I focused only on what was important—working, eating, sleeping, meditating. I left most other things alone.

Now that the daily heat blasts of the Florida summer and my physical limitations have started to diminish, I find myself outside again, poking through the overgrown weeds and dehydrated potted plants, looking for what living things, like me, made it through another summer. I neglected (ignored) so much over the previous six months that I had to reorder my patio and its nearly ninety potted plants. I moved some plants, and behind a shelf I spied my hanging basket of abandoned keikis. I was stunned to see that many no longer were keikis—some were plants and one had a bloom spike. I stopped ignoring the basket and a few days later, the plant had bright, beautiful blooms.

Surprise gift of Dendrobium blossoms

I don’t recommend neglect, even though I know some plants (and people) do better when they are left alone to grow on their own. More than a few plants didn’t make it during those neglectful months (but all the people who rejected my interfering have done just fine). I have fewer plants than I did at the beginning of spring. But much of what I have has thrived in spite of me. It’s a good lesson when I see these blooms to remind myself that I don’t always have to preen, pull, pamper, and push—in the human world as well as the plant world. Sometimes, when I leave things alone, they grow and blossom and turn into something of beauty all on their own.

* * * * *

Leave it alone does not work with many things in our lives, of course. It is not a great idea to leave our electric bill or mortgage payment alone, for example. Choose wisely when deciding when to “interfere” and when to “leave it alone.”

Sarcasm and Scorn Take Time I Don't Have

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Tue, 24 Jul 2018 18:04:00 +0000

Do You Have That Kind of Time?

“Annie, you don’t have that kind of time.”

~ Anne Lamott’s best friend, Pammy

“Chris, you don’t have that kind of time.” I say it to myself often these days. I say it when I’m a nanosecond away from an angry retort. I say it when I’m a nanosecond away from a comment. I say it in my head when I think about just how I will strike back, strike out.

“Chris, you don’t have that kind of time” stops me in my tracks as I veer toward the lowest of the low roads. I aspire to reach the high road. But I find I’m stuck somewhere just above the low road, and I’m not having much success at ascending to even the middle road.

I’m fortunate that the majority of the time I drive the low road only in my brain. I don’t take that road on a public or personal journey (most of the time). However, knowing that I far too often consider dropping down to the lowest of low roads brings me up short. The words I say and (even rehearse) in my mind, and my devious plans to speak them with a plain, bold tone of sarcasm and scorn remain unspoken for the most part. But I don’t like even thinking them.

A soft answer and a movement toward the high road often turn away wrath, but that becomes less and less the case in our say-it-all society. So I ask myself what kind of time I have. I remind myself that refusing to answer ends a conversation that isn’t worth having. If there is no path toward a higher road, then it’s best to save my energy, my psyche, and my voice. I know the time will come when a soft voice matters and when ears are primed to listen with enough attention to hear it. At that time, I can move toward that higher road.

For now, when I feel my gorge rise and my heart race, I know my words and ideas will be met with the sarcasm and scorn I want to avoid sharing myself. So I banish my impulse to speak and close my heart and mouth to words of sarcasm and scorn. I continue to remind myself: “Chris, you don’t have that kind of time.”

Mind Less Monday: Compost, Clutter, and Clearing

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Mon, 23 Jul 2018 15:45:00 +0000

Mind Less Monday

An Effort to Not Be Mind Full or Even Mindful

Compost, Clutter, and Clearing

Mind less. I don’t want to be mindful all the time or even most of the time. It’s a worthy endeavor, but my mind is already full most days. If I give careful—that is, mindful—attention to everything, I foresee serious brain overload. To avoid such an experience, and for a different take on all things Zen, I will have Mind Less Mondays.

Monday, July 23, 2018, greets me with a mind full of deadlines, distractions, and dishes. It will be a challenge to mind less today, but I shall try.

I will mind less that my e-mail inbox overflows with projects and deadlines to meet. Rather, I choose to be grateful I’m busy and well-employed.

I will mind less the mess that beckons me in a siren’s voice to clean, declutter, and clear. Instead, I will look past the disarray I spy during these morning hours. I will not give in to the distraction of busy-ness that often equals few important accomplishments.

