Dear Friends,

August is in full swing.

And —-

How is your heart today?

Give it a little rub, or give yourself a little hug, or a squeeze, or a few gentle kind words to that sweet spot in the center of life.

Mine is a bit wobbly, grief-y and joy also.

​We’ve been hit hard by fires and smoke this year, here in the PNW, as many of you know firsthand. The fire map is so full of orange it’s hard to see anything else.

And there are feelings I have and things I want to say.

I’m not sure I’ll say it in any eloquent way, and others may say it, but I haven’t heard it.(I am out of the loop, to be honest!)

First ---

We’ve started to normalize fire as a “season”, so I also want to point out that the first twenty-seven years of my time in Bend we only had three fires that impacted us directly. It’s during the past ten years that we began to use “season”.

I don’t want to call it a season.

That has a feeling of permanence I don’t want to hold.

Our thoughts and words do make worlds after all.

And recently, reading The Earth Says Remember Me by Jason Dove Mark, I recognized I don’t want to normalize this. I want to remember there was a time when it was different.

(I want to tell my granddaughter stories about the beauty of summers here. About what the temperatures were like in July sometimes (cold enough that we got snow!, and more.)

Can we go forward into a time without yearly big fires? Possibly —-

If you haven’t considered the normalizing and you want to be inspired to remember and to help humans not become accustomed to current normals that don’t reflect the longer view give this link a listen, (it shares the meaning of shifting baseline syndrome ) and/or read Jason’s book.

And ---

​Last Sunday I was ambling the Deschutes River with Sweetness.

It was not yet seven a.m.; no other humans in sight.

I was listening to the river, who sings a particularly magical song along this spot, where water weaves through boulders and rocks.

We stepped around a tiny house-sized boulder and lo and behold, there was a Great Blue Heron sitting about ten feet away from us.

The sun shimmered golden sparkles on the green-blue of the water.

The heron was crouched on a flat gray rock staring into the pool directly in front of them.

Shortly after we arrived they lifted their head and body and seemed to stretch, stood tall and stately for awhile,

then they preened the feathers down their long neck,

then we all heard an Osprey sounding, we all looked up, and they swooped above us, dove out into the distance, an arc of light in the blue pool of sky.

This beautiful Heron went back to looking and listening.

After maybe five minutes, they suddenly lifted their oh-so-very-large teradactyl-like wings, darkening the water around them, and moved about fifteen feet to another rock.

We also moved.

To be close.

To breathe with this bird.

To feel, for a few moments, that we were living in Heron time.

The felt sense of carrying that body weight on those stick-like legs — how would it be to have a neck as long as theirs? and that beak!

Then simply being with.

Sometimes moments feel like forever in a good way, you know?

A while later they lifted off this time higher up, and oh-so majestically, slowly, steadily up the river out of my sight.

I felt like weeping for joy.

Then a day later, sitting on my front porch.

I hear the whizzing sound of a hummingbird and

there they are

Six inches from my face.

Eye to eye.

Beak to mouth.

Hovering.

We gaze.

Moments pass.

Then with a twirl they spill out of sight.

Gone.

Little Hurricane (as Mary Oliver names them in one of her poems, so spot on!)

I felt like it was a visitation, the eye before a storm or something like that.

Every being speaks. Remember.

​

A few hours later. The smoke rolled in. Thick and heavy.

How can that hummingbird with its teeny-tiny lungs not be really struggling with that smoke?

How is that Great Blue Heron feeling breathing this in?

Will this decrease their life spans?

I had a moment of such grief for these two beings I’d had the honor of being with,

and that cascaded into an acknowledgement

of a deep sadness sitting inside the pocket of my heart,

that I wept about over coffee with a new friend this morning,

who really listened and heard me ---

I am grieving for all the habitats, the nests, burrows, dens, that are burning or have burned. All of our non-human kin (birds, bears, caterpillars, rabbits, cougar, bees, snakes…) who are being sorely impacted by all of this fire and smoke.

They don’t get a reprieve.

They have no filtered indoor air to move towards.

They lose their homes, and where will they head?

So much death and destruction for them too.

It feels important to speak this.

I want to acknowledge and honor the lives and losses of our non-human kin, along with us, who likely have moments of fearing for their lives, of running, or hopping, slithering, or flying for them.

And the loss of their lives.

Their bones slowly become soil.

And our kin, the trees who can’t flee. One of the species that are the lungs of our Earth.

The plant world. The breathtaking blossoming flowers.

I want to gather up these losses and hold them together.

To celebrate their lives and grieve their losses.

For and with them.

