Hello, my dear friends! Just popping my head out of the hibernation hole that has been the year 2025. It is New Years Eve and it is the traditional time to ask the questions - “Who do I want to be next year? What do I want to create? How do I want to spend my time?”

But what if you’ve been asking these questions all year?

There is a scene in the movie Searching for Bobby Fisher that has played over and over in my mind this year. In a nutshell, it is the story of a young Josh, a chess prodigy learning to navigate his boyhood while also rising to the top of the competitive chess world. In the scene I am referencing, Josh is sitting across from his chess instructor, Bruce, played by Ben Kingsley. Bruce is coaching Josh to see many moves ahead from where the chess pieces currently sit. Bruce says, “Don’t move a piece until you’ve figured it out in your head. And don’t look to me for a hint.” Young Josh replies, “I can’t do it without moving the pieces.” Bruce then says, “Yes, you can. Clear the lines of men in your head, one at a time, until the king is left standing alone. Here, I’ll make it easier for you.” Bruce then clears the chessboard with his arm, sending chess pieces flying across the room. Josh pauses and with the clear board in front of him, he knows his next move.

A long way of describing my year. Time devoted to caring for parents who have both since passed. Time caring for children who are now 18 and 20 years old and doing very well navigating their lives day to day. A business that is not as time-intensive as it once was. The daily tasks, activities, and work that comprised my life for many years was wiped clean in what felt like chess pieces flying across the room, which left me with the question, “what now?”

And my response for a long time was, “I don’t know.”

I would journal, I would talk with Joe, speak with friends, family. I didn’t know. The space felt so large. And at the same time, like the chess pieces, I was filling my days with little things here and there that left it cluttered. I was looking down at tasks and errands and chores instead of looking up at the horizon. The “I don’t know” felt too scary and big and so I filled it with little things that made me feel busy and productive, but not closer to the bigger answers.

I’ve found that when I am quiet, when my hands are busy, when my mind is occupied with muscle-memory tasks, I have ‘openings’ if you will. I receive the answer or knowing my mind could not grasp. I am not alone in this. There are so many stories and reports of people who have their a-ha moment in the shower, while driving, doing the familiar that takes little effort. The mind is occupied so the inner knowing/intuition/muse/spirit has a back door to sneak through.

This fall, while at my workbench, busy filing a piece of sterling, I felt the movement, heard the words, “Let go of ‘I don’t know’”. I looked up and looked out the window above my bench. “What does that mean?”, I thought. Let go the words, “I don’t know.”? How can I let go of it? I, in fact, don’t know. The words pushing against this idea were flowing in, the mind back online now. But that space between my heart and belly remembered hearing the words. How do I let go of not knowing? I don’t feel like I am holding on to it. I reallly want to be done with it. I’ll happily let go, but what takes its place?

I stood up and walked over to my desk in my shop, pulled a yellow legal pad out of the drawer and wrote, “What do I know?”

And the first thing that flowed out of my hand was, Start With The Basics.

I do know what I want.

I want good health.

I want good, healthy relationships.

I want to have good energy.

I want delicious food.

I want to laugh.

I want to play more every day.

I want to see and appreciate all of the small things that make up my life.

I want to help others.

I want to give back.

I want to be abundant enough to do be able to do what I want and to circulate it to others.

I want to have a clutter-free home.

I want to have a clean car.

I want to love my clothes and feel good in them.

I want to build things that last.

I want to plant things I won’t live to see at its largest.

I want to feel the divine in and around me.
I want beauty in my life.

I want to appreciate the magic that is happening in every moment that makes this life possible.

I want to love others.

I want to feel loved.

I want to put my feet on the floor every morning knowing how blessed and lucky I am to be here and to live as much as I can with that knowing flowing through my veins.

I do know.

I was looking for answers down a tube. Then I took the tube down and saw the world around me.

I do know what I want.

Before I tuned in to the deep knowing of what I want, I felt stuck, overwhelmed, unsure of where to start. And since moving into this energy of knowing, I have felt empowered. I am reminded that I am the creator of my life. I have even been surprised at some of the new people and opportunities that have flowed in. Some have been a fit, some have not. Some worked out, some didn’t. The beauty in all of it is that I feel sure that if it is here and stayed, it is meant for me. And if it didn’t, it is not.

Yes, there will always be circumstances that are out of our control. We will be faced with tough life situations and decisions. In truth, this year has been the toughest of my life. And at the same time, it has brought me back to myself. I have moved from a place of outward-facing reacting to the needs of all around me back to the center of my being.

I know who I am.

I know what I want.

And from that place, I can handle what life brings me. I can handle that hardship. I can celebrate the beauty.

I am fully alive.

She was eating orange sherbet when I walked in to her hospital room. My mom looked at me as I walked through the door and said, “Honey, you’re here! I am so happy. I’m going to see your dad tomorrow.” She died eight hours later.

But that’s not where this story begins. It begins one week earlier.

It was a Tuesday morning in September when I received a phone call from mom’s rehab facility where she had been staying, recovering from pneumonia. She was 84 years old and had many worsening health conditions since my dad passed away ten months earlier. Her pulmonary fibrosis now required that she be on four liters of oxygen. She had a pacemaker placed the previous April. Pneumonia settled in in August. And now weeks later, she was trying to catch her breath on 7 liters of oxygen and not doing well. The nurse from the rehab facility called and said, “Your mom needs to go back to the hospital. We don’t have the quick turnaround for medicine and care that she would have access to at the hospital.” I drove to the facility and saw her. Her breathing sounded a bit scratchy and labored. My mom told us she did not want to go back to the hospital. “Mom,” I said, “I think you need to go. Let’s get your oxygen under control and we will see from there.” She said, “I’m not ready to leave you yet. I’ll go to the hospital.” And off we went to the emergency room.

The day was spent in the ER. The care team immediately put an oxygen mask on her and then something called a bipap, which pushes oxygen in and pulls carbon dioxide out. She hated it. It’s large and hot and loud. But it did help saturate her lungs with oxygen and she was able to be on regular oxygen later that day. I called my brother, David, in Chicago and he decided to drive down to Bloomington to see her and stay for a couple of days.

In typical Mom fashion, she recovered. By Thursday, she was sitting in a chair in a hospital room, joking around and making conversation with her nurses enjoying the outside food we brought in for her since she could no longer handle the hospital food which had become common in her life the previous few months. Mom was doing well and my brother headed home to his family and work on Friday.

I went to the hospital on Saturday morning and sat with her. While she was in the hospital, I would go visit her each morning, bring her a coffee, sit for an hour or so and then head to work. I would then return in the late afternoon or evening and stay and visit until she went to sleep. On this Saturday, it felt different. I woke up knowing I wanted to spend the day with her. I packed a bag with a book, my notepad, my laptop. I walked in and she said, “You have a bag! Are you staying for a bit?’ I said yes and could I spend the day with her. Of course, she said, I would love it.

She felt different to me on Saturday. She felt, and I have been searching for a word for this, but all I have been able to come up with is “dreamy.” She was awake, eyes open, alert, and yet seemed to stare off at times. Zone out, if you will. I checked in with her. “Mom, are you okay? I don’t feel like you are 100% here with me today.” She looked at me and said, “I don’t feel like I am 100% here anymore.” We sat there for a moment, looking at each other, and I asked, “Are you dying, Mom?” She said, “I don’t think so,” and shrugged in her casual, funny way. She looked off again. I then said, “Mom, I know you’ve told me how you’d like some of your jewelry given to the grandchildren, split evenly after you pass. I want to ask you and it’s up to you - as your daughter, I would really like the diamond in your wedding ring. It can’t be split among grandchildren and if you want something else done with it, I understand. But if not, I would really like it.” She looked at me again, her eyes brighter now and she said, “Really? You’d like the diamond? Yes of course you can have it. Can we talk more about this?” I laughed and said, yes, of course. Let’s talk about everything.

For the next 8 hours, we talked. We talked about life. She talked about her life with my dad, what a wonderful time they had. She talked about how much she missed him. How sometimes their life together felt like a dream. We talked about who was to get what, where things were in the house. She talked about some things she wanted to do after she left the hospital, like visit my godmother in South Bend. I said I would absolutely take her after she left the hospital. We talked about memories of my brother and I growing up. She told me things I didn’t know about her, like about the boy she dated before my dad. She said she was tired and wanted to rest. She felt distant and otherworldly to me, but still earthbound. I told her to rest and I would be back later that afternoon. I came back and brought her dinner and as I was leaving to go home for the evening, we hugged and kissed and told each other we loved each other as we always did. Then she said, “Today was the perfect day, honey. Thank you so much. I love you.” “It was perfect, Mom,” I replied. “I love you, too.”

