Hello to you all and welcome to the more recent subscribers.

Fifteen years ago I moved from the midwest USA to New Zealand with my husband and our six year old son.

While this generally seems an unusual scenario for those living in mid-America, my British husband grew up believing that moves and exploring new cultures were commonplace; required.

Where I came from in the US many folks have never seen or dipped their toes into the ocean. The idea of being in a different continent than family is unheard of by many. However, in NZ, at every turn, there are folks who normalize such relocations. Many people have moved to NZ from the UK and other countries—far from loved ones—to explore a new life, therefore providing a bit of an automatic supportive network; a demographic who understand the magnitude and the beauty of making a life on another side of the planet.

Raised by parents who claimed no interest in travel, even as a child I held a vibrant wanderlust. At a very young age I recall attempting to engage my very religious mother in the conversation by the quandary, “We only have so much time here. Wouldn’t God expect us to see as much of the planet as possible?” Hence a core belief of seeing the world was lit within me from my origin, where it came from I do not know.

Decades later we took my mother to the UK, with us and our two youngest children, to spend time with my husband’s family. A photo of her standing in front of Stonehenge is poetry; an unexpected stanza. For her last two years of life she lived with us in New Zealand; it was a magical time that I hold dear in my heart.

Part of my husband’s rationale for moving when we did was for our youngest to be able to acclimate more effectively into a new culture, but that is just part of the bigger picture. While we have bent over backwards to give our other children’s parents grace, circumstances became untenable for our children and ourselves, with a parent on a mission to sabotage our relationships and professional standing in our community with little consideration for the stress the children were put through.

Also, as a clinician and a mom, I had a strong desire for a recovery-based school for my son’s last year of high school since we had less than a year before he came of age and our decisions would moot. In my heart I needed to do anything in my power to offer him a practical and hopefully successful recovery option; his other parent was not in agreement. Knowing the challenging statistics, I couldn’t imagine living with myself if we didn’t use that school year and addiction took his life (as it has so many of his friends in the following years).

Being in a state of almost literal helplessness and a fair bit of what at times felt like emotional agony in our co-parenting situations, at that time, made the relocation decision feel like the right one for the wellness of us and our youngest child, and the remaining kids. At all costs all of the kids deserved as much peace as possible, and we could see that constant turmoil was taking a toll on them. Only the most intense boundaries might suffice. Unfortunately, after our move, a visitation guideline by the court was never upheld for the youngest, but we had them with us as much as possible and would have loved for them to live primarily with us.

I could write volumes about what led up to divorces and the challenging terrain that ensued for both my husband and myself, but taking that personal vow (and court order) of speaking with respect to our kids about their other parent was one we took seriously. Some would say, to a fault.

Therein lies but a brief glimpse of some of the why of our relocation that has mainly gone unspoken. I share that because I know many other dismantled families have dealt with parental alienation and long and bumpy roads before their children are of age. You are not alone.

In this current world view’s climate many folks fantasize about a life changing move. We feel pleased that we can offer a place of respite for our family.

I think of the below quote, which is a message to writers, when I am tempted to dig deeper into that earlier, painful time of our lives but am stopped by feeling guilt? shame? utter disbelief?

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should have behaved better.” Anne Lamott

No family is immune to trauma.

I recently remembered that a few years after we relocated, I put out a cold-call to my three oldest biological children to share some feelings about what this geological distance has meant to them. I hadn’t read them again until today and I share them here because their their spontaneous thoughts about the subject speak volumes about what can result in amicable situations. These were written around ten years ago.

The first is written by the youngest of my first born, my son, Keegan. Many of you have read the parts of his story that he and I have both shared. He has a Substack and podcast. He is an outreach worker at an innovative not for profit with a housing-first belief for the unhoused. He’s just finished his addiction recovery specialist credential and is working on a outreach specialist type of certification as well. He’s very involved in his recovery and advocacy community. Sadly, his soul companion Skinny recently unexpectedly became very unwell and died. Skinny was with Keegan during his most challenging times and will be greatly missed by us all. Keegan has embarked on a comedic journey where he riffs on some of his traveling/unhoused/addiction terrain and politics. You can follow his comedy at IG and other social media platforms @keeganotwellcomedy.

Keegan’s words:

Loving from a distance certainly has its benefits in certain situations, and today in retrospect I find myself very grateful for my mother’s move to New Zealand. I was here, a drug addict in on and off active addiction and no semblance of recovery whatsoever. Being a parent in that context is something that is extremely heart wrenching and difficult, especially when you are an ex-substance abuse counselor who knows the true nature of addiction and the places it can lead. I would say my mother and I share a strong connection but during that time, in active addiction, there was no one but myself. To realize you are powerless over your own child’s self destruction is something that I can’t even imagine having to endure, and that distance, that 8000 miles, might have been the only thing that kept my mother sane. Now with more than two years of recovery there actually is a long distance relationship, where before there was none. The time spent when she does come and visit is very valuable time. Maybe it’s kind of sad that we have to separate for us to value each other’s presence so much when it is available, but I suppose that is human nature. It transforms that interpersonal relationship into something that is no longer a commodity and the time spent together is all the more precious for it. I am grateful that my mother is able to pursue her dreams and I wouldn’t want it any other way for her. It makes me feel so good when I see all of the beautiful things she is able to see, when I see they are constructing an outdoor kitchen at there newest residence, and all the other assorted things, small and large, that are just the stuff of dreams. I could not be more happy that that is available to her.

The next is written by my middle child who was married last year and now resides in Helsinki, Finland, his partner’s homeland. What he didn’t know when he wrote this was that he would come stay in New Zealand the most and the longest of any of our children. He’s come for months at a time. His gift of reassurance to me was reminding me that if we still lived in close proximity we’d have had less length and intensity of time together. So true.

Luke’s words:

Four thousand miles is a long (and expensive) way to go every time you want to see your family, and because of that we don’t get to see each other as often as we want to. Luckily, there has been enough reasons for them to come here in the past year (a wedding, a baby) so we have seen each other a good amount during that time. And when those times occur it has been wonderful “quality time” and that is the paradox of having family that lives far away; you don’t see each other as often but when you do it’s more special. You appreciate your time together more because it is a rare thing. I live 3.5 hours away from the rest of my family and see them about once every 1-2 months if not more often. Though our time together is super special to me, it’s not as intense as family time with people who you are not positive when you’re going to see them again. Everything said, I don’t think my mom moving away has hindered our relationship at all. This is the age of Facebook, email, Skype, etc. and in a way, being 4,000 miles away isn’t as different as being 40 miles away as it used to be.