I will mind less the dog hair and general chaos that mean we have a dog. Instead, I will be grateful for his company, his delight when I share my food, and his protective nature that means I have few fears while he guards my home.

I will mind less the overflowing compost container that I must schlepp to the pile this morning. Peach pits, avocado pits, banana peels, and vegetable scraps mean I’m eating well.

I will mind less the weeds that threaten to overwhelm my flowerbeds and herb gardens. The rain and sun that spurred their growth mean the flowers and herbs also are thriving.

Mind Less Monday reminds me to focus on what is important to bring to mind and what I should mind less, much less.

Words: Choose Them Wisely and Use Them Well

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Sun, 22 Jul 2018 16:57:00 +0000

Words Have Power

Choose Them Wisely and Use Them Well

“In Hebrew, the word dabar means both word and deed. A word

doesn’t merely say something. It does something. It brings something

into being. It makes something happen.”

~ Frederick Bueckner, from Listening to Your Life

Words make things happen. When I speak or write a word, that word sparks something in the listener or reader. When I, as listener or reader, encounter certain words, those words become more than a combination of letters and sounds. Those letters and sounds might evoke emotions and memories. They might spur me to action or steer me to a place of quiet contemplation. They might rouse me to anger or wash me in tears of grief and even joy.

Words have power. It is crucial that we choose them wisely and use them well.

Consider some of the words in this piece of writing. What do they evoke or inspire in you?

Speak

Write

Sparks

Encounter

Emotions

Memories

Spur

Steer

Action

Quiet

Contemplation

Rouse

Anger

Tears

Grief

Joy

Power

Wisely

Well

Don't Fight Remembrance of Days Gone By

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Wed, 11 Jul 2018 14:40:00 +0000

A Date Seared into the Psyche

Certain dates sear themselves into your psyche, as if they are branded in your skin never to be forgotten. One look, and there they are: etched forever lest a moment goes by and you receive the blessed peace of being unaware.

Some might say to embrace that peace of being unaware and to ignore the tell-tale words and numbers—chase them away, replace them with a different memory, or focus on something, anything, else.

I believe, however, that we do our life lessons a disservice by chasing away the remembrance of what’s come before today—painful though it may be.

Instead, I say: Give a closer look at those days and use them to mark the path of how far you’ve traveled in spite of what transpired at that time. Use that path to chart your future days, to guide you and others toward a life that resonates with every good thing you can perceive and experience as you continue to step past difficult days. Only then can any of us thrive in this life that will have the branded days, yet nonetheless continues to offer us so much more than a brand on our souls.

*******

On this day, July 11, it has been thirty-three years since I began the journey of losing my darling Alexa, who was diagnosed with brain cancer in the summer of 1985. Her journey on Earth ended November 2, 1986—another date seared on my psyche.

On each of those days, I began a journey of my own—one that continues as I attempt a life that, despite and also because of those days, resonates with many good things.

More of Alexa’s and my story can be found here: http://mysistersgarden.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-little-girl-fell-out-of-treejuly-11.html

Thirst and Prayer

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Mon, 23 Apr 2018 15:19:00 +0000

Thirst and Prayer

Bent forward as if at the hips,

The eucalyptus leaves press toward each other.

They huddle, tips touching in an awkward embrace.

They lean in,

To hide themselves from the heat

To hide themselves from the Sun.

Long hours have passed since those leaves drank the meager drops of morning dew that did little to satisfy their thirst.

The leaves conserve what little moisture they hold,

Turn in, and turn away from the day.

Raindrops too few to count have teased the Earth with only drips from the sky,

Withholding their treasure from my parched landscape.

Impatient with the grim prospect of no rain forecast for the day, I feel pangs of distress from the forlorn sight of the eucalyptus leaves.

I drag the heavy hose to the backyard and stand for long minutes,

Drenching the ground around and near the eucalyptus, soaking it to the drip line, sending moisture to the chapped lips of the feeder roots.

A skirt of a puddle forms around the tree when I cease watering.

Toward dusk, the tree’s leaves open and move away from the huddle,

Their arms are spread wide and reach toward the sky.

The leaves lift in a prayer of gratitude,

As if to say, “Thank you, thank you.

Thank you for the life-giving drink.”

