Grief is a Big Hipped Woman Inviting Me to Bigger Love!

I’ve reached that time in life, the middle point, when some of my beloveds have begun leaving this earth. On the basis of age alone, this will continue to happen until I one day join them. When I say “beloveds” I am referring to the people who made and make me feel loved and, who I hope, allowed me (and allow me) to make them feel loved as well. In the last three years I’ve lost three such people from my life here on earth.


Though grief has always been a companion of mine, these days she takes up more space. I bump into her more often, as if hers or my (or our) hips have gotten larger and we’re not used to taking up more space – so we jostle for it. This bumping into grief might occur from an obvious thing like a song on the radio, a scent in the air, a joke one of my beloveds and I would have shared, an opinion I’d like to have elicited. Or it can occur for no reason at all like the night recently when I finished cleaning the kitchen and, as I walked down the short hallway to the front room, I felt a need arise inside. I instinctively turned back to the kitchen to see if I could figure out what it was I needed. Had I left something unfinished? Was I hungry? Did I want food or drink just for the pleasure of it? What was needed? And then I got it. There it was – grief. I had no needs to fill, the ache inside was just grief showing up for no reason except a basic longing to be able to physically, mentally, and emotionally connect with my beloveds.


As a result of grief bumping hips with me, jostling for space, I notice I’ve been walking around feeling less loved. Preoccupied with death and dying. I think about it in the morning when I get up and at night when I get ready for bed. I think a lot about how I’m slowly losing the people who have loved me the most and that one day it could be true that no one will be left who truly, deeply loves me. It might unfold that no one will be left for whom my happiness really matters to them. I could wind up completely and utterly alone. As such I seem to have a yard stick in hand with which to measure how much love is now gone from my life.

But then I self-correct and get busy thinking better thoughts, you know, like how lucky I was to have had these recently departed beloveds in my life. Like truly, outrageously fortunate. And how truly, outrageously fortunate to still have a number of beloveds alive and in my life and us loving each other! I mean – it’s awesome how many people there are to love and be loved by!


This back and forth thinking about death and emptiness then life and fullness is like jumping back and forth between two parallel tightropes. But the life and fullness tightrope is tied between two trees, whereas the death and emptiness tightrope is attached on both ends to something covered in mist and clouds. Naturally, the mystery of where the death and emptiness tightrope leads makes it the more appealing one to travel.

Today, though, I thunk a different thought. I did so because I ran across something Byron Katie said in her book, I Need Your Love – is That True? She writes, “Most people believe that love and need are synonymous. ‘I love you, I need you’ is the hook of a thousand love songs.” The title of the book plus those two sentences made me realize that I have been walking around as if I can’t comfortably exist if those who are among the few who love me most are no longer around to fulfill my need to be loved.


So I took that idea and held it close: I can’t comfortably exist if these three who are among those who love me most are not around to fulfill my need to be loved. As I did so, I could feel that this idea was greeted by all the love inside me. The love that exists inside me all the time stirred and greeted this thought that I am less loved because three of my beloveds are gone, along with the discomfort that thought creates.

I decided to greet the Love that stirred inside and realized it consists of the love of God, the love of my husband, the love of these three beloveds who left this earth during the past three years, the love of everyone still physically in my life who love me, all the love I’ve ever been given, and all the love I’ve ever expressed and given away – all that love met this idea that something was missing because three of my beloveds died. And you know what the idea did? It laughed! It laughed a great big belly laugh, before dissolving into all that LOVE.


I thought the love others gave me was something only they could give. Which meant death could take it away. Believing that thought means I am not in touch with the love that already resides within me. This is deeper than self-love. This is about being Love. This is about God’s love in an “inter-being,” tangible way. I’ve picked up this term “inter-being” from Richard Rohr and his new book, The Divine Dance. I think inter-being as Richard uses it means I am in God and God is in me, always, and so Love is always present. Love is always available. Love is always here – right here, inside me – inside, within, around, alongside all of life!