Finally, here are words of my first born. A journalist by training and career history, she is now the communications director of the largest state agency in her state.

Rachel’s words:

Having already gone through the process of our parents divorcing, and one remarrying someone who already had several children of their own-- I would say my brothers and I were already well-versed in transitions. Though it was initially a shock and sad to think I couldn’t just swing by to see my family on a whim-- or even on the holidays, we have all adapted well. My daughter, who just turned one, has already had three long visits from her Mana, and one could argue she has been able to squeeze in as much quality time as any other family member (if not more.) One of the good things for me that has happened (besides of course an amazing place I know I can go visit) is the example of a parent who has chosen to live her life more deliberately than most, even when that includes making tough choices and sacrifices. It’s definitely influenced the choices I make in my own life for the better and I think it will continue to do so.

My oldest biological children wrote these for me to share in a blog many moons ago, which is why I feel comfortable sharing them now. It’s been a healing exercise to dig these up and revisit them because my heart has been aching to spend time with them and our five grandchildren–one we’ve yet to meet–and all of our family.

Part of my agreement for moving here was with the caveat that I could go back any time I desired or when family needed me and this has been the case. My granddaughter’s birth miraculously timed that the moment I landed in the US my daughter’s labor commenced, a time when they needed childcare for a month, three lengthy trips during my brother’s last six months brain cancer—I was with him his last week of life. I made it to see a son in a play and the other son playing multiple gigs. Several times I travelled solo; the last time was an epic three months of visiting all of our children in 2022. That was the same year my friend died in December and then my intense health saga kicked into full force the next month. Because of my heath issues I had thought that might have been my final solo trip.

Today I deep-dived into looking at flights. I realize I’m not ready to travel without my husband and he’s not ready to make the trip back to the US right now. It’s left me feeling forlorn. It’s time like these the reality of not being able to be with any of our family on a whim weighs me down.

Things changed. I have, in fact, just returned from three weeks in the states. A trip that began at the end of that last sentence.

To be continued ...

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I’m currently out in our camper van, Towanda, during our winterless winter in the Northland of New Zealand. Contained in the tiny space with these views, the rise and fall of the tide, sea bird’s shenanigans, beach walks, reading, writing and the ability to better tune into what I want to experience in the moment, being free of a list of “shoulds” I can never conquer at home––it’s a bit of a cleansing reset.

Before I became so very unwell I would take off in Towanda for some grounding time, much of the time within her was as a space holding the writing of my book while experiencing nature’s embrace.

This morning I waited for the sunrise that never came. The sky lightened. I could see hints of blue between gray clouds, but the shiny orb has yet to show itself. Yes, there was a little disappointment that I’d waited for the show that never happened. It reminds me of how relative the concept of eventful, beautiful, engaging... actually is in my life.

Most ancient spiritual beliefs make reference to disavowing judgment, but we tend to interpret that to mean releasing only negative judgment- of ourselves, others, situations… Even now, it’s a judgment if I call today’s sunrise mediocre rather than sitting with the fact that it just is.

Over the past decades when I’ve found myself wanting, needing, to return to non-judgment, a space near impossible to practice as my status quo, I’d remind myself that judgment is judgment, good, bad or otherwise. It’s a room in our minds that can invade our spirit and feed into a life of extrinsic/external motivation (ie mood/wellbeing based on things outside of us vs intrinsic/internal motivation rooted in being inherently able to regulate and be at peace with ourselves– for the most part). Judgment rarely walks the line between black and white thinking; it tends to be all good or all bad, easy slots in which to file our lives, especially in these/those precarious times.

After a lifetime of working in challenging settings with humans and parenting our precious humans and all the bouncing between euphoria and desperation and everything in between, at times I’ve struggled with the ability to tune into what my soul needs. I’m sure many of you can relate. And mind you, during those chaotic times I wasn’t even aware how much my self-agency didn’t enter into my choices, walking that tight-wire of life, attempting to keep the vast amount of balls in the air, trying to do the right thing.

In January 2023, just after walking my dear friend Dawn home, I once again thought, hmmm I feel like I have a bug. I was no stranger to periodically having a week of my life turn to yuck, convinced I’d picked up a random virus or maybe a wee flare of my Crohn’s disease that had me fatigued and overall blah. Except this time the symptoms didn’t ease; they worsened. My energy didn’t return. There was flank pain that hadn’t been there before. I became near bed ridden. After finally going to my g.p. and the ensuing medical investigation lead by many specialists, I became the owner of another chronic illness affecting my kidneys. Another apt description? My health was a hot mess. No judgment, just facts.

Down the line Dawn’s daughter commented that she felt like my health issues had been brought on by the stress of her mom’s illness and death. There was medical proof that the condition had been there my entire life, but there’s never been any doubt that my system is affected by stress assaults, but, no, stress wasn’t the causal factor.

During those first two+ years of being acutely (yet chronically) unwell I was the recipient of lessons I’d never before considered. Writing takes a lot of energy. Writing about death and dying and freight trains of grief take even more energy. Interacting with others takes so very much energy. Running a podcast and project and interviewing people about their tender experiences surrounding death, dying, and the aftermath took a now insurmountable amount of energy. My energetic bandwidth was maxed out for socializing and so much more, period.

More recently, over the past six months, I’ve experienced being more in the middle-ground of symptoms. My kidneys no longer constantly ache. Rather than giving my energy a (judgmental) descriptor, there are concrete changes in my behavior that tell me my energy is on the rise. I don’t have as much of an overwhelming need to sequester from social interactions. I can be more active. In the past couple of months we’ve taken in multiple plays, movies, and such.

Most recently we stayed with friends overnight rather than make the 90 minute drive back home after a show. These friends have been no stranger to health assaults and it was lovely time of acknowledging this later (but not ancient) stage of life we are in and opening ourselves to our deaths and those of others and living in the liminal space of not knowing, especially during health challenges. No matter what healthy practices we have, our aging and health will have its way with us. No news flash there.

Now, here I sit in Towanda, having come out for a nature-soak. Alone. I had pushed myself out a few times over the last three years but this trip feels markedly different. I’m feeling energized by this outing.

Fatigue messes with our brains. At my worst I wasn’t able to sink into reading, or even scroll or enjoy watching movies or shorts. This year I’ve been voraciously reading. Just this past month our library had a couple of books I was interested in that I couldn’t get from our digital library. For the first time in a long time I held a book and turned its pages. My senses were transported to my love of books, starting as a kid; it felt like a homecoming of sorts. There will be more page turning to come.