You Might Prefer Not to, but Show Up Anyway

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Tue, 02 Jan 2018 17:02:00 +0000

Show Up

Even If You’d Rather Not

Show up? Sometimes I’d rather not. I’d rather not show up in times of trouble, times of strife, times of heartache. My heart goes out to those suffering, but a part of me knows with deepest certainty that I’m afraid to show up. I’m afraid to see suffering. I’m afraid to help carry the burdens and wipe the tears of someone in pain. I’m afraid of that pain becoming mine.

One time, I did not show up. My fear and pain were too great. Not showing up is one of my most profound regrets. I carry the guilt and shame—and pain—for not showing up. I cannot ever go back and change what I neglected to do. However, what I can do now to ease that guilt, shame, and regret is show up. Because of my lesson learned, I now and in the future will push aside fear and push aside pain. I show up. I will continue to show up.

Show up.

Hawks, Buzzards, and a Happy New Year

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Mon, 01 Jan 2018 17:08:00 +0000

Hawks, Buzzards, And

A New Year’s Day Fly-In

Earlier today, I wrote a New Year’s Day meditation. As I sat down to type it, I looked out the window as a hawk swooped into my side yard. I went outside and startled a buzzard creeping through the brush in the lot next door. A squirrel ran screaming up the pine tree. A few minutes later, four hawks circled the house. A bit later, five buzzards sat in the front yard. Ugh! I started the day noting it’s not shiny or bright because it’s cold and cloudy. Now I don’t know what to think.

Thirty minutes later, the buzzards are gone and the hawks have flown. Maybe that’s what each new year is all about. There will be clouds, there will be cold days. And, yes, the buzzards and hawks might have a fly-in just when I sit down to write my flowery prose about how to greet the day with a higher consciousness and a full and open heart. Seeing those birds of prey and carrion eaters didn’t remove the flowers from my yard or the hope from my psyche. They simply reminded me that this year, like every other one, will have its unexpected, unwelcome moments and that when those moments are over, they have flown away and I can still have a full and open heart.

* * * * *

The following is what I initially wrote before the buzzard and hawk fly-in:

New. It’s not shiny or even bright. Dots of blue peek beneath the mounds of gray clouds. This Central Florida day belies the state’s reputation for both warmth and sunshine because neither are present. However, rather than a northern landscape devoid of color, I see green, pink, orange, purple—hues from the garden beckon my senses and waken me.

It’s a new year, but today is a new day, as is every one of them; every moment is new from this one forth. Being awake, I see more than flowers, sky and growth around me. I see and have a deep awareness of possibility. Wrapped in that possibility is hope—hope that when I open this gift of a new year and each new day, I will embrace all that is new. Also wrapped in that possibility is the hope that I will bring even more newness, awareness, and gratitude for this year, this day, and all the gifts I continue to receive and desire to share.

Hope Summons Your Future

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Mon, 11 Dec 2017 02:06:00 +0000

Hope Summons the Future

“Just as man cannot live without dreams, he cannot live without hope. If dreams reflect the past, hope summons the future.”

~ Elie Wiesel

This is my ancient recipe box. My sister made it for me during my daughter Alexa’s illness thirty-two years ago. Recently, one of my other daughters asked me for a recipe. I got out the box and searched. I didn’t find the recipe for tofu carob pie, but I did find these recipes.

They are in an article titled “Holiday Entertaining: Great Beginnings.” I had folded the pages of recipes and stored them to make another day. That day has not yet arrived and they have been in the box since the date on the pages: November–December 1986.

I was stunned when I read the date: November–December 1986. Those two months were the worst of my life. My seven-year-old daughter Alexa died from brain cancer on November 2, 1986. My memory of only a few things about those months is clear: the day she died, the day of her funeral. The other days are a blur: Thanksgiving is blank. All I remember about Christmas is the agony of unpacking her handmade ornaments and placing them on the tree. Christmas itself was a nonevent. I remember wearing too-stiff new Levi’s and a pink T-shirt to a friend’s house. I don’t remember cooking. I don’t remember giving or receiving gifts.

What I especially do not remember about those two months is reading magazines. I don’t remember eating food, much less thinking about cooking it. So of course, I don’t remember pulling these pages of recipes from that magazine—these pages that sat untouched for thirty-one years.