On Sunday, I stopped in to see mom in the morning and she seemed the same as Saturday. Here physically, but ethereal. I told her, “Mom, Maddie and I have to leave town just for the night. I won’t be long and I will be back tomorrow.” She smiled and said that was wonderful and to have fun.”

Joe went to visit and check on her Monday afternoon while I was out of town. He called me while there. She had the bipap on once again, her breathing starting to labor again. He put me on speaker and I told her I would see her that evening. Joe told me she nodded and understood.

While driving back to Bloomington, the earth already felt different. My senses knew life was changing. It had been shifting for a long time, but I knew now. The change was coming.

I first saw her nurse in the hallway when I arrived at the hospital, She told me mom had a rough day with oxygen and she needed to wear the bipap that night while she slept. She said my mom was being stubborn and not wanting to weat it and could I try to convince her? I said of course, I will do my best. I walked into the hospital that Monday evening and she was glowing, eating her sherbet. She smiled the biggest smile. She told me how happy she was, she was seeing my dad tomorrow. I said, “Mom, that is wonderful. But what do you mean, you are seeing dad tomorrow?’ She said, “Your dad has been here all day. I tied his tie. I baked. He ate all of the cookies I made.” I paused. “That is beautiful, mama.” She took another bite of sherbet with her eyes closed, the spoon missing her mouth a little. “Can I help you, mom?” She nodded. I took the spoon and ice cream and she opened her mouth and took a bite.

“Who is here with you, honey?” She asked me, her eyes still closed.

“It’s just me, mama. Just you and I are here.”

“No, the woman next to you,” she replied. “She is covered in gold.”

“I don’t see anyone, mom.”

“Is that you, Toots?” (Background: Toots was my brother’s godmother who worked at a jewelry store and was always dripping in gold chains.”

“Is Kuma Toots here, mom?’

“Is that an angel?”

“I don’t know, mama.” My eyes welling with tears.

Her eyes opened.

“Do you still see her, mom?”

She shook her head.

“Honey,” she said looking at me. “I love you so much. I am so happy. No more medicine. Let’s get this show on the road.”

I will condense this part. The phase of me telling the nurses and doctor my mom does not want the bipap, she just wants to be comfortable now. They confirm this with my mom. “My husband and I were married for 53 years and he is waiting for me over there. I am ready.” The caregivers give me options, I tell them just please make her comfortable. The doctor says it could still be days and maybe she should go to hospice house. My mom overhears this and says, “I am seeing my husband tomorrow.” The doctor smiles. He said he will get everything in order and be back.

My mom then turns to me and asks me to call my brothers, her cousin, my godmother, her dear friend, saying the same things to each of them: “I love you so much. I am so happy. I am seeing Bill tomorrow.” On one of the phone calls, the person on the other end of the line, obviously upset, not understanding what she is saying. My mom stresses her point: “Please don’t be sad, I am so happy. I love you, I am ready to see my husband.” The person continues on crying, my mom looks at me says in her sarcastic self, “I don’t need this.” And I take the phone back and say, “Mom is done talking now.” She smiles at me and laughs.

The doctor comes in and has medicine that will relax mom. He tells her what it is, she says once again, “Let’s get this show on the road, doc.” She turns to me and asks who the children playing the corner of the room are. I smile and say I don’t know, but I am sure they are happy. She smiles and nods. The doctor begins to give her the medicine in her IV port and I tell her all of the things as fast as I can.

“I love you, Mom. You are the best mom. We have had the best life. I love you so much.”

She fell asleep while I was saying the words. Four hours later, I laid next to her in her hospital bed while she did one large exhale and was with my dad once again.

At my mom’s funeral, I told our priest what she continued to say, about her knowing that she would see my dad the next day. I told him how the doctor said it could be days. How she died at 3:11am the next day. The priest told me that saints knew when they were dying. Their connection to the Lord so intertwined, they knew. My dad being there. Woman in gold. Children playing. I don’t doubt any of it. I’ve learned there are scientific terms for this, people having visions before death, knowing their death is imminent. It does not make it less divine, less mysterious to me. There are many scientific terms for things humans have yet to understand. Having a name for something does not make it less holy. It is clear to me now that everything that night was holy. And that sense has stayed with me since - that everything, everyday, everywhere is divine, is holy, if we are open to feeling it.

It’s the big unknown, death. It’s difficult for me to use that word now. What happened in that room that night didn’t feel like death. It felt like diffusion. It felt like her spirit, the love she was made of, left her body in one breath and dispersed throughout the air in that room and then left, on to the next journey, existence, dimension, plane. If energy cannot be created or destroyed, then the energy that is my mom is alive in a new way, in a different form. She is still alive, throughout me, within me, around me. And while I miss her, I also feel closer to her than ever. She no longer has to be physically with me for me to talk to her, for me to sense her. I just have to be open to feeling it.

The cream almost empty
but the jiggling of the carton proves enough
for morning coffee.

The broken shoelace,
but if removed from one eyelet
enought to tie before buying new.

The market flowers lovely,
but the wild ones by the side of the road
fill my pitcher.

The tiny hole in the toiletry bag,
with a quick whipstitch
is made whole again.

Made whole again.

This of mine I give to you,
it opens the space for more.

There is enough.

The blanket cannot stretch over the whole bed,

but if you come closer,
it can easily cover us both.

And there is enough.

I haven’t written for a moment, and I ask your forgiveness. There is something about the summer that lacks all manners and propriety of a schedule of any kind, it would seem. No start or finish time set in stone, just the list of chores and business work that needs to be tended to and then it’s all of the things in between. I tend to lose sight of things in the summer and I think that is maybe part of the messy joy of it. I am a child again in some ways on these hot days. I saw a young girl, maybe five years old, wearing a jumper that had ties for straps and shorts, all one piece like I wore when I was her age. I saw her and immediately wished they made it in my size.

It was our final 4H fair this last week, our youngest graduating. She showed two chickens and one duck, with the duck winning Grand Champion. A lovely way to end her animal-showing career. Besides the purple ribbon, she also brought home a fairly nasty virus that laid her out for several days and from which now she is just recovering. She spent many days in Joe’s and my bed, it being on the first floor and near the kitchen. Her room is upstairs and removed from the fray of the home and in taking care of her, I kept her in our room for ease and for comfort. “I love your bed, mama,” she would say as I sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroking the hair off her wet forehead. “Your sheets are so soft.” I told her once she was well, we would get the same sheets for her bed. “I’d like that,” she replied. I see the baby still in her and am well aware at the same time, she is a woman of 18.

Maddie is getting ready to move on to Indiana University next month and in doing so, moving to a small, old house south of campus with friends. I am so excited for her and I will miss her daily sightings. I am also fortunate that she is a fifteen-minute drive away. I also savor the possibility that I will be able to tempt her to meet me for lunch, especially if I am buying. I continue to bask in the moments before she goes. The way she scoops up Peaches, our chunky orange cat. When I tell her I am running to the grocery and she says from her room, “Wait! I’m coming.” Even her shoe collection by the front door. She came in late last night. I heard the front door open and close and footsteps making their way to our bedroom. She walked to the edge of the bed, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, and said, “Good night, mama.”

I have wondered when “mama” will transition to “mom” and it has here and there, but the former continues to hold. I am okay either way, but there is something about the “mama” that pulls on my heart. As I see Maddie walk through the door, as I brush Maia’s hair away from her eyes as she heals, I feel a new gratitude that these are the two humans I have known through every phase of their existence. Not my mother or my husband or my dearest friends - just these two souls. From the initial kick to this moment, it has been these girls and I. The beauty and intimacy of knowing another in this way - a gift.

The days have been hot and the air full of a thickness that only July and August know. As I walked outside this evening, I thought of my next phase of life as well. I looked at the cloud in this sky, knowing it will only be like this for a moment. This heavy-bellied gargantuan, looking so full and heavy it could burst. This moon, refusing to be captured, appropriately so. I imagine them both saying to me, “ Don’t try to capture me. This is not my true form. This is only me for now, but in a moment, I will be something else entirely.”

I sit outside and know it is all temporary. Nothing is with us forever, not even this version of ourselves that are writing and reading this. How wonderful. So I soak this summer up. I eat the ripe peach and let the juice drip down my chin. I sit outside at dark and listen to frogs in the pool. I rise early and drink my coffee and not rush or worry about what woke me in the middle of the night. I will get my hands dirty and walk barefoot and try to breathe in this place, knowing that none of it is ours to hold. Only to love and witness its becoming.

My foot stepped on the gravel at the end of the road and the beginning of our driveway and I looked up to the sky as I do most mornings returning home from my walk. On this day, the sun was hiding behind clouds, leaf buds still hibernating long before spring. As my eyes wandered across the horizon, I noticed a hawk sitting on the wire that spans across our field. She seemed to look down at me. The beauty of her tail hanging far below her perch, I was struck by her stoic presence, her confidence, the magnificence of her simplicity. She sat there, unmoving, fully embodying the energy of all that she is - strong, confident, regal.