I’m a 65 year old retired human, mother, wife carrying around a few chronic illnesses while hovering in the space between sublime and decrepit. The space I am in is neither all good or all bed bad. Never in my life has it felt so urgent to check in with myself in any given moment, and listen to what my body and mind says it can and cannot handle and heeding that wisdom, doing my best to let go of any self-deprecation surrounding challenges.

Never has the frequently chirped phrase it is what it is felt so true. Previously there might have been the consistent caveat of but you can change it. I’ve reached the bridge of aging where I’m best realistically accepting in my bones that one day I won’t be able to change it, no matter what I do.

In the mean time, I’m so gratefully blessed to be able to pay attention to the page, be it written or writing on it, and so many other telltale signs that signal my easing back into the land of the living.

May we all find simple ways to feed our souls. May I have the grace when it comes to health, to accept the things I cannot change and the wisdom to know the difference.

Much love and thanks for being here.

Hello friends, I’m wrapping this piece up on my 65th birthday. I recall when I turned 30 I felt my baby faced self finally had the ticket to being perceived as “mature.” Funny, I kind of feel that way about 65 now (truly old). Mostly I just feel fortunate to have made it this far. Our crystal ball was a little cloudy about that possibility, but it seems to have cleared and given me a yellow brick road to follow.

If you read my last piece you may have sensed that I had high hopes for the three day silent meditation retreat I attended. I was visualizing that experience, with me having some improvement in my symptoms and it would serve as a bridge to walk through the world a little more present and a whole lot less miserable.

This experience was the first time I would be *expected* to follow a full itinerary each day since before I became so unwell. Actually the last stint of day-long (or more) intensity was just before my symptoms hit in the new year of 2023. I had been by the side of my dear friend throughout the last couple months of her life, and, with her daughter, caring for her at the very end of her life.

My nervous system revs mighty for reasons of care: having babes and littles, my brother, then my mother’s deaths; my husband’s MI; my friend’s death; journeying with another friend’s illness/death; when our kids are having challenges... When I’m on for care, I am on. In fact my friend’s daughter had later wondered if it was the intensity of our experience with her mom that precipitated my health’s body-slam. Of course I’d be amiss to not acknowledge that such a major traumatic (beautiful-horrible) life event might have been the last mind-body-insult that had me take to the bed for a better part of a year+, but I hesitate to believe it was the actual cause. Likely, it was more of an ingredient with other stress-insults that formed a perfect health storm.

This age and stage has let me land in a space where I know I need to largely let go of the challenging past and/or gold mining for the nuggets of why all things pain and discomfort were what they were. That’s not a space to live in. With decades of practice and being retired enough to have loads of time for self-care, I try to just take a quick reminder peek behind the curtain when I need validation. Of course it makes sense for one to feel like that when you’d gone through x,y,z in your life.

As I told my brother when he visited New Zealand on our road trip when his conversation returned, several times, to pain that lived in our childhood home: pulling up those memories can feel torturous, as if we claw with our bare hands to dig up the casket, pry it open with our bleeding hands, peek in and receive the validation of, yep, that happened, and it sucked so much, that hasn’t changed, and it needs to go back in its rightful place rather than taking occupancy in our mind-body.

That resonates so much, he said. Oh that we all could consistently practice what we preach.

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After leaving the retreat, upon checking my calendar when I got my phone back, I was reminded that my last silent retreat before my mother died was actually seven days long, hence the level of guilt I had in the aftermath. I noted in this recent retreat journal that it kept feeling like the first one must have been longer. I’d forgot it had been that long.

This is mom just before I left for that retreat. I’d cut her hair and given her a massage shortly before my departure. It was a gift to see this photo and be reminded that yes, there’s no way we could have predicted her precipitous decline. As I implied in my last piece I think it was simply her choice to get on with dying upon my return.

Some of my takeaways from my recent retreat experience––

• Being apart from my phone for the entirety was a positive. It was a gift having my focus on nature vs electronics. It definitely felt like it freed up bandwidth in my mind-body. I want to continue having long periods with my phone off.

• My observance of nature felt trippy at times. Seeing faces in the trees, shapes in the clouds. There was a time I stood in front of a bush-like tree that was totally still except for two leaves that were flapping their hearts out. I automatically said, calm down guys, I see you. They reminded me of two overzealous toddlers trying to get my attention, waving. As soon as I thought the calm down thought, they both immediately stopped. Experiences like that happened during every outdoor walking meditation.

• Silence was golden for me. I got out of there with not speaking during our time we could ask questions or as we wrapped and preferred it that way. With my health compromised, I had noticed how much energy socializing and even just chitchatting took, therefore it was a welcome respite to feel no pressure and to know I wouldn’t be perceived as rude for my withdrawal.We were also not to engage in reading, listening to music or words, and minimal journalling. The goal was simple mindfulness.

• Upon my return, for the next few days, I experienced feeling more well than I have in years, as if a leadened cocoon had broken free. I felt emotionally lighter, more life-energy, clarity, and I treasured it. (since, that has waxed and waned, but there is the memory of it and continuing glimmers of that feeling that needs tending to keep alive)

• The most staggering concrete change was the results from a blood test I had to take before I get my first infusion for osteoporosis tomorrow (my vertebrae fracture sounded an alarm to my medical team). I get bloods every three months to check my kidney functioning, my last had been in February. This week’s result had my kidney functioning the best it has been for almost five years, in fact, 20 points higher than the lowest it had been during my last few years. Blew our minds.

• So yes, I guess I do perceive that, upon my return, I walked across some metaphorical bridge and into a new way of being. The weekend of the practice reinforces that I do not have to over-think it or know the whys, but be grateful and keep walking the walk.

This year I did something I’d never considered before for my birthday. My husband and I aren’t big into gift-giving and appreciate experiences, if anything. Without consulting him, upon my retreat return, I decided to schedule wellness appointments; something I don’t always feel empowered to do for myself (my own issue). The goal being to sample some practices and modalities and build an ongoing support system for me and my health. Attending these started the week before my birthday.

First I had a lovely long session of massage and reflexology that I will definitely repeat. Her ambiance, energy, and touch were very centering and relaxing.

Next was a Reiki session that involved a back massage; that resonated as well. I got my nails done just after that appointment, and it’s crazy how much that has affected me feeling like I’m more in the land of the living. Go figure.

Yesterday, on my birthday (NZ time, yesterday) my husband and I both received a two hour massage then went to the movies. He has been such a pillar of a supportive partnership while I was unwell and I wanted him to have some pampering too. Today (my US time birthday- haha) I’m going to the gym and this evening we go to an exquisite restaurant for their degustation menu.

I do believe this sampling strategy was important for me to develop a supportive structure where it is more the norm to get body/energy work to support my health, life, journey, rather than random and very infrequent wellness appointments.