This is my attempt at doing that.

To begin with this naming.

(Its not at the exclusion of honoring and grieving human losses. Including the recent loss of Jason Ensign a firefighter.)

I am offering a place at the altar of grieving and honoring to all living beings.

I like to imagine that if we say goodbye,

if we thank and praise and acknowledge and bear witness,

if we make room in our hearts for our more-than-human kin,

something will rise out of the ashes in the modern human heart,

kindling a different kind of fire in us.

One that remembers what’s always been true.

We are interconnected to all of life.

What impacts them affects us and visa versa.

If you feel called —- To carry this with —- to tend —-

Here is a beautiful song I learned through the beloved singing group I belong to, Voices Rising; it’s by Alexandra Blakely: Carry This All.

Take a moment to listen.

If it feels right. Pause.

Take a moment to acknowledge our more-than-human kin.

Feel what you feel.

Let it move through.

Take a moment.

It matters.

Thank you.

Bless you.

Love you,

Carol

Photos and collages by me!

Dear Friends,

Ahhh. Hello.

Take a breath with me.

Slow and long if you’d like.

How is your heart today, in this moment?

Mine is pretty voluptuous.

This morning gazing up into the canopy of so many greening deciduous leaves,

a shimmeringly cool summer breeze wrapping it’s arms around my naked arms, legs and face. Ahh.

And —-

I became someone who writes by being someone who reads all kinds of books voraciously.

Authors have mentored me in so many ways over my lifetime, and many feel like such kindred spirits, even if I never meet them.

Robert MacFarlane is one of those!

​Right now my favorite book is his Is a River Alive?

​Why, you might ask?

And there are so many words that come in the answer!

For one thing, his writing is so delicious it’s like sitting down to the best five-course meal I’ve ever eaten.

Taking one bite,

I gobble another,

attempting to slow down,

instead I gallop through a few pages and then—

well, while I might not get to do this with a meal,

with this book,

I can and do go back.

I savor and play —-

with the way a line tastes

in my mouth

and the descriptions dance through

down into my heart and tap a new beat.

I hear differently, my nose senses in a newly minted fresh way —-

After lines like;

“The song of the river grows and grows; the path rises, crooks round a corner — and there is my first glimpse of the Rio Los Cedros.

It is wide and shallow, leaping and silver.

Sunlight lies in ingots on it’s bed.

Quartz crystals glint in the sand between the stones.

It is instantly…charismatic, I think: as lively as any river I can imagine.”

and this;

“Ideas move in space and time. They swim like fish. They drift like pollen. They migrate like birds. Sometimes their movement carries them right around the world, and they find new niches in which to flourish.”

I underlined so much in the first section that I laughed out loud and realized there is no point. Read the whole of it again.

These real-life people doing real work in the world are more magnificent and inspiring than any fictional character I’ve ever read about.

Yuvan who lives with paper wasps, and Giuliana who can sense a mushroom fifty feet away while in a car, and many other people living their soul’s work with compassion, love, and tender care for beings that don’t have human voices.

Also, he is writing about rivers, whom I care about so deeply it aches to my toes, and my heart grows wings as I imagine other people picking this up and the masses beginning to murmur, yes, yes, yes, rivers are alive!!!

And doesn’t that carry the moment? Because that, that can change everything.

The beloved Siletz River

This book can change people’s hearts,

and not because that’s what he’s attempting to do —

Because if you really take in these words,

drop them into the pool of your heart,

you cannot help feeling despair and wonder

and awe and hope and love.

What would it take for you to consider a river is alive? (if you don’t already)

What about them having legal personhood?​

How would we tend and care for rivers if enough of us considered them deserving of rights?

How would we speak about and to rivers?

How would we listen?

How might we give rivers space to be themselves?

​Here’s a recent article: Unearthing Paris’ Mythical River about uncovering a river in Paris!

​New Zealand, Ecuador, Canada, Colombia, and Bangladesh have given legal personhood to one or more rivers!!!

Isn’t that amazing?

I didn’t grow up in a society where people openly spoke

and listened to rivers and water in it’s many forms.

Or mountains or trees.

Rocks or bees.

And you know.

Every being speaks.

We, more recent guests here

arrived when that narrative

was struck down and built over.

It’s rising back up and out.

Of the water. The soil.

There is a leavening in the air,

there is an unfolding silence that

is becoming a scream.

Fires rage. Tornados and hurricanes ravage

and still we

sit in the soup of the short story

that has us kings of the mountain.

It’s tumbling though.

The small rocks under our feet, are gathering speed.

Listen.

​We are changing.