This doesn’t magically take away grief. What it does do is it makes life, my life, bigger than the grief I’m experiencing. I say above that I’m bumping into grief more these days. I feel sort of shoved out the way by her hips. But perhaps it’s a love tap. Maybe when I bump into her I can move closer, the way I would move closer to a friend with whom I bump hips while walking together. Perhaps I can abandon both those tight ropes I mentioned and, instead, walk alongside this friend I call Grief which, in fact, may be love personified. Relax into the total experience of it and let it expand my heart and feel the love more deeply.

Instead of, “I was loved. I lost those who loved me. Now I am bereft,” isn’t there a felt sense of I was loved – beautifully loved – and I still am loved? When I say ‘I still am loved’ I’m speaking about love given and received as well as the Presence of Love within me that is even or also me – the real me. The love that resides inside truly exists in me. It isn’t dependent on someone else giving it to me. And at the same time, all my beloveds’ love still resides in me in a full and tangible way.


I began writing this essay many days ago. I can say that I seem to have experienced genuine transformation around my companion whose hips like to brush up against mine, otherwise known as grief. I still can feel hurt, confusion, and longing in regard to my three beloveds who have left this earth. And those feelings still pop up in expected and unexpected places. But when I feel happiness, joy, delight, surprise, awe, contentment, curiosity, just any positive state, I now feel the presence of their love that still and ever will bless my life. I’d say I think of them even more often now, because there is no need to withhold or tamp down joy or laughter out of a sense of respect. Rather, they are still a part of life and living and sharing love. Even with grief as a companion, I now have a sense of wholeness back because I know that Love isn’t missing from my life. Love didn’t leave me. Love is right here inside me present to it all. When I show up and be present to Love, there is fullness, even a belly laugh that knits this mortal life together. And on the subject of mortality, I’ve been giving it less thought lately too.


The Dreamer and the Pragmatist

He trusts more than I do.

Trusts that Life will support us in most everything we do.

I, on the other hand, keep waiting for Life to pull the rug out from under us

whereupon we’d fall flat on our fannies in the dirt road of humiliation and shame.

At which point I’d say “We should’ve tried harder to please Life,

to appease Life and not need to make amends,”

even as he’d lift me up, dust me off and say,

“Come on, girl, let’s go, there’s more Life to live.”

And I would stare at him in disbelief.

Then follow.

I must want to trust life too.

After 18 years of loving each other, I finally connected a pair of dots that makes sense of a lot – including a recurring tension between us. The man is the dreamer in this relationship and I…I am the pragmatist. How is it possible it took me so long to realize this and how is it possibly true? I’m the writer, for Pete’s sake. Doesn’t that necessarily make me the dreamer? Apparently not.

Since the beginning, there have been times when, to me, he felt like a man taking off in a hot air balloon with me losing my grip on the tether holding him to earth. He put forth so many ideas that pulled on me that may or may not ever come true, but spoken out loud threatened to undo my peace of mind. To him I must have felt like a brass weight (well, perhaps a weight made of gold), always putting attention on why this or that idea wasn’t practical, what the ramifications and consequences of following through with them would mean, and whether or not we could afford it. Whoosh! For 18 years it went right over my head that the #1 point of him initiating those conversations was to dream. Period. Kerplunk! For 18 years I didn’t understand the fact that what I wanted was to feel safe and protected. My pragmatism and rootedness helps keep me so. His hot air ballooning seemingly threatens to undo me.

hot air balloon


That is until I figured out what’s going on here. He likes to dream and he likes to speak his dreams out loud. It doesn’t matter if we can’t afford it. That’s not the point. If we can’t afford it, we won’t get it, but why not dream it anyway? I keep my longings close to the bone so that if I can’t have them I won’t be disappointed or hurt. But, from experience and conversation, I finally understand this difference between us. I can let him dream and even sometimes chime in because I know he won’t choose a dream over my safety and security.

brass rabbit

We’ve got a little bit of opposites attracting here, a little yin and yang, a little up and down, a little tension that can be used creatively instead of being the same old offense and argument over and over again.

Life gets better when we perceive personality differences as unique aspects of one another without taking them personally, like an affront. It isn’t an affront that I have hazel green eyes and his are blue. So there’s no affront that I’m a pragmatist and he’s a dreamer.

Live and let live, and love together.