Wishing you all times of gentle care-taking of yourselves, love and peace during these upheaved times. Forgive me if my writing appears to be side-stepping around the current international tragic chaos. My husband is deeply into the news and keeps me informed more than I deeply dive into the news.

Sitting on an island in the Pacific, in a country with a population of five million, and having not lived in the US for 15 years, it is beyond comprehension to believe that hate and idiocy has prevailed. The only hope is that there will be a momentum forming to develop an overwhelming righting of this sinking ship. That’s where I put my prayerful energy.

Sending big love. Thanks for being here. I’d love to hear from you.

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(Thanks so much for being here. More and more, Substack feels like a genuine supportive community. I appreciate you taking the time to connect.)

Increasingly, when I run my hands through my hair, there are shimmering white hairs left between my fingers. At least they’ve lost some of the pubic hair wiriness of those that initially popped forth and announced their awkward arrival right on the top of my head. They are now softer. Finer.

Having been an avid music listener throughout my life, more recently my headphones are playing tinnitus blocking sounds or meditative playlists: medicinal listening.

For decades I was convinced my memory was astounding. Positive memories, the regretful, the scary, the giddy, any and all seemed available at my bidding. Still able to recall a memory from when I was two, now, chunks of happy and less happy times have gone missing. Thankfully.

As years passed, I realized my recall was dwindling. Trying to normalize what might send some people into a panic, I rationalized that, like an overloaded computer, my memory storage had become so occupied that my brain had started to delete what it saw as excessive. It was primarily the traumatic memories that seemed to be first in line to be buried alive.

Forty-three years after his death I can remember my father’s crooked pinky, his lunch box, his work ensemble of Fruit of the Loom pocket t-shirts and Dickie work pants, but for the life of me I cannot visualize his work shoes, yet I know were sturdy and practical and the same style year after year. I think his work shoes looked like a prototype for Doc Martens.

Growing up in a household, micromanaged by a tyrant, there began a letting-go of many of the play by plays of my father’s “fits,” as my mother named the violent, days-long episodes.

Now as I near my 65th birthday, I have come to believe that, finally, losing some of the specific memories was my subconscious, myself, showing up to save me.

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Being an ever-vigilant child in such a household was a necessary part of survival. The intensity of the reaction to my father pulling into the driveway, his plodding steps as he arrived home from work, change in his pocket and keys jingling, signaling me to take cover and lay low.

Survival meant, at all times, keeping an eye and ear open for the door slams, a heightened visceral energy, too much silence, too much of a biting tone, sudden movements of the person whose byline was I’ll slap that look off your face. Seeking an escape or cover wasn’t always an option; you took the opportunity to get out of the line of fire whenever you could.

My brain’s hyper-vigilant survival mentality was needed less as I aged. I’d love to say I never again found myself in a situation where threat loomed, but nay: Life.

As I matured and became increasingly empowered, striving to live a life where I primarily resided within a proactive verses reactive paradigm, choosing a profession that required deep emotional/psychological diving and self-care, my mind/body was allowed to unwind. Even so, hyper-vigilance was always hovering just there, close by— ongoing surveillance in an attempt to keep myself safe.

In fact, one huge a-ha for me while coping with the last few years of misguided health issues rendering me sedentary, was realizing how resistant my body remained to total relaxation—the muscle-deep letting go. Recalling how often during a massage the provider would take an arm and move it around trying to make it floppy, chiding, relaxxxx. Even now, during breath-work and meditation I have to remind myself to truly relax my body. Let go.

I think of all the years of juggling a professional life with marital stress, pregnancies, births, nursing, loved ones with substance use disorders, drama, clinical therapeutic work with traumatized humans of all ages, general keep-your-nostrils-above-water life ... How exactly did I keep a functional momentum; or dare I ask, how did I thrive? My inner engine must have needed that vigilant high internal idle of my first 18 years of life to keep me on a flight path that protected me from crashing.

And rest assured I also felt utter bliss which, I’m sure, saved my sanity. My darling children, who until their current adult selves, I always proclaimed, “this is my favorite stage” for each and every one (honestly though, damn I love having adult children— I’m so lucky).

Now. An aging product of a personal life-game of Jenga that we’ve all played by this age and stage, at times gently pulling the bar of wood out of the tower without the entirety collapsing. Other times, just a nudge initiates a total breakdown.

Breaking couldn’t last for too long; there were so many souls that depended on us to rebuild our collective life-tower, dreaming upon dream that this time the refurbished foundation would hold stronger.

Over thirty years ago, when my five year old son experienced a brachial cyst causing his throat to swell rapidly, exponentially, and we moved toward emergency surgery and his recovery, I held him nonstop—strong and able for him. This was my first concrete lesson of how sometimes, fueled by adrenalin, we hold ourselves together and are so very strong during times of relative crisis, because we have to be. After the fact, the emotional impact of what just happened can arrive as a delayed reaction leaving us in disbelief, what the hell happened and how did I muster the mind/body/spirit energy for that?

I’ve had some very welcome health improvement over the past six months. My assumption earlier in that decline had landed on the possibility that the incapacitating physical symptoms were the beginning of the end of my time on the planet. Today my son commented on all the health side-swipes I’ve been through the last few years, the most recent being a fractured spine six months ago. How the hell have I coped with all of that? I couldn’t help thinking.

There was a part of me that used to roll my eyes at comments like, “aging isn’t for the faint of heart” much like non-birthers who doubt the intensity of childbirth—because they have not gone through it themselves. I no longer roll my eyes to that aging suggestion.

Sometimes I wonder if my earlier body had persevered to keep a hectic life together for so long and then with children aging out, retirement, and a general slowing down of life, a gaping hole was perceived that opened the health issue floodgates.

Never mind unfairness. That’s a sold-out show. My brother and others who were on the cusp of retirement, that much fantasized about life stage, when their fatal condition attacked. And clearly, the unfairness odds rise exponentially as we age.

Just before I began writing this piece I perused my Substack reads and stopped on Jeff Hiller’s latest piece, As the World Spins. I love him and his sweet soul’s transparency. He is someone I see as much younger than me and riding the life-is-good wave (I visualize him wearing his head scarf, a broad grin, waving enthusiastically from atop said wave). He was speaking of his own aging in that piece.

Sometimes it takes that reminder, that I’m not on this aging train alone, for this elder stage to not seem like such a foreign land. (someone will be thinking, misery loves company) My current life is rather hermit-like. I’m not with much of a regular cohort to take measure and compare our life stages. Just me and my old man (couldn’t resist–we are old).