I admit these were not my first thoughts when I saw the hawk. We have lost many chickens and ducks, raised by our girls from fur to feathers then removed too soon by these hunters of the sky. The circle of life, we would tell our girls, doing our best and not enough to console them. I stil at times reside in the place of reflexively cursing a hawk that looks relaxed on a high wire, knowing it is ready to sail down from the sky to the ground below in pursuit of nourishment in the form of a loved member of our farm.

Today felt different. I looked up at the bird, looking back at me, and I did not focus on the killer attribute of the creature, silently cursing her under my breath. This has become a practice that came about in a most different way.

I have a vertebra out of alignment in my neck.

I am not sure how it happened, how this bone decided to move out of step with the others in my spine. There was no event, no trauma that pushed it over to one side. I joke that I suppose it wanted to make its own path in life, tired of taking its place in the same boring old space at the base of my neck every moment of every day. Regardless of how it happened, it is in a space that can cause pain at times. In my garden weeding, bent over my work bench hammering a piece of silver, sleeping on my right side, all of these can cause discomfort to this stray part of my body.

I began to curse my neckbone. Why did you move? Why can’t you just go back to where you belong? I do exercises, stretch, see my doctor, try to avoid painful stimuli, and yet, still out of place, still in pain. “These forty-nine years of being fine and then not,” I addressed my neck. “How could you forsake me?” These thoughts of anger, frustration, even disgust directed at my neck. “I am so mad at you,” is really how I felt.

One action, one remedy that has helped has been hot Epsom salt baths. After long days of work, I will run a hot bath, fill it with a few cups of salt and soak. I hold a hot damp wash cloth on the back of my neck where the stray vertebra sits. My thoughts of frustration, anger, sadness rise up, the pain coming and going as the hot water streams in. The tub is close to being full and I raise my right leg up so that my foot can turn the faucet knob to the off position. As my leg raises, I see my thigh muscle flex, my right quadricep move as it works to direct my foot to the faucet. I pause. Something in me at that moment transforms and I see my body in a new way instantly. My leg becomes an autostereogram, a two-dimensional artwork that hides an underlying three-dimensional image. My mind does not see my leg, only the thigh muscle flexing and moving underneath the skin. A wave of emotion washes over me. This thigh muscle, this part of me I have been so familiar with, have seen thousands of times, now appears in a new light. This muscle has supported me my whole life without question or defiance. As a child, carrying me as I learned to walk. As a teenager, watching it grow and become defined as an athlete kicking balls high and far in the direction guided by my mind. As a runner, pushing me mile after mile. My loyal servant every day of these forty-nine years, asking for nothing in return. And yet I curse it. I have spoken negatively to this thigh muscle throughout my life - when it didn’t carry me as quickly as I would like, when it wasn’t as strong and defined as it used to be, when it wouldn’t heal fast enough, I would insult it. I talked down to it. And there she still is, working, faithful, guiding my foot to do as I ask. Tears begin to form in my eyes. I’ve never said thank you. I’ve never told my legs how much I appreciate all they’ve done for me, how grateful I am for the gift they give every day. I’ve never said thank you to any part of this body. I’ve never told her how beautiful she is. I’ve never given her compliments the way I sincerely do to others. I’ve never told her I love her.

I place my hand on thigh. I close my eyes. “Thank you,” I say as tears collect in my eyes. I touch the back of my neck. The steamy air rising from the hot bath water, tears streaming down my face now. “Thank you for supporting me. I curse you when you do not do your job and yet I’ve never once thanked you. I’ve used you and used you and expect you to continue on when I don’t give you proper care, proper rest, proper gratitude. I am sorry. You have been amazing. You’ve done the best you could and it has been more than enough, it has been wonderful. You give each day to the best of your ability and I am thankful.” I rise out of the tub and dry off. I walk into my bedroom and look in the mirror. I see myself in new light. This body not as ornamental, but as a faithful vehicle and friend, Not as decorative, but practical. Not for beauty, but as a vessel to make my way in this world. This body that enables all action, all experience, all motion, carrying me through this life. I do not look at skin as something to be firmed, I do not look at the small veins on my legs as something to hide, I do not see the souvenirs this body has acquired over time as anything more than they are - experiences incarnate. They are the physical traits of this body that has only been a loyal servant and friend my entire life. And like the hawk, I see the truth of myself - strong, confident, regal. And in seeing that, I only see beauty. I only feel appreciation. I only hold her in love.

I look up at the hawk on the wire. I do not only see the negative parts my mind wants to pick out. I do not only see a killer in relation to our flock. I see a beautiful creature living its full existence, our farm one facet of it. I see her strength as she looks down on me. I do not hold her in frustration or contempt. I see the beauty of her nuance. I feel appreciation for her full experience on this earth. I see the gifts her body gives her everyday. I hold her in love.

How can we remember that each difficulty is laced with blessing? How can we remember that pain cannot exist without the duality of ease and comfort? Let our eyes see the nuance in every aspect of life. Let our hearts feel the peace of knowing that by living a life, we get to experience each aspect of it.

Holding you in love,

Seja

I almost had a panic attack – and I don't mean that metaphorically. It was an overwhelming mix of fear and helplessness, a moment where I felt utterly out of control. Until that point, I had never experienced anything quite like it.

My son, Will, who's 12 years old, and I decided on a whim to leave Columbus, Indiana, this past Monday morning for a spontaneous trip to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. After a long seven-hour drive, we stopped in Mackinaw City before continuing our journey to Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. At the public beach, we were in awe of the stunning four-mile suspension bridge connecting the landmasses. We spent time skipping rocks, and eventually, Will even bravely jumped into the frigid waters of Lake Huron for a swim.

Despite the apparent enjoyment of the moment, my mind was racing with thoughts. The trip was entirely unplanned, and I couldn't help but worry about where we would sleep, what we'd do, and how everything would unfold. Even though I had brought a tent, uncertainty weighed heavily on me. As we finished dinner at an ordinary pizza place, which surprisingly turned into Will's favorite topic of conversation for the next couple of days, an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty crept in, accompanied by the fear of letting Will down with what I thought would be a lackluster "boy's trip." I asked Will to wait in the car while I made a phone call.

Thankfully, my wife answered, and I poured out my feelings to her. She offered me a much-needed perspective, reminding me that every moment we spend together is meaningful to Will. For him, it's not about grand plans or constant entertainment; all that matters is that he gets to share quality time with me.

And she was right.

I had unknowingly fallen into the trap of thinking that I had to constantly entertain Will to ensure he had a good time. Despite all my reflections on living in the present and cherishing the small things, I had lost sight of what truly matters. Every activity we do together, no matter how simple, holds immense significance for Will simply because we are doing them together. It won't be about whether I planned everything perfectly or managed to keep him entertained. The memories he'll treasure the most will be the moments we share, side by side.

When I asked him, Will said that the best part of our trip was spending time together on a small, secluded beach, swimming for hours in Lake Superior. It was a powerful reminder that what we need most is not a multitude of things to keep us occupied but rather presence. It’s the bond we share that will carry with them throughout their lives.

Peace,

Brandon

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My mom is having a pacemaker placed this morning.

I am sitting with her, here in her hospital room where she has been for the past ten days. The light shines through the window onto her hands. I look at them, study them. These hands I’ve known all my life. There is something holy about them. Not just hers, but everyone’s. These conveyors of creation, these tools to manifest something from inside of us to something in the material world. And most importantly, to me, the passageway of care and nourishment from one to another, the conveyors of relationship, the roles we play.

These roles we play in life - mother, son, daughter, wife, friend - they are all in relation to another. We cannot be daughters without mothers, a friend without someone to reflect back to us, a partner to no one. When one half of the relationship is being wheeled out of the room, albeit for a routine procedure, senses are heightened. Our place in the relationship is in flux. Will I always be a daughter if my mother is no longer here in this physical form? Will I still hold the energy of all of the spaces we shared together?

Of course, in reality, we face this continuously. There are no guarantees of anyone’s continued presence and yet we live with the expectation we will see them again. Of course we do. It is untenable to hold the energy that each time a person leaves our presence, it may be the last time we are with them. This is no way to live. And yet, there is another side to this coin of awareness - the heightened sense of appreciation of this person across from us. The light in my daughters’ eyes when they smile; the smile that lurks behind the straight expression on my husband’s face when he is trying to be serious but cannot; my mother’s hands. All of these everyday and sacred gifts that are continuously given.