Many ways of moving forward —-

towards a world that works for all —-

is moving backward

-— before colonization

to learn from a history

we weren’t told —-

about how to love

and respect all living beings.

​

And here is one of my favorite RIVER Songs by Coco Love Acorn!

Naomi Shihab Nye, in the interview I put out a few weeks ago, was asked: “What can we do right now?” And she said, “Keep speaking up.”

So I am.

Speaking up with Robert MacFarlane’s words living in my heart and sending a few to you.

May you speak up for what matters to you.

with love and hugs,

Carol

photos and collages by me!

Hello, Dear Friends,

To begin —-

Here is a song I find so beautiful and —- you can listen to, to give yourself a little love infusion.

How is life living through you at this moment?

​This is an opportunity to pause.

Before you read.

Perhaps close your eyes.

Take a breath.

To be present in your life for a few moments.

To take three full breaths.

To feel your feet on the ground or your butt in a chair.

Open your eyes and gaze around the space.

Be here.

​Again.

How is life moving through you at this moment?

Let yourself feel it. Let yourself be in it. Wrap your arms around yourself and give yourself a big loving squeeze, or two or three!

(Feel free to make a note in the comments with your in-the-moment answer!)

Me —-

I feel a little achy break-y as Central Oregon burns.

My chest feels tight as I write.

The fire map is almost aflame itself with orange.

​

I’ve been in Portland helping with my grand-baby. Who is beyond adorable!!

It’s a relief not to be there, and it’s uncomfortable to not be there at the same time.

​

I’m not there as the land I love burns.

I’m not there as some of my friends get evacuation instructions, a few already needing to go.

I’m not far in distance, far enough though, and not in the direction the smoke is blowing at the moment.

​

It’s hard to grieve another beautiful forest scorched.

I fear for people’s lives.

For loss of homes.

All the lost grasslands and trees.

I fear for all the critters who rely on these places and the fact that they aren’t breathing cleaner indoor air.

How does the smoke affect their lungs? Their lifespan?

​

How to hold the pain of fire, the fear of evacuation, of any of us losing a home, of the grief that comes with loss, the difficulty of taking a breath in air scorched with ash?

​

How to hold the beauty of the months preceding this, the glory of the summer days we’ve had, which were truly spectacular in their BEAUTY.

The crimson poppies burgeoning

from cracks in sidewalks

and now the crisp yellow-gold sunflowers,

late-summer sentinels,

reminding us to live by the sun,

turn toward the light,

even in the darkest times.

​

There is so much to grieve and so much to be grateful for.

Sometimes fear prevents me from feeling either of these.

​And —- in my heart

I see grief cupped in the delicate blossoms of the tender blushed poppies

blessed to hold a tiny teacup of our tears ---

and gratitude in the sunflowers’ reminder to keep turning towards what you need, what you love, in the midst of it all.

​

I say ---

Everyday prayers to the plants.

An honoring of the earth each morning.

Blessing water before I take a sip and in the shower.

Thanking life for what it offers as I grieve what is being lost, which will become anew.

How to hold in both cupped hands, life, as it unfolds, and allow the flow of both grief and gratitude to move through unplugged.

​
I think of Joanna Macy’s The Work that Reconnects, the spiral:

Coming from gratitude.

Honoring our pain for the world.

Seeing with new/ancient eyes.

Going forth.

​

I need to review this work. To be reminded once again of the importance of holding our pain with gratitude as the cup, to then help me see with new/ancient eyes. (I love imagining new/ancient don’t you?)

And to go forth anew with some form of action.

And action can be so many many things.

​Even those prayers. Those blessings.. All the little ones add up to handfuls.

I hold my hands out, and I feel the filling as I reach for the community of place that I’ve lived in for so long.

​The hyperlink to a free video course on The Work That Reconnects is here and above --- if you are interested in reflecting inwardly to learn how best to serve our world at this time.

Till next time friends. Hold all your love with care. You matter.

Hugs,

Carol

(photos by me)

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l

Hello Friends,

May you be well.

And if not may you wrap your arms around yourself and give yourself the biggest hug you can. I’ve been doing a lot of self-hugging, tree-hugging and dog snuggling and it helps!

I recently watched an interview with Naomi Shihab Nye on All Things Considered. I couldn’t not share just in case you might love it!

Here’s the link HERE in case you want to give it a listen.

​

Naomi is a poet, a teacher, and many other things.

Here I felt her so much as an elder of a community of care for the world.

​

I’ve read Naomi’s poems for years.

Her poem Kindness is one of the first poems I fell deeply in love with.