Immersing in movies, music, et al. can sometimes be a reminder of the universality of growing old. Watching the performers we’ve grown up with age. Saying good-bye to some. As superficial as it sounds, they help feed my desire to not languish, but live. Thankfully I now have some renewed energy available to baby step towards putting that into daily practice.

Tomorrow we leave our stay in the Far North of New Zealand. A simple, isolated dwelling looking towards the Tasman Sea. A place my husband kept referring to as a retreat prior to our arrival and indeed it has been just that.

Speaking of being a hermit, at the end of this week I head out, alone, to a three day silent meditation hermitage at a mystery school not far from where I am right now. The last time I was able to attend was immediately before my mother’s death. In that space, my wanting/intention circled around the hope of being prepared, strong enough, to accompany my mom meaningfully to “cross over” as she called it during her dying process.

At the hermitage, I would awaken during the middle of the night, go out into the black depth with the twinkling dance of a sky-full of stars and look up, begging, please gather our teams of angels/supports/ancestors to be with her and me to ease this passage, please make me strong enough to be there for my mother.

After being with my dear brother at the end of his earthly life earlier that year, I couldn’t imagine having the capacity to show up for my mother in the same way. The intensity of such a journey defies description. The beautiful-horrible indeed.

Upon arriving home, to my mother, she took my hand, her weary eyes met mine. It’s time now. I’m dying.

Thus the journey began, and 24 hours later she took her effervescent, joyous, full-face smiling, final breath. Indeed our teams must have heard my yearning pleas. Death was brought into the room, no need to hide, and if I’d only known the beautiful and magical that would show up for her end of life journey, my anticipatory dread would have been greatly eased.

So yes, after almost nine years, I return to this same isolated hermitage very soon, unplug, handing in my phone, and enter what feels like a portal of possibility. No speaking. No listening to podcasts, music or tinnitus masking tones. Minimal journalling. No exercise. Opening (hoping upon hope) to an expanded consciousness.

This time I will arrive beckoning the stars for a continued awakening to myself with gratitude for returning to my life on this planet just when I thought I might possibly be leaving it.

Hello dear readers,

I’m hoping that this finds you all staying safe, managing the climate you are in (weather, emotions, politically, socially), and being kind to each other.

We are living in challenging times. As an expat (dual citizenship) who has been living in New Zealand for almost 15 years, the US has not lost its grip on us. Our Kiwi youngest, who lived in NZ from the age of seven to nineteen, moved back to the states to see if there was gold in them thar hills. He and his adult siblings and our grandchildren, as well as friends and loved ones, have us clenching on the regular as the terror in the US and the world unfolds. Of course it would gut us even if our offspring were not residing there. Many of our family are not “white” and they cast a bright rainbow of individual identities/preferences.

Is anyone immune? Safe? It doesn’t appear so, but especially if the snow-whites of the harsh world see your color, sexual identity/preferences, etc ad nauseam, as reasons to “other” you.

My heart is with you all. The current climate of fearing for one’s safety and the safety of others, the ensuing deaths and destruction of lives, and the disorientation of “where has my country gone” has melded into a hybrid of Handmaid’s Tale, Black Mirror, and TheTwilight Zone. May peace and reason reign.

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Throughout the years, if you know me, you may have heard me proclaim that I was on a “news fast.” With my chronic medical bylines, and the unbelievable turmoil of the US and world at large, it has been imperative that I limit toxic (to my mind-body) stress as much as possible. That is but one of the mindful steps I am taking in 2026 as I work on Project: Come Alive.

Of course, experiencing life and family changes and personal challenges is inevitable. As my son who has journeyed with substance use disorder (and doing very well, thank you) throughout the years has repeatedly instructed me, when we have no control over tumultuous times that weigh on our mind/heart/body: SAVE YOURSELF.

As humans, we seem to have a knack for assuming we know what others need. We “should” all over ourselves and we “should” all over others. (an aside: shoulds and oughts are part of the cognitive distortions comprising the framework of cognitive behavioral therapy—CBT. throw catastrophizing in there and that’s most of us in a current janky nutshell. recall: CBT can be a hearty self-help tool and is one of the most studied research-based approaches to therapy)

We sometimes forget how absolutely unique our individual systems are and it is up to us to astutely observe ourselves for what it is that may be impairing our functioning and try, try again, to develop a “remedy.”

The next time you find yourself telling someone (or yourself) what they should be doing––recognize that it is control you are trying to exert and practice relinquishing it. Maybe the control is well meant, but it’s usually primarily about ourselves and our own comfort levels. Check your wording. Check your attitude. Ask questions––what do you think you could personally do to help alleviate the discomfort of what you are going through right now.

In cases of maladaptive behaviors outside ourselves that affect our own wellbeing (substance/alcohol overuse of a loved one, emotional and/or physical abuse, a world that beats you up when you look beyond your immediate experiences), a helpful first step is developing a personal approach/plan towards preserving our emotional and physical safety as much as possible.

Today we frequently hear the world “algorithm” popping up. The concept that by consuming certain online content in this world of AI (artificial intelligence) and mind-bending advances in the technological space, an algorithm is created to feed us more of what we seem to crave or consume.

Recently I began realizing that being a largely news-fasted human, my feeds on social media are of a kinder and gentler sort. Seeking out creative, spiritual, calming content certainly has my social media feeds feeding me less violence and hopelessness than it previously has when I’ve been locked into more troubling news.

Currently, I’m chasing the moon’s phases, beautifully supportive souls, projects that are giving back, gorgeously woven words like we find here in this creative well of Substack (hoping upon hope it never sells out as other online platforms before them). I enjoy exploring film and creatives of all genres. I quickly click delete on posts that don’t bring my energy up, and tick the box saying I don’t want to see more content like this when given the chance.

So far this year I’ve been mostly mindful of heeding save yourself. It is certainly an everyday mindful practice and I’m striving to keep those practices that help me get there in the forefront.

One of my most grounding practices online has become when given a link on a social media platform to read an article, always choosing “open on external browser.” And then on the very top left of the page clicking and if I have the option of “view reader” choosing that and being given a view much like a normal PDF, without the littering of video and ads that I find so distractingly annoying.

So far in 2026 I am using my body more. It was a lengthy process, moving the boulder from my tomb just enough to squeeze out. Now, I’ve developed a routine that involves what I call “pool prancing” that lets my arthritic joints move with ease and has my body burning an inordinate amount of calories. The pool time awakens the child in me and apparently that child has zero inhibitions; I couldn’t give less cares about how my prancing looks.

Moving my body in various ways has helped me add some structure that was needed to assist my transition into the land of the living. Slow going but I’m trying to practice patience with myself and honoring baby steps more than ever before.