I do believe there is part of us, our soul, our spirit - that remains unchanged through this life. I picture a glimmer inside of my body, one that always glows, that remains unchanged and constant, that guides us throughout the phases of life. And yet, there are these roles we play that give our life movement and meaning. They shift and bend and morph throughout our daily lives, even moment to moment, and what a gift that is. Our mothering self is not the same as our partner self. My workspace self is not the same as my sister self. We shift based on our surroundings, who we are conversing with, what is happening in the moment. I don’t speak to my brother like he is one of my employees. I don’t tell my accountant to go upstairs and change his clothes into something more appropriate . And yet, there is a thread that connects. There is an innate part of us that is always constant no matter who we are interacting with, be it our child or the clerk at the grocery store.

I watched my mother take care and feed us, her family, and take care and feed the landscape and garden around her home. I felt her love for us and her love for the customers that would sit at the counter of the restaurant my parents owned while I was growing up. I watched her hold close friendships with people that in most instances are surface relationships - she knew when it was our mailman’s wife’s birthday and would leave a card for her in the mailbox for him to give to her. She baked for the butcher at Kroger when his wife passed.

These are the gifts our roles and relationships give. Through watching my mother, I witnessed how to bring others into my life in love. Through watching my daughters, I learned that a person’s spirit, the truth of who they are, is innately born along with them. Through watching my dear friends, I have learned how to hold others and how when we do, it feeds us in return. All of these different threads weave through us and become part of who we are. My roles are not just who I am when I am with someone - they are now part of me and inform my place in this world and how I interact within it.

As I watch my mother go into surgery, I hold her in the same energy that she has held me my whole life. I hold her in the energy that she holds the mailman and the butcher. I put my hand on her beautiful hands. She smiles up at me and tells me this is no big deal and she’ll see me in an hour. I laugh. And I realize that the role of being her daughter will be one I play until the day I die. All the days I care for my garden, while I care for my children, while I love my mailman and my butcher, while I make the nurse laugh as she wheels me down the hallway, I will be her daughter. As it turns out, it’s not a role at all. It has become a part of that glimmer that is inside me, that will continue on with me, past this physical presence. I embrace all of it, I endure all of it, I celebrate all of the roles I play in this life.

I walk out into the day, the sun shining on me, and smile and say hello to the man walking in. I live the love I have been shown. I give freely what was so freely given to me.

Sending you love today,

Seja

The clear water runs into the bathtub and begins to surround me. I turn the handle to the left and it runs a bit hotter. I could drink this water that so easily flows from the tap, but I don’t. I look up at the ceiling, the paint beginning to peel, the humid air pulling it away from its surface. We have been in this home ten years and my husband says this is when it begins to happen - the paint peeling in places, hairline cracks in doors, caulk pulling away from tile. I consider the work needed to remedy each of these and instead of forming a plan of attack, I close my eyes, allowing myself instead to be held in the generosity of this water, not asking for anything in return.

The temperatures are warming now, April showing herself. The plants that slept all winter in our small pond are coming back to life through no effort on our part. The grass greens as the days become longer. I walk out in the cool morning barefoot and step one foot off the porch and then the other. The grass is cold and wet on my feet and beginning to lose its winter sharpness. Out in the pasture, the multiflora rose is popping up among the grass and I know we will have to address it. ‘Invasive’ is a word used to describe it. Something not in its proper place and needing to be addressed. I wonder how I fit in with all of this. I am no more natural to this place than this prickly plant that found its way into the middle of the cattle field and yet I am accepted. From one place and somehow found my way here. The peonies I planted two years ago are burgeoning once again, their burgundy stalks like asparagus making their way through the soil. The red bud tree in the corner of the woods putting on her show as she does every spring, can’t help herself. The honeysuckle along the fenceline that greets me each morning with her fragrance as I walk down the drive.

These background supports, these foundations that become invisible to the eye. These abundances we so easily lose sight of. The grass that goes from green to yellow and green again, lush and damp in the spring that promises her return each year. The life that is given to us over and over again, so easily accepted without acknowledgement from its recipients. The morning news doesn’t begin, “The sun in her all of her splendor rose again today. The blackbird sang as she made her way into the heavens.” They give so freely, again and again, generously, innately.

As a young girl growing up, as my head hit the pillow before sleep, I would pray. I would ask for the preservation of people, of things, of the life I knew. My prayer these days is the same in that it still is in regards to the foundations of my life and yet, instead of for their preservation, it is for my eyes to be open to them. Help me to be able to see all that holds me, all that keeps me, all that nourishes me. This hot water flowing from the tap, the grass greening into a blanket that envelopes my feet and toes, these flowers that return each year. And if I cannot see it, let me be grateful for all of the forces, the miracles, the unseen atoms that whirl around me and this world and make this life possible. Grant the possibility that while I am supported, I may be that for another. Make these hands a vessel so that while I am here, I may be of use. Let the love and nourishment that feeds me flow through me to another. Let me take part. Make my life part of the foundation for all that surrounds me. Have my life be a blessing.

Let it be so.
And so it is.

I love you.

Blessings

Seja

It’s funny how it happens all at once. These events or moments in our life that we could call ‘stressful’ or what the mind would classify as ‘problems that our life would be better off without’ - lately, they seem to be rolling in in threes, or fives. Or maybe they aren’t coming in all at once, but accumulating, like tumbleweed getting larger as it makes its way across the prairie, picking up each little issue until it’s one big monstrosity, house-sized, unmanageable, out of control.

Sometimes it takes only one problem to lay us out, to find ourselves laying face up on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, wondering what movement is next. Is there anything I can do, any action I can take to take some of this weight off? And even as our mind searches for answers, there are times that only a blank space is drawn after the question. And as I found myself laying on the sofa tonight, asking myself what I could do in this moment, the answer was nothing. There was no action I could take.

One of the problems was work, a stock issue that I could not resolve, could only just email customers to let them know there was a shortage. Another problem, health-related, not me but someone I love. Another, not my place to divulge. And then to top it off, any number of articles in current events or the news cycle that seems endless at times.

I have the image in my mind of the man spinning plates on each hand and then a person coming up to him and adding another plate for a foot and then another plate for another appendage, until they all fall. It’s a stressful vision, isn't it? Watching a person try to balance it all? Us watching, holding our breath, knowing they will fall, but maybe not? What is going to happen, the nervous anticipation of it. And then when they do fall, what happens, both to the man and to the spectators? An exhale! A big breath. The man standing there, plates on the floor, but the man still standing. The plates are broken, but is anyone hurt? No. We could say, “well, he dropped the plates. The plates are broken. If he was better at holding them, they would all still be spinning.” True. We could also say there was action in the spinning, but nothing was really accomplished. Maybe those plates weren’t even his to hold to begin with.

In these moments of holding so much, we can feel if we aren’t focused on one of the problems in each moment, at all times, we aren’t making progress. If we aren’t talking to someone about it, aren't checking our email or sending an email, aren’t sharing an article, aren’t researching solutions, then no progress is being made. It’s such a heightened way to live, like constantly riding the roller coaster while making the first initial climb and that’s it. Just clink, clink, clink, we will make it to the top eventually, right? When do we get off this thing again? Our nervous systems were not built for it. We have to summit the hill, ride the ride, and exit. And only ride it once a day, not multiple times a day. (I’ve gone on a roller coaster over and over again due to non-existent lines and I can attest that it does make one feel headachy, nauseous, like they’ve been knocked around all day long. )

A sense of relief is imperative following these stressful moment in life. The same as holding a breath, an exhale is necessary for life to continue. We have to know that once we have taken a step or action towards a problem we are holding, that step gives us permission to release the problem for a period of time so as to give our souls respite. If we make a phone call regarding a problem, yet continue to hold the energy of that problem in our bellies, we continue to live our lives in the energy of the problem. Our souls have no recovery time and there is no traction gained on the solution to the perceived problem.

As we watch the events of the world unfold before our eyes, it may not feel enough to pick a task and then let it go. When all feels as though it is crumbling, are we supposed to stand by and watch? Unsettled by the conflict I sense and the disharmony I perceive, I want to make moves to help. And yet I know my power on a global scale is limited. I remember that being in community with my neighbor is a step. I put my hands in the dirt. I pray, I say I love you I love you I love you to all that I cannot physically hold. I call my loved one. If we want to expand our scope, the reach of our impact in the world, we can do that. And also, the work we do in our own homes, our own neighborhoods can hold even more benefit. There is much beauty in knowing that most of us are already problem-solvers in our life’s work - we raise children to be good humans, we create art to make the world beautiful, we grow food to nourish, we love each other. All of this is healing, important work and the kind many of us reside in daily

Having said all of this, there are also the problems that bring us to our knees. The kind that affect us or those we love and there is no clear path to resolution in the moment. In those, it can be challenging to find peace. I have been here and all I can say is that the intensity of it lessens over time. Resolution does come. The experience may never fully leave us, the wound of it leaving at first a scab and then a scar. These times come to us and leave us with perspective on all issues that follow. Problems that might have seemed large before these, come to find out, are not all that scary or worth our time at all.