And ---

I’d never heard her speak before.

She bowled me over with her warmth, her vulnerability, her grief, her assuredness that there is so much good in the world, and the generosity of care, comfort, and mutuality she offered to the people who got up and spoke during the Q&A.

​

I feel so grateful when I am inspired by someone’s humanness.

When they wear it like a comfortable old t-shirt.

Authenticity simply is.

(It also reminded me of how important it is to cultivate inspiration and really feel it in my body. Feeling inspired is like taking a deep breath, both necessary to uplift my heart.)

She also offered some really poignant and beautiful questions that brought something different forward for me.

​One of the questions was, what’s hard for you?

I’ve been sitting with this question.

I want to answer it. I do.

And honestly, I can’t quite gather my courage to see all that is hard for me in words that are on a page that I can see with my eyes — right now.

I will, though, and perhaps it can mend something.

Perhaps we can stitch together a quilt of what’s hard for us with a quilt about what brings us joy and see how it feels to be wrapped in both. Us the creamy middle.

​Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if we asked that question of people we “other”, of the parts of ourselves we “other” --- Would it grow a river of empathy, a waterfall of compassion, if this was the question that passed our lips when we were struggling or triggered by someone else or by our own inner critic?

How about you, what’s hard for you? If you are braver than I am take a few minutes to consider this. Or like me, give it some time.

​There’s more in this rich interview, but I’ll let you watch (if you are interested!) and reap the seeds that are right for you.

​

Blessings friends,

Carol

(collage by me, photo by Phoebe)

Dear Friends,

Hello, my friends. Hello.

How is your heart in this moment?

MINE is grief-y, sorrow swelling, weepy, feeling broken open, spilling, and my body is sitting on the front deck with sweet morning light and Sweetness languidly enjoying his sunbathing. To pen this note.

So, holding it gently and considering what it really means to be tender with my heart, especially when it is hurting. With the heart of the world. Of the seen and unseen. The whole of the broken and beautiful.

I watch my daughter with her newborn, and I remember that, for many of us, tenderness comes easily when we are with babies and littles.

I offer it up without regard for how my voice changes or how my heart seems squishy, open. I relish tenderly touching skin as soft as a petal of a red poppy in spring. I press gentle, precious, sweet kisses to my granddaughters head, face, feet, hands, everywhere!

I have no hesitation in holding her close when wailing or giggling. I am open to a kind of physical tenderness that I rarely give to my nearest and dearest that are not wee ones.

And oh boy, it seems like tenderness is sorely needed in our world.

I wrote this one a while ago.

A reminder to myself.

Be Tender with the Face you SEE

Ah, yes, simply, ah, yes.

I love the idea of being tender ---

in theory, it holds so much

of what seems most important in this world, and yet

we seem so far away from it.

With the face you see.

The hardest part.

Your own face.

Mine.

The one we see in the looking glass,

in the shimmering reflection

of a mountain lake on a clear, glassy day.

Yes. 

Place your palm.

That’s right, 

place it gently on your cheek,

then your other palm on the other cheek.

Hold this face.

Look at it in the mirror as it’s held.

Stroke it as if it’s five weeks old and you

are gifted the task of loving it.

Feel the weight of what it’s seen in its time.

Press the wrinkles at the corners of the eyes gently.

Caressing.

Anoint that face with a warm oil.

Massage with the whole of your heart.

Extending to the cells, your hands,

and the mirror neurons in your brain to

listen, to hear the blue-green pulse of care generated

in finally, giving your face what it needs most.

If you do this.

If you do —-

promise me you will weep.

You will let the tears flow.

Not from sadness, nor regret.

Love this face.

Love every freaking thing it has beheld.

Yes, you can.

If I could and you wanted I would give you a great big warm tender hug today! May you ask and receive if it’s what you need.

With love,

Carol

Hello, Dear Readers,

Ahh.

Are you well today?

What is moving through you in this moment?

Can you take a breath?

A pause.

Acknowledge what is — one of my favorite and most difficult practices!

And —

I’ve begun to cull and edit pieces of writing from the past! (I started today, haha)

And — below — below — is a little piece I wrote a while back, and a bit of a preface here.

Loss needs a place to live with us together.

I was thinking this morning about the seesaws (teeter-totters) that were in so many parks in my young years.

Any of you remember those?

We’d play on them for hours in the parks back in the seventies. How we’d weight one end to hold someone else up in the air, sometimes come down hard, sometimes simply rock back and forth, rising and falling like ocean waves on land, or slowly, playfully, and sometimes we’d focus on getting the weight just right so the seesaw was balanced in the middle, small micro-movements, almost stillness. And we’d smile with a deep satisfaction from the distance our bodies needed to be to do so.