As I do, I learn more about this recycled me: what is my most energetic part of the day; when I legitimately need to give my body a break; detaching from my phone; casting an observer-eye on myself; less push, yet more progress. One day at a time.

Showing up here is also part of my self-care. Thanks for being here with me.

What would/does saving yourself look like for you? I’d love to hear in the comments.

Big love,

Becky

This episode of The Death Dialogues Project Podcast was very moving and illustrated this mother’s unique view of tragedy and overwhelming love. Initially she sent me an eloquently written email telling me her story. Struck by the paradox between her experience and what the over-culture feeds us when someone ends their life, I was pleased she decided to share this conversation. Listen here:

Hello out there …

After three years, I’m finally emerging from my cavern of ails. Last week I was able to hike to see the waterfall in the pic. Slow. Wonky. Grateful.

Granted I’m still adjusting, squinting from the light of coming to life and giving myself grace during this chapter.

Honestly, speaking my truth always feels important but it is also one of the reasons my writing went fairly dry here over the past three years. I mean, can you, kind reader, truly want to absorb one iota of my personal saga with the agony and irrational chaos of the world swirling around you? I thought not.

I’ve sworn off delving deeply into my current health report when asked the inevitable, how are you doing? I don’t want my physical condition to hijack the narrative of my life, so fear not––I refuse to turn this platform into being fully focused on what ails me.

Those three years were full of silence and pain and malaise with glimpses of love, connection and grace. (You may be able to get the gist of it in earlier Substack pieces.) Adding onto what my condition already had served, the second half of 2025 tackled me with a compression spinal fracture–– or as my first orthopedic doctor exclaimed after seeing my wonky walking down the hallway (yes, all in caps) : YOU BROKE YOUR BACK! (fully recovered from that now)

Sparing you details, just know the theme of 2025’s last half became: I get (physically) knocked down, I (try to) get up again, but get slammed right back down. Now I’m trying to work on the stanza: you’re never going to keep me down.

Through all of the mishaps, my underlying chronic conditions had actually been improving. I had more energy and less kidney symptoms so I have been easing into 2026 with renewed hope and enough energy to follow a bit of a rehab plan.

This isn’t just about physical rehab, but cognitive, creative, emotional and spiritual rehab as well. Part of that plan is that 2026 sees me showing up here on a more regular basis.

A deterring challenge to showing up here has been that when the world needs its own brand of comprehensive rehabilitation, how do we get comfortable with looking deeply at and sharing our own living?

Married to a news junkie, for my overall wellbeing, I purposely refrain from absorbing much more than news headlines. I know he will inform me of what I absolutely need to know. I am well aware about how much the state of the world can affect my wellbeing.

I’ll be touching base here about my personal messy middle and what this stage of life holds for me–-a 64 year old expat (US to New Zealand x 15 years), an inner spirit that utterly refuses to age, with a blended family of nine with grandchildren, and a renewed hope/awareness that I’m not done living yet. (I sincerely thought my body was telling me otherwise)

My word for 2026 is Magic. Next time I’ll tell you why. Join me?

So much love,

Becky

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As I started feeling better, I got more into films. I also read more in 2025 than I had in years. The first two years of my decline, I didn’t have the energy to write, read or watch.

Here is a recent must-see. I’d followed Andrea Gibson online, so lived through the sharing of their life in real time. This lovely documentary beautifully illustrates what I call full-spectrum-living. Highly recommend.

Just saw Hamnet. The portrayal of the power of love, grief and redemption is raw and simply awe-inspiring. It is winning big awards and Jessie Buckley deserves every “best actress” award she gets.

My son, Keegan Otwell, continues his “Nowhere” platform on Substack. This is his most recent podcast episode. He also works as a Street Outreach Specialist with an organization specializing in advocacy and support to the unhoused and is active in his community surrounding these issues. It would be a gift if you subscribed/followed his work here.

Nowhere

Investigating the Murder of Poe Black - Dr. TJ Payne

In this episode I interview Dr. TJ Payne, an independent investigator investigating the unsolved murder of 21-year-old trans man Poe Black that happened in Slab City. So far Payne has talked to family and friends and even traveled to the Slab City area to conduct interviews. Poe Black was a young artist who came to Slab City from Tennessee, seeking comm…

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8 months ago · Keegan Otwell

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Maybe you know me well enough to assume that I wonder about any symbolism or message Blackbird is representing. No profundities have surfaced, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that I consistently get a flash of my jokester deceased brother when this happens– probably because this mimics his struggle for knowing when enough joking was enough.

If you’ve read my past writings or listened to the podcast, or read my book (Death and its Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Beautiful Lessons), you know that there have been many times I’ve experienced what feels like valid after death communication. The first staggering time was after my father’s death in 1983— not someone I had a burning desire to see in the next life, but there were three staggering experiences, one witnessed by two other people.

Unless we are a bonafide medium-type, most of us don’t shout out every time one of these signs appears. We don’t want to conjure up a response of others: there she goes again.

We frequently align with the naysayers, not trusting our own experiences. I used to say, unless they (deceased loves) sit across the table from me and we have a cuppa, I probably won’t 100% trust myself to 100% believe my experiences.

Last night the below YouTube recording popped up. Neuroscience expert and psychiatrist Dr. Tara Swart shares meaningful scientific and personal evidence of afterlife communication on The Diary of a CEO Podcast. Fascinating.

I can’t tell you how exciting it is to for me to observe that the bigger story of how our amazing brains, minds, souls connect is being broken wide open.

I’ll be considering Blackbird a bit more after listening to this fascinating conversation.

I look forward to her book coming out in September: The Signs.

One of the reasons I call myself a therapist gone rogue is that my life’s work has shown me that the mental health system was unable to stop the charge to fit folks into a diagnostic box, which frequently overlooked their personal life stories and their own interpretations of their experiences. And yes, that included what my work positions expected out of me after obtaining my clinical licensure.

One of my most profound lessons of how much mental health clinicians don’t always know happened during another deceased brother’s experience of it taking six months to diagnose his brain cancer while the medical teams witnessed symptoms that could easily have been viewed as only psychiatric but were 100% his brain cancer. (wonky sentence I know— bear with)

At an earlier point they thought he might have Autoimmune Encephalitis. The wind was knocked out of me as I dove into researching it and found out that historically (pre-knowledge of the condition) people that had it suffered greatly and were incarcerated into mental health hospitals, over-sedated, and frequently restrained for the remainder of their life. I read of a young girl, over half a century ago, being chained under a table with this brain inflammation. (this condition is what inspired the book and movie: Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness)

It’s heartbreaking to consider how many suffered inhumanely because the health of their brains and neurological systems were not thoroughly explored from a biological lens. And yes, we know that a person/family’s insurance and means has always affected the level of attention and care they receive.

