Category: Grief Journey

Ode to Joy: The Cello

Today, without knowing why, I found myself driving to the cello store, then hiking around my backyard forest with it in my arms. I sat down on an ancient rock and moved the bow across the strings until it finally started to fill the air with its sumptuous sensual tones. I wanted to play it by the fire and by the waterfall. I wanted to play for my pink flowers, dripping ferns, and fairy rocks. This time the cello didn’t make me weep, it made me laugh in delight and skip back down the hill.

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Isle of Skye, Scotland: Land of Windswept Fairy Tales; Home to Warrior Queens; and Healer of Broken Hearts

If there exists a land of windswept fairy tales, Skye is it. It feels like you are on the edge of the world. Fog curls around the mountains like gray cotton candy arms wrapping the hills in a hug, pink wildflowers dangle like bells, old stone bridges arch over rushing rivers, the kinds of stone bridges where ancient legends are made, legends of fairies and magical creatures who dance on the bridges at night, bridges from this world to the other world, the magic world.

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How to Help Those Who Are Swimming in the Sacred Waters of Grief

I think it can be hard to know how to help those swimming in the sacred waters of grief.
In my own experience, I found that the best thing you can do is just show up. If they are home, sit with them, listen, hold them while they cry, make them laugh, (I do this by showing them how I’m practicing my skipping after hip surgery which is always a good laugh.).
It is far more helpful to show up than to say “Call me if you need anything.”
Drop off groceries, plant flowers, leave them a jar of honey or jam on their porch with a note that says “Thinking of you.”
These small acts of kindness are more powerful than you can imagine.

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The Healing Properties of Dancing in the Rain

Then I thought, I wonder if Anger Gardening is a form of therapy?
If it’s not, it should be. It’s dazzling in its wildness and simplicity. I watered my soul garden with my tears and my rage, then lifted my face to the rain and felt my soul bloom into a thousand blossoms lit by fireflies.

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Lighthouses: Keepers of the Flame

They’re just little bearded guys, but they are the keepers of the flame. They remind me that no matter how dark and treacherous a storm may seem, no matter how thick the fog of grief around me, when I don’t know which way to turn, I just need to keep my eyes open, watching for the light that will guide me home.

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Rewoven: My Mom and Dementia

Then again, my Mom is still my Mom, whether she’s able to respond to us in way we understand or not. She is living in a spiritual tender world, a world that doesn’t make sense to me, or those of us currently anchored in the concrete world.

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A Pocket Full of Starlight

Is it strange that I want to shrink my Mom and carry her in my pocket so I can have her with me all the time, like a pocket full of starlight that I can throw up in the sky when it seems especially dark?

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Marci Darling’s research on Nita & Zita is published