It reminded me of grief and gratitude. How, in some ways, holding both, not necessarily to balance, to notice how each supports the other. Science has shown us how good gratitude is for our lives, and yet a pileup of unprocessed losses makes it less likely we can truly embody gratitude.

Even though we know intellectually we need to grieve. It still gets ignored. Shoved aside or down. It gets poo-pooed so easily.

Perhaps adding a grief to your gratitude journal.

Holding the both/add.

Letting each of these bolster, in subtle ways, the other.

Because they do.

The grand seesaw of living.

The uncertainty, the truth of temporality in these bodies,

the beauty and despair of love and loss.

What we can be present to,

perhaps what we must be,

to create possibilities for life beyond our wildest imaginings.

Here’s to wandering the hallways of gathering for loss:

Crying is a Love Language After All

It’s time for more of us

to offer loss a tender place in our living rooms,

in our boardrooms, in our bedrooms,

in our classrooms, in our cathedrals,

in the forest and the meadow,

in the laboratory and the chambers of government,

in the inky black middle of winter,

and the sweltering summer sun.

​

It’s time to drag loss out of the closet,

out of our bellies,

bones and tissues,

and allow it to tumble into life.

To grieve the loss of species,

the loss of freedoms,

the loss of safety,

the loss of what we thought we had,

the loss of health, of free, unbridled time, of relationships, of loved ones, and on and on.

Loss needs sharing and pairing and company.

It needs hearts open and heads bent.

It needs hand-holding,

It needs more poetry and art.

It needs more song and dance.

It needs shoulders to lean on,

it needs tears to well and spill,

It needs laughter to flow with it.

Let’s welcome loss anywhere and everywhere.

We don’t need to be alone with loss.

We can be.

And we can choose differently.

If this calls to you, consider whether you want to invite loss into your world in fresh ways, with others, if you haven’t already done so!

I’m getting on a zoom call in just a minute to do a little grief ritual with my friend Elaine!

Love,

Carol

Photos and collage by me.

( a bit of a publishing snafu first go around!)

Hello, Dear Humans,

Thank you for opening up this little missive.

And ---

What’s happening in your inner world at this moment?

Would it be good to take a few slow, deep breaths to reconnect with yourself?

Landing in my body, coming home to this moment, when I remember too, almost always creates a level of okayness, even if the moment doesn’t feel okay.

I recently learned this BEAUTY of a song at the community singing choir I belong to.

And as we were singing the refrain —- AND MAY OUR LOVE BLESS EVERYONE —-

I had my eyes closed

and what arose in my heart’s eyes ---

was a visual of humans ---

random humans on a crowded sidewalk

being gently kissed on the cheek

by a loving presence.

And as it flowed

The energy cascaded

and slipped down the sidewalk,

into the buildings nearby,

Everyone’s cheeks are being kissed.

It was a rolling wave of love passing through —-

It was a gorgeous daisy chain

of tenderness that spread on and on

and each time someone was touched

I could feel the sense of wonder and gratitude

flowing through them

and through the world

and back to me.

It was like we were elevating the heart field of the universe.

I felt awash with love as tears tipped

and slipped from the corners of my eyes.

I kept them closed, streaming rivulets

savoring this beautiful world ---

created by our voices singing “and may our love bless everyone.”

(because in that moment it truly felt like we did!)

And this moment reminded me of when my partner Kevin was dying. That last month of his life, he let me kiss his cheek, his forehead, the top of his head. (something he would never let me do when he was well, it was too mother-y for him.)

They were some of the precious moments of his last few weeks. My lips finding a place on his body, rarely kissed, and doing so. Pressing gently, sometimes like a butterfly’s wings, and sometimes like pressing rose petals between the pages of a book. I wanted him to carry this love with him.

Then years ago, my dear friend Bart and I played guitar and sang every Monday at lunchtime for over two years. During that time, I left my husband and was struggling in the process. One day, as he opened the screen door, tears were already streaming down my face.

He put his arms out, and I leaned in, and he wrapped me in the most beautiful blanket of care. After a moment, he lifted one hand and cupped the back of my head.

—- I can’t remember a time when someone had cupped my head like that. I felt held in a way that brought a sense of care I didn’t know was available or desirable. Now years later holding my wee granddaughter Sylvie’s head, pressing kisses to her face, hands, cheek, belly, and feet, I get it. I was remembering a holding that happened so very long ago and my cells remembered — as will hers, and may she have more and more loving touch and welcome it and offer it, her whole lifetime! —-

That hug and holding with Bart was probably sixteen years ago. When I invite that memory in, the felt sense of that moment reenters my heart, a gladdening for that man and his deep friendship.