The good news is that this is not all life is.

”Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.” Soren Kierkegaard

We come into this world to experience the full roundness of it all. We attempt in our humanity to hold it like clay, to form it and manipulate it. But the leaves will fall each autumn. The temperatures will cool in winter. There are people thousands of miles away suffering and all I can do in each of these situations is to see them, my eyes holding them in wonder and love and a knowing that I am not separate from any of it. My presence is a balm, as theirs is to me, and the love I hold for all of it brings an energy of gratitude to this life that will continue to exist when my physical presence is no longer here to witness it.

Life will come along and give us days where we can feel like we are standing at the edge of the shore, bare to all the wind can carry. The gift of these times is the ability to sink into ourselves, to touch the eternal place inside that has carried us through and up to this point. We recall all that we have been through, all that we are made of, and we are reminded that we are resilient, we are strong, we are always held, and we are capable of navigating our way through.

Love,

Seja

I am sure this hot water malfunction would be easily explained by a plumber. I picture him talking about the pipe that goes to the bathtub spigot having an issue. And also, we haven’t called a plumber because Joe insists on adding it to the list of house things he is “able to fix/can figure it out/will address but today isn’t good.” (Did I say I love my bath caddy?). Anyway, I am sure it could be explained by a professional as to why it’s malfunctioning, but while we are still dealing with it, I like to feel like it’s a little magical reason as to why it’s not working. Because why would only ONE FAUCET not work? The water heater works or it doesn’t, right? So what I think is happening is a little sprite or fairy or something is running around by our water heater in our crawl space, laughing and giggling while he pushes some button to make the water cold just as we settle into the tub. (If you’re a plumber reading this, please don’t explain why it’s happening in technical jargon in the comments - let me keep my little fantasy.)

So, since the world seems kind of upside down, let’s talk about magic today. Other factors of life exist alongside the issues humans create and it is important to not forget those. So I will continue with other moments/quotes/facts that I have found to have some magic and beauty running through them.

The moon on my walk this evening. And these cattle in the field in the pasture where I live. How did life lead me here? How did it come to pass? I think of my 12 year old self and how she could never have known this is where we would be this many years later. How many twists and turns led us here. How I have no idea where I will be twenty years from now, how I don’t want to know. So many Easter eggs yet to find in the hunt that will take millions of steps from today to me at 68. I am excited to know her though, my 68 year old self. I feel myself making my way towards her with love and excitement.

Penelope completely content, soaking up vitamin D while the garden awaits her spring wake up.

Do you know about the "heart field"? It refers to the “electromagnetic field generated by the human heart, which is considered the strongest rhythmic field produced by the body, extending beyond the body and detectable even a few feet away; essentially, it's the magnetic field emitted by the heart during its contractions, carrying information about a person's emotional state,” per the HeartMath Institute. So basically, a heart gives off an energy field that extends feet away from the physical body that cannot be seen but can be felt. Magic, right? In a world full of materialism, I love the scientific magic of the unseen, such as quantum physics. Easy to dismiss until proven. I also love that humans can be so convinced that something is false for so long until one day, that falsehood becomes accepted scientific fact. I am thinking Galileo, Kepler, etc. You can read more about those here:

Mavericks and Heretics - Ideas Rejected, Later Proven Correct

Quote I loved this week:

“It's a nice big fat philosophical question, about: how do you get through? Sometimes you don't survive whole, you just survive in part. But the grandeur of life is that attempt. It's not about that solution. It is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances. It's that, that makes it elegant. Good is just more interesting, more complex, more demanding. Evil is silly, it may be horrible, but at the same time it's not a compelling idea. It's predictable. It needs a tuxedo, it needs a headline, it needs blood, it needs fingernails. It needs all that costume in order to get anybody's attention. But the opposite, which is survival, blossoming, endurance, those things are just more compelling intellectually if not spiritually, and they certainly are spiritually. This is a more fascinating job. We are already born, we are going to die. So you have to do something interesting that you respect in between.” The inimitable Toni Morrison.

What has been sustaining you? What is magic to you these days?

I am sending magic and all of my love to you this week and every week.

Seja

In the morning
When I began to wake,
It happened again-

That feeling
That You, Beloved,
Had stood over me all night
Keeping watch,

That feeling
That as soon as I began to stir

You put Your lips on my forehead
And lit a Holy Lamp
Inside my heart.”

Hafiz

On my way home the other day from town to the rural area where we live, I decided to take the back road home. Although a little longer, its quiet and winding roads serve as the buffer I sometimes need between the busy city streets and the idle surroundings of where we live. The road is curving and hilly, a valley separating one end of the path to the other. The slopes on either side of the valley are long and steep, their edges on either side dropping to wooded hollars and icy streams.

As my car approaches the hill to descend into the valley on my way home, I begin to ease onto my brakes, pumping them slightly in preparation for the decline. Even so, once I reach the top of the hill and begin to descend, the car makes up its mind to shift into a lower gear to assist the brakes in the slowing of the car, the momentum downward steep and fast. Because of the shift in gears, the engine’s voice changes from a calm pitch to a higher song. It is working harder to resist the forces of gravity that pull it to the bottom of the hill, the wheels naturally wanting to move faster and faster. The car is ready to take the hill as fast as she can, the engine responding by slowing her down, sharing the workload of the braking system. The engine says, “I am the energy center of this creation. Let me support you in the work of this.”

My feet touch the floor, moving out of bed before the sun rises. The house is quiet and dark. I climb the stairs and sit on my mat. I light a candle. I sit and place my palms on my knees. “Help me in this work,” I ask the flame, hoping the energy with which it burns hears my prayer. “Help me in this work of living.” I bow and blow out the flame. I kiss my youngest child on the forehead, now almost an adult herself, before she wakes for school. I hug my oldest and my husband, walk my dog, feed my cats. I go to my workshop where I bend and twist and burn metal. I hold my mother a few roads over and the hearts of those thousands of miles away with no homes, no more child to kiss good morning. I walk outside and look at the open sky. I feel free and the weight of the world simultaneously, the earth both holding us and asking us to love her. I see the hawk sitting on the top branch of the walnut tree and wonder if he feels any weight on his wings or does he only feel the breeze? I read the headlines, the bylines, drink my coffee. What will this world be when it is all said and done? Will I curse the free will given to harm and hate or instead be grateful, the other side to create and love? Will I cry for what was done or for all of the beauty or both? I feel a movement in my chest. I close my eyes. “Help me in this work”, I pray.

What fuels us when the weight of the outside world takes more than it gives? When the air is filled with the weight of more questions than answers, more partitioning than peace? Where is our engine that supports us when the car is moving faster than the brakes can manage? Where do we find respite in the tumult? I picture the flame from my morning in the dark, the flicker, the back and forth. I picture it in my center, just below the center of my rib cage. It is an engine on the way down the hill. When this beautiful work of being alive requires more than our minds can manage, it is the flame, the engine within, that says, “I am the energy center of this creation. Let me support you in the work of this.” We can give it our dreams to make manifest, our worries to burn. We do not have to tend to it for it always burns, like our breath coming and going, our heart beating without thought or effort. It is the life force that came into this world with us and continues on when we leave. It is the eternal part of us that is always steady, always loving, always there to support us when we cannot feel the ground beneath our feet. It is the force that keeps us tender, open, when we want to close and harden ourselves off. It is the place within that is unaffected, untouched by the whims of the outside world. When anger rises, when sorrow comes, the flame does not flicker. She continues to burn through it all. She is the respite within, the well of life that flows through our veins and cells, giving us a place to rest and replenish when needed.

The work of living in this world. We are not exempt from any part of it. We came to this earth and are here to bear the fruits of all it has to offer. Events and circumstances will push and pull emotion from us, leaving us at times angry, sad, depleted, feeling like each muscle, each cell has been caught up in our reaction. Save one place. This sacred center flame. She is our respite and our fuel. We may feel as though we are blowing in the breeze of this world, and yet we know there is the strong center of us that will not bend to any wind nor breeze nor storm. She is our sacred home, our safe haven, our soul.

The ridge we live on is clear in parts, wooded in others, the home somewhat open to the elements. Quick shifts of weather are common here - tranquil one moment, gale winds coming from the southwest the next. On display to the winds of winter, our home’s windows shake as the wind whips through the hills and valleys surrounding us. In the spring, our clothesline, bare to the sun and breeze, has had sheets pulled clear from the line in a single gust with barely a hush of a breeze at all prior. I have found linens in the walnut grove nearby, holding my pillow case in a branch as if to say, “Here you go. I’ve caught her for you.”