These pages now tell me something else I don’t remember from those years ago—something I was not aware existed in my life. These pages tell me that in the darkest days of grief, some small part of me believed in a future. Some small part of my psyche held what was the last thing to spring from Pandora’s box: Hope.

I don’t remember feeling anything beyond the most profound despair during those days. Hope was a memory, a concept tucked deep within me—but it wasn’t so deep that it no longer existed. My unconscious hope made me pick up a magazine about food. That hope believed I would be hungry again. My unconscious hope moved my eyes across the words and photos. My unconscious hope stopped at some of those words and photos. My unconscious hope moved me toward thinking that those recipes sounded like something good to eat. My unconscious hope moved my hands to tear these pages of recipes from the magazine and place them in a box. My unconscious hope believed I might cook again someday and try something new.

I say unconscious hope because during those sorrow-filled days after Alexa died, I believed I was in Dante’s inferno and had heeded the warning to “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

When life deals us the shattering blows of loss, one of the most life-affirming aspects of our being is often the first to go—and that is hope.

But in those days some part of me had not abandoned hope.

In spite of my despair, in spite of my darkness, I now know that hope was still alive in me, a flickering light not ready or willing to be completely extinguished by sorrow.

Those of us who have lost children, grandchildren, and siblings know that despair. We know that darkness. What we might not know, especially in the early stages of grief, is that hope remains in each of us. With each breath, with each step in our journey of healing from loss, hope is present. It becomes brighter and more real, even if we aren’t aware that hope remains.

I wasn’t aware of that hope in the early days of grief, but I am aware of it now. And I want to share with you that hope is indeed present within each of us, although we may be unaware of it. Even after the greatest loss, hope sits at our sides and walks with us and holds and nurtures us. And as it does, hope summons our future.

Zig-Zag Running for Four-Year-Olds

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Thu, 07 Dec 2017 16:27:00 +0000

Zig-Zag Running

Zig-zag running? That’s the style of running my four-year-old granddaughter learned in pre-kindergarten last week. Zig-zag running is the pattern you use when you run from the school building. You have a meeting place away from the school where your teacher and the other children will gather. To get to your safe place, you run in a zig-zag pattern.

The sighs and groans in my heart are almost too heavy to lift out of my psyche and put into words. I will try. I know why she and the other children are taught to run that way, although I doubt the teacher told them: A moving target is harder for a bullet to hit.

When I was a child, I was afraid of war with the Russians. I had nightmares of bombs being dropped on me. Duck-and-cover drills were the staple of emergency preparedness for my generation. My class didn’t have a “safe place.” We had the walk (not a zig-zag run) to the railroad tracks to board trains that would evacuate us from Jacksonville, Florida, a prime target because of the military presence there and its proximity to the Russian missiles in Cuba.

My fear was the Russians and the nuclear bombs they might drop on my home, my family, and my friends. My fear was an out-there fear; it was the fear of “them,” the others, those who weren’t Americans, the Communists who didn’t share our values of freedom and liberty and justice.

My fear for my granddaughter isn’t a fear of “them.” And that’s what is so chilling. My fear for her is “us.” It’s Americans—overwhelmingly white male Americans—who have made it necessary to teach four-year-olds zig-zag running from schools.

The character Lara in Dr. Zhivago, when speaking of the brutal revolution in Russia, knowing it would continue, knowing she and Yuri would be separated, knowing the carnage would not end anytime soon, said, “Oh, Lord—this is an awful time to be alive.”

When I think of zig-zag running, I agree with Lara.

Be Sensitive to Signs of the Spirit Nearby

noreply@blogger.com (My Sister's Garden) — Sat, 14 Oct 2017 22:33:00 +0000

Signs of the Spirit

Some things I know just are.

Jimmy died early Wednesday, September 27, before dawn broke in Boston, Massachusetts. I know the date because Jimmy’s fiancée Carla sent my daughter Tarah and her friends a text message telling them of Jimmy’s death. She also said: “Do something beautiful today,” which I wrote on my whiteboard, along with the date.