I want to cherish the love I get to kiss and cradle into Sylvie’s cellular memories and all the other beings I can offer love to.

With all that is happening in the world right now, tenderness seems so vital. I was reminded once again that we can create that, whether in the imaginal or in real-time.

It doesn’t have to be a kiss.

Or holding a head.

It could be a smile,

a hand squeeze, a hug,

or sitting next to someone struggling and not speaking a word,

saying so much more with your still presence,

your listening heart.

These simple acts can be everyday world changers!

Note the moments. Savor. And repeat.

With love,

Carol

(Collages by me. Photo of the rose by me)

Subscribe now

Hello, Dear Humans,

Thank you for opening up this little missive.

And ---

What’s happening in your inner world at this moment?

Would it be good to take a few slow, deep breaths to reconnect with yourself?

Landing in my body, coming home to this moment, when I remember too, almost always creates a level of okayness, even if the moment doesn’t feel okay.

I recently learned this BEAUTY of a song at the community singing choir I belong to.

And as we were singing the refrain —- AND MAY OUR LOVE BLESS EVERYONE —-

I had my eyes closed

and what arose in my heart’s eyes ---

was a visual of humans ---

random humans on a crowded sidewalk

being gently kissed on the cheek

by a loving presence.

And as it flowed

The energy cascaded

and slipped down the sidewalk,

into the buildings nearby,

Everyone’s cheeks are being kissed.

It was a rolling wave of love passing through —-

It was a gorgeous daisy chain

of tenderness that spread on and on

and each time someone was touched

I could feel the sense of wonder and gratitude

flowing through them

and through the world

and back to me.

It was like we were elevating the heart field of the universe.

I felt awash with love as tears tipped

and slipped from the corners of my eyes.

I kept them closed, streaming rivulets

savoring this beautiful world ---

created by our voices singing “and may our love bless everyone.”

(because in that moment it truly felt like we did!)

And this moment reminded me of when my partner Kevin was dying. That last month of his life, he let me kiss his cheek, his forehead, the top of his head. (something he would never let me do when he was well, it was too mother-y for him.)

They were some of the precious moments of his last few weeks. My lips finding a place on his body, rarely kissed, and doing so. Pressing gently, sometimes like a butterfly’s wings, and sometimes like pressing rose petals between the pages of a book. I wanted him to carry this love with him.

Then years ago, my dear friend Bart and I played guitar and sang every Monday at lunchtime for over two years. During that time, I left my husband and was struggling in the process. One day, as he opened the screen door, tears were already streaming down my face.

He put his arms out, and I leaned in, and he wrapped me in the most beautiful blanket of care. After a moment, he lifted one hand and cupped the back of my head.

—- I can’t remember a time when someone had cupped my head like that. I felt held in a way that brought a sense of care I didn’t know was available or desirable. Now years later holding my wee granddaughter Sylvie’s head, pressing kisses to her face, hands, cheek, belly, and feet, I get it. I was remembering a holding that happened so very long ago and my cells remembered — as will hers, and may she have more and more loving touch and welcome it and offer it, her whole lifetime! —-

That hug and holding with Bart was probably sixteen years ago. When I invite that memory in, the felt sense of that moment reenters my heart, a gladdening for that man and his deep friendship.

I want to cherish the love I get to kiss and cradle into Sylvie’s cellular memories and all the other beings I can offer love to.

With all that is happening in the world right now, tenderness seems so vital. I was reminded once again that we can create that, whether in the imaginal or in real-time.

It doesn’t have to be a kiss.

Or holding a head.

It could be a smile,

a hand squeeze, a hug,

or sitting next to someone struggling and not speaking a word,

saying so much more with your still presence,

your listening heart.

These simple acts can be everyday world changers!

Note the moments. Savor. And repeat.

With love,

Carol

(Collages by me. Photo of me and Sylvie by my daughter and the rose by me)

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“Words make worlds.” is a quote from Robert MacFarlane’s, Is A River Alive? (Yes, is my answer! And I highly recommend reading this book.)

This man has such a gift for words, for putting them together in ways that bring my blood pumping and my heart smiling and my cheeks blossoming for the beauty and terror of this world.

I first read this book about a year ago and that particular line “words make worlds” has been rolling around in my body almost daily since.