I cannot control this wind and yet I choose to stay. I cannot rein in the gales that pass through the night, into the valley and over the ridge, rattling our windows. I cannot corral the wildness of our life here. I know it is part of it. It is the other half to the sun that shines on our faces and gardens. It is the balance of the hot humid air that sits completely still in August. It is the wild younger sister to the calm oldest child. It is like this everywhere on Earth - it has been since the beginning of time. There is calm and there is wild, the easy and the difficult, beauty and fear. And yet we choose to take part. We say yes to the beauty and to the fear, to the easy and the hard, to the peace and to the warring. Through all of it, we choose to stay.

There will always be facets of this life we would rather do without. There will always be forces out of our control. Our human minds effort to fix, to curate our circumstances. We say when this goes away, I will be fine. If I could change this, my life would be perfect. When I have this, I will be happy. When there is peace outside of me, there will be peace inside of me.

And yet, in this moment, we can choose. The peace we seek is available to us in each moment.

I remember a time as an adult of immense fear, unsure of what the future would hold. In that moment, I looked to a loved one for reassurance. My glassy eyes met theirs and expecting to see their fear as well, I was instead gifted with eyes of wisdom and love. Their peace in that moment overflowed, filling me, filling my heart. The magic of that moment carried me back to that place of wisdom, love and peace that resides within me, that resides within all of us, no matter what is happening in the outside world.

We know the winds will come. We may feel exposed to them now, a world quickly moving and full of uncertainty. And yet, we are not at their whim. We can steady ourselves. We can reconnect with the wise sage, the eternal part of us that lives inside of us always, no matter how dormant or quiet they have seemed up to this point. She is who I was returned to that day through the reassuring eyes of another. She wants you to know that she has been lovingly listening to that fearful place that lives inside - not to quiet her, but to hold her. Not to silence him, but to reassure him that he is always loved, always safe. She can hold each part of you steady while standing in the clear pasture, braving the wind’s turbulent nature. And if you should be caught in the breeze, she is the walnut tree that is there to catch you, to return you to your true self, to say, “Here you go, I’ve caught her for you.”

I take a deep breath. I feel the life within, that resides there always, no matter what surrounds me. I exhale. I know I cannot control all aspects of this life, and even so, I am free.

Blessings and love to all,

Seja

(You can listen to me read this writing using the oval-shaped box above.)

Our home sits high on a ridge, surrounded by the ups and downs of land left untouched by the glaciers that swept through these fields thousands of years ago. Flat plains full of corn and soy come to a sudden halt and then drop off to reveal a land full of rolling hills and forest stands, carved by the flood waters of the melting glaciers that ended their journey just ten miles to the north of where we reside.

The ridge we live on is clear in parts, wooded in others, the home somewhat open to the elements. Quick shifts of weather are common here - tranquil one moment, gale winds coming from the southwest the next. On display to the winds of winter, our home’s windows shake as the wind whips through the hills and valleys surrounding us. In the spring, our clothesline, bare to the sun and breeze, has had sheets pulled clear from the line in a single gust with barely a hush of a breeze at all prior. I have found linens in the walnut grove nearby, holding my pillow case in a branch as if to say, “Here you go. I’ve caught her for you.”

I cannot control this wind and yet I choose to stay. I cannot rein in the gales that pass through the night, into the valley and over the ridge, rattling our windows. I cannot corral the wildness of our life here. I know it is part of it. It is the other half to the sun that shines on our faces and gardens. It is the balance of the hot humid air that sits completely still in August. It is the wild younger sister to the calm oldest child. It is like this everywhere on Earth - it has been since the beginning of time. There is calm and there is wild, the easy and the difficult, beauty and fear. And yet we choose to take part. We say yes to the beauty and to the fear, to the easy and the hard, to the peace and to the warring. Through all of it, we choose to stay.

There will always be facets of this life we would rather do without. There will always be forces out of our control. Our human minds effort to fix, to curate our circumstances. We say when this goes away, I will be fine. If I could change this, my life would be perfect. When I have this, I will be happy. When there is peace outside of me, there will be peace inside of me.

And yet, in this moment, we can choose. The peace we seek is available to us in each moment.

I remember a time as an adult of immense fear, unsure of what the future would hold. In that moment, I looked to a loved one for reassurance. My glassy eyes met theirs and expecting to see their fear as well, I was instead gifted with eyes of wisdom and love. Their peace in that moment overflowed, filling me, filling my heart. The magic of that moment carried me back to that place of wisdom, love and peace that resides within me, that resides within all of us, no matter what is happening in the outside world.

We know the winds will come. We may feel exposed to them now, a world quickly moving and full of uncertainty. And yet, we are not at their whim. We can steady ourselves. We can reconnect with the wise sage, the eternal part of us that lives inside of us always, no matter how dormant or quiet they have seemed up to this point. She is who I was returned to that day through the reassuring eyes of another. She wants you to know that she has been lovingly listening to that fearful place that lives inside - not to quiet her, but to hold her. Not to silence him, but to reassure him that he is always loved, always safe. She can hold each part of you steady while standing in the clear pasture, braving the wind’s turbulent nature. And if you should be caught in the breeze, she is the walnut tree that is there to catch you, to return you to your true self, to say, “Here you go, I’ve caught her for you.”

I take a deep breath. I feel the life within, that resides there always, no matter what surrounds me. I exhale. I know I cannot control all aspects of this life, and even so, I am free.

Blessings and love to all,

Seja

The calendar says February 4th and I have returned from my short sabbatical - from writing, from producing creative work. I have felt so many shifts these past two months - within and outside of me - and the only path from there to here that seemed clear was a silent one. I felt the changes bringing me to a new version of myself, so much so that decisions that were usually easy and mundane took a moment to decide. What did I want to eat? Which way to take home? Even speaking at times, I could not find the words to adequately express what I wanted to say. The only action seemed to be to take was no action - to pause, to rest.

I dreamt of a woman on horseback in a wide-open field, limitless, as far as the eye can see. The horse stands proud and still, head high, eyes ahead, unafraid. The woman has the reins and part of the horse’s hair in one hand, twisting it to secure her grasp. The other hand is resting on the horse’s side to signal to wait, let us sit a moment before we decide which direction to break into our stride. Sitting on the broad back of this formidable creature, the rider is assured, supported, strong in will, yet trusting the powerful force that carries her.

What does one call a period of life like this? A dark night of the soul? A soul shift? Maybe it doesn’t need a name, it just is. We enter in one form and exit another. I have read that the body’s cells regenerate every seven to ten years. Maybe there is a period of life where each cell in the body somehow regenerates at the same time. Instead of a lung cell renewing now and a liver cell renewing later, they all join forces in time and the body is made new at once. Not only do we feel different, we are different, on a cellular level.

I took this time of renewal to sit, to be quiet, to read, to cook, to be with family. Some things that were on this path with me:

My friend, Brandon Andress’s book Deep Calls to Deep.

I took this time to step away a bit from the entertainment of screens to the less intense stimulation of books. Brandon’s book was the perfect way to ease into my day. I considered it almost a study session into the depths. This book is a collection of essays Brandon wrote over many years - essays that cover areas from Divine Love and Healing to Mindfulness and Community. Some weeks are a single essay with a question to reflect upon, others are daily questions that require some deeper digging.

I have considered it such a blessing and companion over the past couple of months. I highly recommend it.

This blanket:

which I am underneath in this picture. Did you know that grief and dramatic life shifts require sleep? Probably easy to guess if not experienced. My dear friend, Sarah, gave me this blanket and I use it daily. It is heavy and fluffy at the same time, a most comforting combination.

Nourishing, bone-warming food

Beef Bourguignon and mashed potatoes to be exact. I made it once and ate for a few days following. This was not a time for lighter fare. My cells were being regenerated.

Play

We are in a time where some may say it is not a time for play, it is not a time for spiritual growth, to dig into our souls to see who they are, what they are made of. I would say it is exactly the right time. While our world continues to shift more quickly than ever before, let us ground deeper into who we are so that we have the foundation within to be a part of that shift in whatever capacity we feel called. In these times, it is easy to feel solemn and sober one moment and then step outside and seeing the beauty, the life that is all around us. We are pulled back into the moment. We are not frivolous or silly. The contrary. We are fueling ourselves to do our work in the world.

If you share this time of transformation with me, welcome. If you feel a pull to move inward, go. As Brandon says in his book, “I hope we will journey together through the muck and mire of daily distractions toward a deeper embrace of wonder guided by Divine Love.”

I will be waiting here when you return.

Much love and many blessings.