My first years of mental health work, in the early ‘80’s, were in direct response to deinstitutionalization in the US. Good on paper— yes, let’s encourage independence and growth, but unfortunately the reality was people were taken from their support and familiar environment. Many floundered. Many died.

With each having a case load of 85 people who were discharged from state operated mental health facilities (yes, the old world “asylums”), my colleagues and I were frequently putting out big fires more than giving these people the attention to their life’s details that they deserved.

So yes, this type of brain/neurological knowledge and research that Dr. Swart speaks of is long overdue. There needs to be less box-ticking and more thorough investigation. Watch that space— I certainly will be.

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Findings having a positive effect on people once deemed “unable” was why I was so excited to share The Telepathy Tapes with you back in February. That work, enhancing the lives of people who have been cognitively marginalized, is truly a miracle.

I was so chuffed that science, the brain, intuitive communication, connection to the beyond were being scientifically studied and validated in the mainstream, along with The Telepathy Tapes taking us with them to hear and watch these magical stories unfold.

In our podcast I was always interested in hearing if my guest had felt they’d had a sign or communication with a deceased loved one. Out of my hundreds of interviews with people throughout this project and career, I only recall one or two people who answered they had not.

Here’s one interesting conversation on The Death Dialogues Project Podcast from a respected medium. Our podcast rests here on Substack and wherever you listen to your podcasts. Click on this link to listen:

Today is a good day. In fact, it has been a good week.

We live in the winterless north of New Zealand.

Every winter I wait with the dread that was born of midwest US winters fueled by ice storms, power outages, and being trapped indoors.

Every year, the wait is for a winter that never comes. We are in what is referred to as the "winterless north." Still people complain about how cold it is from June to September; winter in the subtropical Northland of New Zealand.

People here will get their winter clothes out and complain about the cold. I've teased friends that they only want excuses to wear cute boots and/or jackets.

On sunny days I sit outside for my dose of vitamin D and get as much sun as I do during summers; we have a very powerful sun all twelve months.

How's your heart doing?

If, like in-this-moment-me, you have the capability to write a glass half full update as I did above–it probably comes with a healthy dose of survivor guilt. How can I express my joy when so many are suffering?

Survivor guilt or survivor's guilt (also survivor syndrome, survivor's syndrome, survivor disorder and survivor's disorder) happens when individuals feel guilty after they survive a tragic, near death, or traumatic event when others perished...The experience and manifestation of survivor guilt will depend on an individual's psychological profile. -Wikepedia

While this term was first used for survivors of the holocaust, in my professional practice, and in myself, I've come to know that this is one more concept that exists on a very wide spectrum. If you frequently find yourself in a heart-breaking state of disbelief–how can this be happening to so many–you are not alone.

An empath is a person who experiences a heightened sense of empathy, feeling the emotions of others intensely and sometimes even taking those emotions on as their own. While not an official psychological term, it describes individuals who are deeply attuned to the emotional states of those around them and can often feel what others are feeling on a profound level.

Many of you have previously heard these terms. Many of you have not. With both terms, survivor guilt and empathy/deep feeler, if they describe you, you will likely recognize yourself in the descriptions.

the deep feeler in me acknowledges the deep feeler in you

With all the chaos going on in the world on humanitarian, political, and environmental/natural disaster levels as well as our ensuing personal life happenings that bring grief or deep feelings for others– deep feelers are primed for a frequent assault on their nervous system.

We don't hear or speak about these issues so much because part of what fuels survivor guilt stems from thoughts like– how can we speak of our own troubling feelings about how the world at large is in crisis when people are suffering in such catastrophic magnitudes?

If this message rings true to you, please be gentle with yourself. The following are a just a few concepts to consider embracing.

SAVE YOURSELF. During these challenging times it is so very important to take exquisite care of yourself–mind, body, spirit. As always, we need to make sure our own oxygen mask is on and we have access to the breath before we can give of ourselves to others. (Insert myriad metaphors– can’t drink from an empty cup etc)

COMPARTMENTALIZATION. If you find yourself unable to get in touch with your own life because you are so obsessively overwhelmed with others' suffering, consider setting routine times within your days, giving yourself permission to turn your empathic dial down. Maybe that means you have to use thought replacement (ie. “I am at peace…” “let go…” on repeat) or follow a guided meditation. Get out in nature and really tune into your senses, move your body, grow your reading practice... Only you know what might work best for you. Let go of the guilt you may feel giving yourself a pause from your deep concern.

EMPTY CHAIR TECHNIQUE. Take a step back and picture a loved one sitting close to you and sharing their similar struggles with you. What would your loving kindness say to comfort them? Imagine being deeply caring of yourself, giving yourself the kind of message you would give others you love who are in pain.

RADIATING LOVING ENERGY. (bear with, it’s worth it) Over 20 years ago at a professional cardiology conference Dr. Sam Sears (renowned health psychologist) was sitting across the dinner table from me and my husband. We had similar mind-body approach with our cardiac clients. We were talking about the “relaxation response” type breath-work we taught patients and I asked, do you know of any way to clinically collect the data so people can see what it does for them physiologically? Getting buy-in from people who perceived breath work as “woo-woo” was sometimes difficult. He had just discovered HeartMath and highly recommended it. It was a game changer because people could see in real time how they were affecting their heart rate variability (HRV) and autonomic nervous system (ANS) balance using breath-work and compassionate, loving energy.

I used this intervention for the rest of my career, as well as my husband and I conducting a study using HeartMath quick coherence with 150 cardiac patients. Unequivocally the overwhelming responses of folks suffering from severe anxiety issues (which frequently mimic heart problems), panic attacks, health issues, grief, etc blew me away and it was such a gift and game-changer for my practice and myself.

Fast forward and Heart Math Institute conducts fascinating research about how this state of coherence can affect the world at large. You can establish an ongoing practice that not only benefits you but can send healing energy out to the world at large and join others who are doing the same through the Global Coherence Initiative.

Now, instead of purchasing a device to measure yourself, you can download their app on your mobile phone (free) and it uses your finger on the camera sensor to measure your HRV. This is legitimate science and I've always said the best kept secret.

I'm thrilled we've come to a time on the planet where ANS balancing, HRV, breath work, radiating loving awareness is more in mainstream literature, has a solid scientific foundation, and you can access it at no charge HERE. Do watch the video on at the bottom of that page if you need help getting the app. You can dig around their resources for days to further explore HeartMath's research.