Because it rings so true to me. 
And because it feels so important to consider this. 
Because in this we have choice. 
The words that spill out of our mouths, 
the ones we press to a page, 
or tap into a computer, 
the words we listen to (some of the time)
and read, and the words we say to ourselves about ourselves —- All of it! 

Wowsers. Take a moment to consider this.

Words make worlds.

Does it ring true somewhere in you? 
Not as the only way. 
Not to simplify what makes the world. 

Words though. 
For humans. 
They shape us. 

They have been poured into us, sometimes crammed in, sometimes offered gently and they ooze and spill and whisper and shout out of us.

They rattle our interior, the inner critic and ruminator that can wreak havoc in so many directions.

They soften our hearts, mend the broken and slice new wounds.

And if words do indeed make worlds —-

What words do you want to utter more often?

What words do you want to receive, take, or receive into your listening body?

What words do you want whispered in your ear right before you fall asleep and the first as you wake?

What words would you like to be reading? Write yourself?

What words do you want to offer your loved ones? The difficult ones?

What words would you speak to the more than human world?

What words would make your heart sing, your soul leap?

I could go on and on with questions here! But I won’t.

If it pleases you, give time to one or more of these questions over the next week or so, or one of yours that rises from —-words make worlds—- and note what if anything blossoms!

“Words make worlds.”

And.

I want to be a thread in the cog of time that lifts words up and plants them in the center of the center of this storm of time we live in to grow beautiful gardens of words around all the harm and separation and othering —-

Last week as I planted four rows of peas in our community garden, I thanked each pea, the soil, sun, water and air as I placed them in the moist soil and covered them. And then sent oodles of gratitude to the all that is and a short prayer that these plants grow and thrive and create beauty and sustenance and add their life force to this land where I live. It felt so lovely to speak to the land and all.

Lately, I light a candle once a day for Iran and for the people who are saying yes to war. I say a blessing out loud. I send as much light as my small being can muster and ask for all hearts to open, more peace to pool in the world now.

These are small gestures. I know. A few words.

And sometimes it feels like this is all there is. Small gestures. And then I think, is any gesture really small?

And lastly. Here is a beauty of a short poem by Rilke.

“I live my life in widening circles

that reach out across the world.

I may not complete this last one

but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around this primordial tower.

I’ve been circling for thousands of years

and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,

a storm, or a great song?”

Sending love and care your way!

Carol

P.S. collage and photo done by me.

Hello Friends,

I trust this note finds you well, and if not, that you can pause and take a few slow breaths —- drop into your body, into your heart space, and say hello to yourself, and all you are feeling in this moment.

Welcoming your inner life, acknowledging what’s present.

I’ve been on a bit of a writing sabbatical. My daughter had her first baby, my first grandchild and it’s been a whirlwind, and a slow roll of connecting, contributing and caring for this new family. So many feelings, and no words yet.

And—this year my children gifted me with Storyworth; a memoir writing tool and I did finish that up and send it off. It was a beautiful and poignant process. Not a tell all memoir, mostly a skip down memory lane (which is what I titled it).

Here is one of my first chapters.

Every time I read this I smile at the young girl in myself.

May it bring you to a memory of your own!

What was your first big trip?

It was a short stretch of asphalt

and then a longer expanse of sidewalk

for my five-year-old legs.

The Paine Branch library is the destination.

The first personal adventure I recall.

A half block of physical distance.

And oh, so far in my imagination.

In my sense of freedom.

In the quietude, I gleaned.

In my wonder, being sparked,

inhabiting worlds beyond the known one.

Libraries were places of silence, back in the sixties.

No talking, and they meant it.

A sanctuary for a quieter child living in a home

with nine people and a cat or dog

or other creature most of the time.

It was a little like a church in that way,

a sacred silence for all the book lovers of the world.

Where heads bowed in reverence to words.

A refuge and an adventure that spanned the globe

while lying on the carpet in the library’s children’s room,

or on the grass in our backyard,

or snugged up into a corner of our couch.

It was a place that allowed me to dip into silence,

like a warm bath on a cold winter night.

A chance to explore how to love what I loved.

And it definitely gave me a feel for books as being special,

as libraries holding an important space in the world

where the rules were different.

The librarians with their index fingers to their lips and shushing folks.

The scent of print on paper wafting through the space.

A world within worlds.

Boundless and bound.

So many places and people to meet.

To sense the feel of the wind of the high deserts of New Mexico,

taste the tangy salt water of the ocean,

to imagine looking up at those Redwood trees in California.

Or to hold hands with Nancy Drew on one of her adventures.

It was a red brick building with a metal handrail outside.