Sepia toned Joseph & Sarah gazing at each other






Fear of Death and Dying…then Living

My whole life long I’ve only ever had the present moment. The future is not guaranteed, so at whatever age I’ve ever been, I only had the present moment in which to live and love. It turns out that when I was a child I did have a future that manifested itself one present moment at a time. But even from 7 to 17, with all my wistful desires for my life becoming more of what I wanted it to be and less what others demand it be; I was only ever alive in the present moment.

childhood_youth_young adult

This thought rose to the surface on a drive with my dog, Daisy, today. It isn’t a spectacular thought. Many others have had it before me. I’ve read the same kind of thing many times. It’s something I know intellectually. But today it came to me and landed in that sweet spot where real knowledge and wisdom meet; which is probably the place it arose from as well.

To give it meaning and context, this “ah-ha” is important to me because of my recent preoccupation with the fear of death and dying. We moved six months ago. Do you know that moving is found on lists of events that contribute to the shortening of your life span? It’s true! About half the moves I’ve undertaken in my life have been beneficial, and that was true of this one. Nevertheless, moving is a beast because of the stress it imposes and the stress it unlocks. This move unlocked my own fears of death and dying. I remember some years ago blithely telling a friend, “Death doesn’t frighten me – only the variety of ways one can die.” I’m fairly confident that even with that statement I was resting secure in the idea I’d die asleep in my bed someday far, far away in the future. Well, I’ve been eating humble pie with that memory for a half a year or more.

cemetary steps_pair of steps_aged daffodils


This fear of death and dying, like a box wrapped up in the comics section of a newspaper and tied with string, got placed before me  a couple of years ago. I don’t know why but our current move ripped the lid off that box. I go to bed fretting about how I’m aging, what’s going on with my body and mind, how much of it can I improve and if, how, and when it will all get worse. Amazingly, I fall asleep. Then somewhere near day break fear slaps me awake with dreams that don’t make sense but fill my gut with dread of my own demise.

While I imagine that if I took one of those quizzes that determine the “real” age you are, separate from your chronological age, it would say I’m older than my chronological age; nevertheless, I am only 55. Though the future is not guaranteed, I could have a lot of years left ahead of me. I do not want to spend them wrestling with the dread of death and dying – at all – and certainly not every night and morning.

And so the idea that I’ve only ever had the present moment, whether in my childhood, youth, adulthood, or middle years, landing in that sweet spot where real knowledge and wisdom meet, makes an impression. I believe that if I will attend to the present moment rather than fretting about the future, I can deal with how things are right now – what hurts, what works, what I need to be cautious about, what’s pleasurable, what causes concern and fear, what there is to be grateful for, etc. – and live, right here right now, with whatever limitations or improvements are present and available.

In my experience being present is a spiritual discipline. Just like in meditation where, with gentleness and no judgment, we come back to the mantra or the breath when our thoughts and attention wander, this is the way to return to the present moment – again and again.

DragonIf the fear of death and dying is a dragon toying with me, then continuing to return to the present moment may be the way to pull myself out of his talons, make direct eye contact, and soothe us both. Bring us both back to love and the only place where life and love happen – in the now. I can’t help but think of the famous Rainer Maria Rilke quote about fear and dragons:

How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloudshadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any miseries, or any depressions? For after all, you do not know what work these conditions are doing inside you.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Actually, Rilke reminds me that this dread that wrestles me is a gift. I don’t have to feed it or sacrifice myself to it! But I can accept it as a gift and see what it has to teach me. That, too, best happens in the present moment with open palms rather than clinched fists and jaw.

Bokeh yellow flowers on bush blooms first in spring


Life Showing Up via Highest Aspirations


There is such great good fortune in being able to pursue one’s highest aspiration. Mine has been for God and the spiritual side of life. For 49 of my 55 years it has been the most compelling aspect of my life.

Except for rare occasions, I’ve had a sense of God’s presence since I was 6-years old. This isn’t an uncommon phenomenon. Among people who make God, religion, and/or spirituality their life’s work, enough have written about their first mystical experience occurring at six or seven that I’ve decided there’s something in the maturation process of the human brain that makes this experience available then. As I came into my late teens, moving toward young adulthood, I assumed I needed to take this experience of the presence of God and my keen interest in spirituality and turn it into a career. That didn’t work out – not in my twenties when the desire felt like a calling and not in my forties when I revisited the notion.