Seja

Link to Brandon’s book:

https://www.amazon.com/Deep-Calls-Brandon-Andress/dp/1964252253/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2O95U5SJXB4F6&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.nny5wRgDGuY_fwN74zdjJZLDzzvGNe-k4qwfLuHWR4Fef4yGh-X-6ccFyXHFzgLZBoZ3xWCXbAxMbVQjAAWygDs8BE4pImwmff1L_OWr2daD1GnMMehpG-qNaZZo8YteenFBxiG1BYzv9znwlimJ74YN2spN3fQ9p3m_UaOMlSy8gh6DfiD30nX9keWzdmytiSeN3Mm1NmdZamgopB-21b1a7it8fnP86HFOZ31iaZI.3itZRLjGjYvioF3wzeWlIzzC9CO9wbS2C-I7NHamgT4&dib_tag=se&keywords=Deeper+Calls+to+Deep&qid=1738632043&sprefix=deeper+calls+to+deep%2Caps%2C139&sr=8-1

There is no shortage of reading material these days. No lack of material to keep us entertained. Plenty of videos to watch to keep us distracted from the physical life in which we live. A recipe, I believe, to live a life on autopilot.

I love the pull of a good movie, understand the desire to check in on social media, enjoy reading about the new trad wife making waves. I also know that when I immerse myself in too much of anything, I am thrown off balance. A trip to the museum for inspiration is one thing - scrolling through suggested and advertised posts for the new face cream that will solve my undereye circle problem is another. When I absorb too much, I am filled with the clutter (albeit entertaining) of the world. Some of it good, some of it not worth our attention, but all incoming material that distracts us from what is ours to give.

It is good to rest. It is good to read and listen and watch, as long as we still are able to be active, to write, to create.

If you are feeling you need quiet, you need space from the constant hum of the news cycle, sensing something within you wants to come through but you are unsure of what it is, then it may be your spirit asking for respite. It may be your inner world asking for peace. It may be your inner creative telling you it is time to stop digesting the work of others and asking you to pick up your brush, pen, hammer.

Listen to this inner call. Quiet your outer world so that you may hear your soul speaking to you, calling you to what is next in this life. It is the wisdom within calling to you, reminding you of your power, your beauty, your worth.

How could it ever be frivolous to follow the direction guided by your powerful heart?

The summer felt long and lush this year. Just as the mistress of Woods Edge Farm became accustomed to waking with the sun, the fall seemed to suddenly appear with its falling leaves and gray skies. It was the end of November now and she had quickly become reacquainted with waking before the sun, the moon still high in the sky as she drank her morning coffee. Although awake, the mistress lay in her bed. The cracking of the bones of the home and the whoosh of the wind outside her window gave away the cold that had swept in from the north the night before. She knew it was time to come out from under the covers and begin her day, but the warmth of her husband’s feet and the peace of of the home outside the bedroom resigned her to staying put for a few moments more. It was Birdie, their Heeler mix, that ultimately commanded she climb out from her den and the two start their morning with their usual breakfast and walk.

After getting herself dressed and ready for the day, she went out to the kitchen to see Birdie patiently waiting by the front door, ready for her walk. Looking out the kitchen window, she could see the grass had gone from green to a silvery-white, the sky still bright with stars. As she began to bundle up, the cats brushed her ankles and calves, letting her know their food bowls were empty and to please remedy the situation before leaving. Once kitten bellies were filled, the mistress wrapped her wool scarf, soft from years of wear, around her neck, grabbed her heaviest coat from the hooks on the mudroom wall, and donned the first hat she could find from the full basket of winter wear. She fetched the leash and held it up for Bird to see. The small leap off her front legs and towards the door said it all.

The two ventured out into the cold morning. Birdie took off towards the pasture before the mistress could put her leash on, but she knew the dog would meet her again further up the drive. She could see her breath now, feel the cold air in her nose. The first morning of the season for these temperatures, she thought to herself. She wondered if it was here to stay or if it would there would be a warm snap again before the winter held its claim for the season.

As the mistress reached the road, Birdie joined her and held still for the slightest moment while the mistress attached the leash to her collar. Then the heeler was off, her powerful hind legs after something. The mistress was used to this, the sudden pull when the leash reached its limit. She tried to pay attention, to notice when Birdie saw a squirrel or rabbit or anything that might incite a sprint. She was about two for ten on this and her shoulder gave off the slightest ache from mornings past when the dog nearly pulled her over.

The two steadied themselves and began their walk. It wasn’t always easy for the mistress to leave the house while it was still this dark, now the cold adding another reason her mind begged her to stay in bed a little longer. But each morning she was reminded, once she and Bird were out, that this was one of the best parts of her day. The two of them, the peace surrounding, the world beginning to wake up for the day.

As it turned out, Birdie heard the noise before the mistress did. The dog stopped and turned her face towards home. “What is it, girl?" The mistress turned and then heard it - a truck in the distance. It was quite early for anyone else to be out. All the same, the mistress asked Birdie to resume their walk by giving the leash a tug and the dog obliged.

As the two made their way down the road, the sound of the truck grew louder. It became clear this wasn’t just a pick-up truck, but something larger and headed towards them, the sound growing closer. The sound in the middle of the day, in town, would be nothing, the mistress told herself. But everything was sharper in the quiet of the cold, dark morning, on the country road they were walking on. Senses were heightened. The mistress told herself there was nothing about this that should bother or disturb her, and yet for some reason, as the sound of the large truck grew closer, she felt a bit of discomfort. She wasn’t sure why.

She continued to walk when the lights of the truck came around the curve of the road. It was driving slowly, albeit down the center of the road, with its headlights seemingly on their bright setting. Birdie turned and barked. The mistress felt the same in her own way - how dare this piece of machinery and whoever was driving it disturb the peace of this quiet morning? They continued on their walk and the road was now lit ahead of them, the lights of the truck bright enough to illuminate the county, she thought. As the truck grew closer and now very loud, the mistress thought, Birdie and I will just step to the side of the road and let this truck pass. Then we will turn and head home.

But the truck did not pass. As it grew closer to the pair, the truck slowed down and began to come to a stop. The mistress’s heart began to beat. What was going on? Why was the truck coming to a stop? It was dark and no one else around or awake for miles. Her mind raced as the door to the truck opened.

A boot touched the step out of the truck and then another on the ground as the door to the truck swung open. It was a man, maybe five feet tall, possibly seventy years old, with a black toque, black coat, and the rosiest cheeks you’ve ever seen. “Good morning, young lady! And good morning to this sweet pup!”, he said as he approached. “Do you mind if I give your dog a bone?”, he said as held up a milk bone, “It’s just one of the favorite parts of my job, seeing folks out walking with their dogs or meeting these pups at the homes I stop by each day.” The mistress looked up. It was a garbage collection truck. “Of course, thank you!”, the mistress replied, having felt so silly that she was ever on guard at any point that morning. “She would love a bone, thank you.” Birdie walked toward the kind man as he gave her the bone. She gently took the bone out of his hand, laid it on the ground, and then leaned into the driver as she leaned into the Farmer she knew so well. “Ah, what a good dog. Such a good dog,” the man said as he rubbed her head. “Well, back to work! You two have a good day today.”

“You as well! And thank you again,” the mistress replied.

The driver climbed back into his truck, shut the door, and drove down the road to continue his morning route.

“Come on, Bird. Let’s go home.” As the mistress and Birdie turned back towards the farmhouse, Birdie with the bone in her mouth, the mistress began to think of the beauty of the moment that just happened and how many other times in her life she had been given the gift of love wrapped in fear. Too many to count, she thought, and did her best to put the recollecting off for another time so that she could bask in the one that had just happened.

The pair returned to the gravel drive of the farmhouse. The light was now on in the kitchen window, which meant the farmer was awake and making coffee. The mistress pulled Birdie to her and rubbed the dog’s side as she always did as she unlatched the leash from her collar, right before the dog began to run back to the house, the mistress close behind.

While in this phase of life, the one thing I know that is helping is to move out of my head and into my body. Some examples:

1. Creating. This can be cooking or baking, drawing or doodling, watercolors or craft. Something to get the creative energy that may be building up a channel for expression.

2. Exercise. Movement. Walking, yoga, stretching. All of it. Nothing like a good run to move out of your head and into your body.

3. Work. I drove by a farm near our house and saw a young man chopping firewood in his front yard. I immediately wanted to chop wood when I returned home. The physical sensation of farm work/garden work/yard work is so therapeutic. I admit I am slow to get outside to do this work, but am so glad once I am out doing it.

4. Home chores. I have written about the peace of hand-washing laundry before, but this really extends to all chores. Not only can it be soothing to be fully immersed in an activity that occupies both your body and mind, but a clean-clutter-free home makes for a peaceful environment. And at the same time, I love to see shoes by the front door and a rock climbing bag hanging from the dining chair. I see the artifacts of the life we live together and it makes me so grateful.

5. Letting go of the phrase, “I need to figure this out.” Have you ever been driving home from somewhere and a movement comes over you - I should take this other way home today. You’re not sure why or where it came from, but it is just a movement, a listening to your inner self. That’s it. It’s moving into that place of living. There is no figuring out here. There is only waiting and living and breathing into knowing.