I once got my tongue stuck to it, in the middle of winter,

licking the slick, cold metal.

I remember someone had to run to Mrs. Ferris (a neighbor and friend)

and she came with a bowl of warm water, poured it over my tongue, and I was free.

I never licked a metal railing again!

I sometimes pulled our red wagon

with my little sister Kitty in it.

We piled the books high

then she rode in the wagon

with all the books,

and I tugged them home.

Mostly, I loved and still do,

how quiet the world gets when reading

and the felt sense of a book in hand.

I wonder if it also taught me the love of stretching my legs by myself.

Of moving through space quietly together.

Of skipping over cracks,

of belonging even when by myself.

Thank you for reading!

With deep care and appreciation.

Carol

FOR LIVING CLOSE TO DEATH

When the clock of time stops

And “all the time in the world”

Becomes the truth “we never know”.

Permanence shattered.

Slow time begins.

Living with death on your shoulder invites

A deepening into experiencing life

With the lid off.

Temporality a gentle nudge to unfetter your wings.

May slow time enrich and nurture and plump up every cell.

May embracing temporality allow you to live generously,

between the beats of your heart,

and unfurl your precious belonging to the vast universe that abounds.

May relational healing become the sweetest scented,

brightest moon of your days.

May the divinity of the tiny moments

of coming into presence

invoke a cascading symphony 

of murmuring birdsong to lift up your soul. —-

Hello Everyone!

How is life living in you at this moment?

How do the above words land in your heart or your head or anywhere else in your body?

If it feels right take a few moments to let the words live in you.

And —-

I wrote that blessing for my partner Kevin and myself when he was really ill. I was living beside him, drinking from a not to distance glass.

Being with him and grappling with these larger concepts that for the first time were in my living room in real time.

I come back to this particular blessing trying to live it’s lesson today.

The truth of our temporality and how difficult it is to remember that.

Falling down 100 times I find myself standing again.

Lid off at the moment.

Heart a bit, or actually a lot, askew.

Unfettered at least some of the time.

Belonging to life as it is now?

Even when that now hurts a lot. Especially when it does. Now.

For the cascading symphony often comes when the last thing I want to do is be with the pain. So I do. This time.

And then my heart opens and birdsong runs like rivers through my veins.

And I bow my head and ask for more compassion and more forgiveness.

May this blessing serve you in some way. If you think it might be helpful to someone else, pass it on.

My heart to yours,

Carol

Hello, Dear Humans!

First off.

If you are reading this, Thank You!

I’ve been writing a newsletter for over 20 years, and my writing has evolved and changed so much.

I’ve titled this My Heart to Yours because when I write from my heart, which can range from passionately fiery to a melting to tears tenderness, I feel most in touch with the whole of myself.

The first series I’ll be putting out was written in the Fall of 2023 when my then partner, Kevin, was diagnosed with biliary duct cancer, and I had just had foot surgery, and life went from upright to upside down in days.

I had been reading John O’Donohue’s Blessing Book, and each morning, for a few weeks, in the wee hours before dawn, a blessing would come through me.

I’d read them to Kevin when he woke, sitting quietly across from me and asking me to repeat it slowly.

He’d have his eyes closed, breathing it in.

At some point, he’d open his eyes and say thank you.

Sometimes one of the other or both of us would, tear up or sob.

Sometimes we’d sit quietly arms wrapped around each other.

For New Possibilities

On this early morning

the purist black slips

through the blue-green sheen of curtains

And floods and tumbles into the lamp-lit living space.

It’s another day.

Not yesterday.

Don’t press repeat.

I beg you.

Who is inviting you into this space and timeless time, my friend?

Listen.

Not only with and to the repetitive voices that descend

Like clockwork from the old stairways

of yesterday and yesterday and yesterday.

Listen with the skin and bones of your feet.

The pulsing crimson of your living, breathing heart.

Which direction do they want to go today?

What thoughts do you want to give attention to?

Where can you find a sliver of joy?

What grief wants to be recognized?

Don’t prioritize sameness.

The slick flavor of habit that sucks all the air out of the bed of your lungs

and then the room.

The emptiness isn’t allowing the rainbow that sits at the edge

of today’s horizon to greet you.

Tie one end of your golden thread of time to your heart.

And let the other soar on the breeze.

Let it be picked up by the winds of the unknown, and you know—

May you soar with the hawks today.

May the yellow leaves of old stories tumble as your roots

sip the nectar of possibilities.

May the gleam of your brilliant eyes know newness.

If this blessing would resonate with someone you know please feel free to forward it!

Blessings are meant to be shared.

With deep care,

Carol