Old enough to have fewer years ahead of me than I have behind me, I’ve wondered what it’s been about, this aspiration to love God with all my heart, soul, and mind – to have the luck and gift of that relationship. Wasn’t I meant to do something big and grand with it?!


water drops on branch

Mulling it over once again, today I consider the possibility that one’s highest aspiration doesn’t have to be turned into a career. Instead, it can be what tucks you in at night, what casts your dreams, what greets you at the start of the day and carries you through each week.

It can play a part in making you a mensch – supporting you to be the kind of person who is available to help others in times of crisis or the smallest need.

A highest aspiration doesn’t have to be a self-defining thing. It doesn’t have to have goals or boundaries, expectations or agendas, a to-do list or a white board. Rather, it can be a place where essence is illuminated and where terms like success and failure are not a topic of thought or conversation. Instead of being turned into a measuring stick, it can be an expression of one’s essence, one’s heart, one’s being.

When I pull the “I should’ve done something grand with it” out of there and consider the words written above, it feels like a free gift I can freely receive, trusting that being receptive to it is enough. And that I am…enough.

Tree in snow_b&w


Life after a Spiritual Seminar

After nearly twenty years of personal growth and spiritual workshops, seminars, and retreats, it’s gotten to where I can hardly stand all the sitting, listening, meditating, and being present that is required. Those group experiences make me want to crawl out of my skin to escape the irritation that fills my body.

sunflower tight in the bud

Currently, I have completely sworn off any workshop or seminar that requires cognitive or emotional processing from its participants. Those workshops serve a purpose. But if a person is growing, they’ll one day outgrow the need for them. At least I have. This past spring I attended a retreat anticipating lots of profound teaching and meditation. Instead it was an intense, emotional processing group. Made me wonder why they called it a “retreat.” I spent most of the first day of the four-day “retreat” journaling my pros and cons for leaving and not going back. The pros list won and I suddenly had a free weekend.

These days I attend a bi-monthly satsang and have joined a mentoring group that meets in workshop style every few months. Both of these stretch my physiology as I struggle with getting antsy and irritated during the meetings. Though I’ve asked myself why I put me through it, I never fully explore why I keep attending satsang and why I signed up for the mentoring. Whenever I ask the question it naturally drops away and I turn my attention elsewhere. It’s a subtle distinction but I recognize the difference between the get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge response to the misnamed retreat in contrast with the irritation that comes with satsang and the mentoring group. With the latter two, the irritation is a sign that there’s something there for me that’s very rich on a personal level, and very threatening to the ego.


I spend a lot of time in these settings arguing with myself, trying to get me to an internally settled place. I often wonder what I’m getting out of it because I use up more time internally fighting with me than listening and absorbing the teachings and meditations. However, there are always golden moments where magic happens, I do get still, and experience something profound to take away.

The real magic, though, happens in the days that follow satsang and the mentoring group. Because it’s then that I see the fruits of having shown up and done my best to be present. In the days that follow there is a deeper level of honesty in my observations about life, myself, and others. I find that certain of my routine judgments have softened or fallen away, perhaps completely. The love inside is richer, deeper, fuller.

My satsang teacher says that if the mind is active and the body restless then show up to that. Be present with that because that is what is happening in the present moment. Of this I am becoming a master.

I also get regular practice at living in mystery and trusting the unknown. Because though I know to trust the situation in spite of the irritation, logic berates me for hanging in there and I have no answer for the logic when it asks, “Wouldn’t you rather do things that make you comfortable?”

I know that my experience isn’t unique. Every single human who includes the practice of stillness, meditation, and presence in their spiritual work struggles with the body and mind preferring activity, distraction, and comfort.

Something that gives me fortitude is this. On that ledge of trusting the discomfort – getting comfortable with the uncomfortable – there are Christian mystics who say the kingdom of God is found there. That is where the deepest magic of all happens. When the growth that occurs as a result of one of these settings brings me closer to the mind and heart of God – where stillness abides. On that note, I’ll close with these words from one of those Christian mystics:

You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope. ~ Thomas Merton