This place of in-between can be unnerving at times. It is filled with more questions than answers. And it is all a part of it. It can be scary and beautiful. Let us not be tense in this place. Let us rest here, knowing that this time is as valuable as moving towards a specific destination. This is the place of incubation, letting the seeds of creation take root in us before they rise above the soil to see the light of day, all the while growing and stretching and becoming their next form of expression. This takes energy, it takes patience and love. Let us be patient and loving towards ourselves here. Let us hold space for the Divine to work its way into our life. Let us not worry in the open spaces - let us instead fill them with God and Love and Possibility. Let us rest here, for we are forming a new way of living in this world.

The first was at the bank. My mother’s checking account had some overdraft fees. My father passed away on October 29th. His social security check deposited on November 1st. The government then received word of his passing and promptly withdrew that money out of the account on the 13th. Since bills were paid and there was no notice this money would be withdrawn, payments bounced. Oh and also, my mom lost online access to her account because my deceased father was the owner on the account. Anyway, I went to the bank to clear it up. I moved money around, spoke to the friendly teller, requested the overdraft fees be waived with all of the surrounding circumstances. The teller said they usually waive the first of several overdraft fees, but not more. I rationalized the situation with the employee and she said she would request her manager come out to speak to me. I said that would be great. When the manager said the same thing, no overdraft fees are waived after the first, I explained the situation. My mother had lost her husband and all of the details that surrounded that. Unmoved, the manager apologized - it was policy and their hands were tied.

And then something inside my abdomen lit up. I don’t know how else to put it. It was like I was eight years old on the playground and little Jimmy had just knocked my friend off the monkey bars. I let this manager know how I felt. It was not good business. There was no humanity in this ‘policy’ and that I would escalate this up as I handed my father’s death certificate to another employee for them to scan into their system. I think the manager knew this would get worse than just handling it in the moment, so they agreed and refunded our money. I apologized for raising my voice and thanked them. As I exited and got in my car to leave, I was grateful no other customers were in the lobby to witness me losing my temper.

Or was it not a lost temper? Was it instead a woman standing up for her mother? Insisting on justice? Standing in her power to make a difference? Not editing herself based on social constructs and asking for what is right?

When I was in the first grade, our kitchen window looked out at our school bus stop. My mother told me she would stand at the sink and watch my brother and I get off the bus at the end of our school day and run across the street to our home. One afternoon, all of the kids got off the bus but I was not in sight. The bus sat, lights blinking, until I did finally get off the bus, throw my backpack on the ground, and jump some neighbor kid who had exited the bus a minute before me. I began hitting him. The bus driver had to get off the bus and pull me off of him. I have zero recollection of this. But it tracks. I was a fairly easy-going kid, but grew up with:

• a big brother with whom I would regularly fight,

• neighborhood kickball games that usually had elementary school-aged kids yelling expletives at each other at some point in the game,

• the general problem-solving skills of most kids in the 1980’s - let’s fight this out until the other one is bleeding more than the other.

As we grew, we learned what were appropriate ways to conduct ourselves in civil society, these hard-edged facets smoothed over like rocks in the bed of the Rio Grande. Just let anything that may bristle slide over you and off your back. Stand up for yourself, but not too much, especially if you’re female.

There have been times as an adult, I stayed silent when I should have spoken up. I did not get involved when I should have. I did not want to be the one drafting the flames of conflict. But now? I could say that now it’s a different world and I am a different woman. But that is not the truth. The truth is, that the world has always been full of conflict and injustice and that the little girl who fought playground bullies never left this body. She was just temporarily smoothed over only to be revived by the death of her father, a society getting bolder at their attempts to control women and those with no power or voice, and the witnessing of her own daughers turning into women themselves.

I am not condoning fighting, violence, yelling, or making demands that are not just.

I am saying let us not stay quiet or stand idly by when we, or others in our vision or orbit, are being treated unjustly. I am saying let us throw our backpacks on the ground and do what is necessary. Even if it feels uncomfortable. Discomfort is the first step to our liberation.

We are the ones who are coming to save us. Let us fan the inner flame of who we have always been and let it live through us so that we are brave enough to speak up and stand up for ourselves, and more importantly, each other.

• Funny movies. I know, I know, we can’t escape what is happening in the world, but a laughter helps so so much. And we need to refuel and feel good to do our work in the world. It honestly doesn’t even have to be a movie. It could be a reel, youtube video, what-have-you. The example below has been a go-to for years.

• Naps. I didn’t realize how tired grief makes you. Taking at least one nap a day right now. I don’t have any guilt about it either.

• My girls. This includes daughters and friends, my mom and sisters. I have felt so cared for in the past two weeks. Community is life. My cup runneth over.

• My husband. This man knows how to make me laugh. And he gives such good hugs. And usually makes me laugh while hugging me. The icing on top - he makes the best coffee which he has waiting for me each morning with cream and sugar. #blessed.

• The outdoors, nature, our animals. It is the perfect time to immerse ourselves in life that knows nothing but the present moment.

• Water. Big glasses of it to drink. Showers. Hot baths. I don’t know what it is, but I am all about it right now and it is so healing. Highly recommend. Stay hydrated, y’all.

• Morning yoga and meditation. I’ve done this for years, and lately due to travel missed a couple of mornings, and I felt it. I practice for just 15-30 minutes, but it lays the foundation for my day. I feel grounded and centered (as much as possible right now) after I’ve done it and can feel it throughout the day when I don’t.

• Finally, The Welcoming Prayer. I have said the following prayer many mornings upon waking and evenings before bed. It was written by Father Thomas Keating in the Christian tradition, but I feel this is good for anyone no matter the faith. I feel like we can also make it our own by changing “God” to whatever feels good and appropriate to you. It helps me to just let go and move forward in the things I feel are mine to work on in this world.

The Welcoming Prayer (by Father Thomas Keating)

Welcome, welcome, welcome.
I welcome everything that comes to me today, because I know it's for my healing. I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations, and conditions.
I let go of my desire for power and control.
I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval, and pleasure.
I let go of my desire for survival and security.
I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person or myself.
I open to the love and presence of God and God's action within. Amen.

There is so much the mind wants to control right now, so much to work on, so much to do in the days ahead. This prayer helps me to center into my knowing on what is mine and what isn’t mine to do and the best path forward.

What is getting you through life right now? I would love to know.

Sending love to all.

I am trying to take care of the tasks in life that need to be taken care of, but I don’t know how to write about/think about/ feel about anything else in this moment. When something like this happens, it’s like pulling the one key Jenga stick out of the tower and letting the rest fall - there is only this stick. I don’t know how to process anything else.

And yet.

We got the call on Saturday from his nursing facility that he had taken a turn for the worse and so we’ve been back and forth, from home to his room to work and to the grocery store and back to sit with my dad again. As time passes, we are spending less time at work and home and now with him most of the time, sitting next to him, holding his hand, being there. When I do run out, I see the world continuing. I see a man scoop up his toddler in the Target parking lot and walk in, her giggle coming in waves to me as I walk behind them. The kind UPS man who delivers to our house almost everyday and who I am now on a first name basis waves hi to me across our yard as he drops a package off on our porch. I order a coffee from the barista who knows my face but not my name and she smiles and says hi and asks how I am and in all of these situations I just want to say, “My dad is dying.” Part of me wants to know how all of this continues on when the earth feels slightly off its axis.

But of course it does. There is a flower growing through the gravel of our driveway. There is sunlight on the forest floor. The tree has to let the leaves go for new growth. I have a couple of good friends who are therapists and one of the most valuable morsels I have gleaned from them is using the word “and”. It’s a beautiful day and my dad is dying. My daughter has a big speech to prepare for school and my dad is dying. There are people flying all over the world and babies continue to grow and my dad is dying. I am afraid AND I can do this. I am sad and I am rejoicing. I am crying while laughing about a roller coaster experience at Cedar Point with my dad when I was nine. Such is life.

Beauty and sadness, happiness and grief, war in one part of the world and peace in another. There will always be contrast. There will always be the duality of all of it. And I take so much peace and reassurance in that. Because even while I am holding my dad’s hand, I am remembering and laughing about so many memories of him. How adventurous our life growing up was, how crazy he could be, how he was rarely afraid of anything.

If I have moments of living fearlessly in this life, it is because of my dad. And so in that spirit, even though I am scared to live life without his physical presence, I am brave enough to let him go. He was never afraid to experience anything new in this life, always ready for any adventure - and I know this next step in his existence won’t be different. I know I can’t go with him on this one, but I know we will meet up again at another destination. I am sad and excited. I have grief and there is beauty. Heartache and love. He will be here and he won’t. It is all true. And I am here to bask in all of it.

I love you, Dad.