Carla is one of “my girls.” Carla, Tay, Dana, Bev, Hannah, and my daughter Tarah have been close friends for too many years to count. I’ve spent many days with them over those years, enough to love them and call them my girls, enough to feel connected to them as they experience life—both its joys and its sorrows.

On the day Jimmy died, Dana’s heart and mind were heavy with thoughts of him while she was driving to Boston to pick up Bev. As she drove, a blue jay flew past her windshield, in slow motion, in a deliberate move to get Dana’s attention. It then perched on a nearby tree branch, and it stared at her, until their eyes locked. Dana felt certain it was Jimmy’s presence.

Later that morning, Dana was the first of the girls to receive a phone call from Carla. As they spoke, Carla stopped the conversation to tell Dana about the blue jay perched in front of her, its gaze intense, staring. Right away, Dana knew, “It’s him. It’s Jimmy,” she said. “I was supposed to be on the phone with you while this happened so you could tell me.” In turn, Dana told Carla her blue jay experience.

I believe in such signs of the spirit being nearby, so I, too, took note when Tarah shared the blue jay story with me. I also take note of birds. In the days before Hurricane Irma struck my Florida home on September 10 and 11, I noticed that with the exception of some buzzards and a hawk, all the birds left our area. They knew the storm was coming and flew to safety. The birdsong that rings in my mornings was absent. They have been slow to return, and in the weeks until September 27, I saw few of them. I missed them and hearing their music throughout my day.

A day or two after Jimmy died, I was outside checking my orchids and I saw the first blue jay since the hurricane. It was alone. It stayed in the brush next to the house only long enough to be certain I saw him. (Of course, I told Tarah.)

I sometimes question my beliefs—among them my belief that the blue jay was a sign. I have no scientific proof—not a bit of data—to back up my beliefs. But some things I know just are. There is the seen, the unseen, and then there is the felt. I know when I feel something. I know when the presence of someone, seen and even unseen, is nearby. I cannot measure that presence in any way except by my own awareness.

When such events occur, and we receive what might be signals from beyond, some are quick to say it is coincidence or a particular focus at the time. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s no more than coincidence that the blue jay showed up in my yard that morning or that two of them insisted that Dana and Carla take notice. Maybe I noticed it because blue jays were on my mind. The thing is: I saw no other birds during the time I was outside. I’ve been outside many days since that morning and almost a month later, I have yet to see another blue jay.

Perhaps it is in the noticing, the awareness. In the initial hours, days, and weeks following loss, our emotions are on the surface, as if there is a different, more sensitive, more intuitive layer atop our skin—one labeled feelings, emotions, heart. The cries of our hearts no longer are tucked away where no one can see them. No longer are they stowed in those places where it’s easier for us to discount or even ignore them.

Early days following loss are when our hearts are indeed on our sleeves—laid bare for all to see. In that hypersensitive mode, every touch, every word, every song, every tear—has greater, deeper intensity. Because of that intensity and because our awareness has expanded, perhaps that is when our eyes truly open—perhaps that is when we see the blue jays.

I believe that when someone’s spirit has just left their body and hasn’t quite yet found its place in the cosmos, heaven, the unseen, we are sensitive to the presence of that spirit. I believe the spirit of someone who has recently died is nearby. I also believe that in our heightened state of emotion and intensity, we become aware of and we can still commune with that spirit—and they with us. Perhaps God gifts us—and them—with that closeness and connection to offer us comfort and to reinforce our faith.

In my experience, that nearby state of the spirit does not last as long as I would like. As our raw exterior begins to heal and as life’s distractions—living, which is a good thing—pull us back into a more solid realm, the spirit at the same time senses that we have returned to that solid world. And that spirit—that spirit that is now free—has its other work to do as it finds its place within the cosmos, the unseen, heaven. As that place is found and the spirit’s work begins, the connections happen less frequently, although I also know the spirit checks in from time to time.

If you have recently lost a loved one, and you become aware of his or her presence, I don’t think you are crazy. I don’t think you are imagining things. You are not a dreamer and you are not a fool. You are in the presence of something pure and honest and good. Embrace that presence while you can—before the world pulls you away.

As you return to the world and to life, remember to pause to listen to and welcome the blue jays. As you return to the world and to life, also remember something else just as important: Do something beautiful today.