I hope you take the time to explore this gift from HeartMath and that you have an understanding of you or others who are wired to feel so very deeply. These techniques have been a lifesaver for me and folks I've worked with and will unequivocally do no harm, but in these times the real gift is being able to have a tangible effect on shifting global energy.

Let’s take so much care of our tender hearts during these trying times that can cause us to feel so very helpless and heart-sore for humanity.

Big love,

Becky

Speaking of remedies for feeling heart-sore from grief– this was in an email that arrived today:

"A dear friend of ours lost his mother and hadn't grieved for her until he read your book while he was visiting us. He was so grateful to me for suggesting to read it. So thank you for writing such a beautiful work, for myself and on (his) behalf."

In lieu of Substack subscriptions, I ask folks to consider buying our book for themselves and as a gift for others when there are no words:

buy the book-- amazon

independent bookseller

Disclaimer: while I was a HeartMath Practitioner during my career, I have no financial interest in the organization; I evangelize because it works.

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dearly beloved humans

i think of you every day but have been virtually paralyzed to go to the public page since the return of our six weeks of travel. let me attempt to create a catch-up-purge.

death lady declares: death sucks

don't be fooled, i continue to feel that "the real" is the space beyond heaven and hell and this planet where our essence, our energy, will frolic as its truest self when we die.

and yes, there are times that we feel deeply and serenely connected to the beyond

and yes, right now,

i'm over it.

i'm over the emotional work of it.

i'm over being left on the planet mourning, or watching others destroyed by death(s) of loved ones.

still, as I've shared in my book (death and is terrible, horrible, no good, very beautiful lessons, $4.42 USD on kindle) and interviews and writing, its the magic of death, that has personally been proven to me, carrying my sensitive heart through each and every assault

but sometimes,

most times,

sometimes

its too much.

don't fear your complicated feelings surrounding death; or curse the contradictions that battle inside that brain of yours- it is all valid

know that grief will ebb and flow and storm and rage

it is all real and true.

we can't predict death just as we can't predict birth, these are guided by the pull, the alignment, the dance of the stars.

coming off of a rare short period of decreased external emotional stress, that comes at rare intervals for us, being that our immediate family holds eleven souls (counting us parents) plus their families. we were well aware of the nervous system hiatus we'd been given. then our youngest had a painful work injury (much better now). and this past week i first awakened to news of the heartbreaking unexpected death of a dear and revered family member and the next mo(u)rning to the news of writer 's death. (do read their work if you haven't)

Andrea Gibson’s obituary

with the news of both of their deaths there was an overwhelming sense of all their generosity, kindness, care, love, that had soothed so very many souls. souls that were now deeply aching for them.

sending love to everyone on the planet that currently feels cheated by death.

this week, death sucks.

travels

the wedding in Finland was magical. beauty that belied a large financial output or weeks/months/years of planning. sweet. artistic. enriching. simple-- yet detailed as a fine web of lace woven with love and connection. there was no preparation panic and the result felt supported by the ethers as our son's first words called in the ancestors.

then six weeks in Sicily that started with our son and then the honeymooners joining us. it wrapped with my husband and i having three weeks on our own. now we merge into …

health

juggling two serious chronic health conditions that i attempt to not give energy within "disease" language, firmly rooted in mind-body belief. my body still feels them; one carries undeniable pain at times.

unfortunately long air flights seem to exacerbate symptoms apparently due to stress it puts onto certain systems of my body. although i was very symptomatic the first month of our travels, my pain greatly decreased after that and has remained lessened. my physician husband reminds my symptoms do vacillate and to "make hay while the sun shines" and i try to keep that mindset. my physical conditioning rehab is one step at a time for now. i'd be quite content if i could stabilize even at this current status.

insights

there are many discoveries of what is at the core of me during my most recent health journey. being so fatigued and sedentary shined a light on:

attention issues

wow. i would blow myself away at the distractions i could experience while having near zero energy.

i need to change positions - too many times

trying to read something interesting and getting distracted, again and again

trying to watch a video and pausing repeatedly because something came to mind, again and again

because i need to brush my hair, brush my teeth, et al. had come to mind again and again

granted, at times i was so wrapped in the weight of exhaustion that my mind's incessant ramblings near ceased, while mind-blown at how severe the symptoms need to be for the mind to quiet

tension

professionally, starting 25 years ago, my professional practice was supported by breath work/autonomic nervous system regulation and/or relaxation.

throughout my health chapters i have consistently taken the medicine i've preached.

it became apparent how reluctant my body was to total relaxation: letting my muscles fully relax-- really relax

i've become more mindful of noticing this and mindfully practicing "letting go" at those times

unpacking muscle tension, it became apparent that my lack of achieving full muscle relaxation was directly related to the first 18 years of my life and a subsequent 20+ years of my body and mind being in a state of hyper-vigilance. tuned in to sights, sounds, smells, sensations that would alert me when there was life-altering change or danger. the mood of my abusive father that changed on a whim. other unsafe periods of my life ...

even though with my professional training and having so. much. therapy. it was as if this space I had, with being retired, too ill to work on the death dialogues project, no energy for outside engagement or activity, the emotional terrain was fertile for my body to rehash what i was sure had been largely processed.

relying heavily on synchronicity, i began to pick up on signs leading me to various soothing pathways. feeling like a burden to my loved ones when i felt compelled to answer honestly to the question, "how are you," i started looking for a mind-body therapist so that i'd have someone with whom i could vent openly.

there i found reference to Nicole Sachs’ work and her book mind your body, based on Dr. John Sarno, MD's work. I had his book mind-body prescription and it had largely impressed me in my practice. Nicole's book came from the well i had drunk from personally and professionally. it's succinct presentation and guided practice was just what i needed now for support and helped me excavate more of the emotional/mind fertilizer (read: shit) feeding my health issues.

i now live in New Zealand where there is nationalized healthcare. tomorrow i have my first (free) appointment with a health improvement specialist. i die by the concept of not going to someone for your deep grieving unless they have had their own experience of deep grief. i wanted to talk with someone who at least, to some degree, is schooled in the medical challenges i experience. my hope is that this will be a place i can just take all my caring-for-others'-feelings-hats off and let it rip.

that's a wrap

phew. i think i did it. i've emptied the vessel, purged–enough, that i believe i can move on with my writing here.

i hope to show up a bit more. i consistently find that any mindless or desired scrolling is best met with scrolling hear on substack. i love how people show up on this platform and hope upon hope it doesn't meet the demise of other platforms and stays true to its early mission.

next time i may find where my capital letters have hidden.

big love,

becky

April 9, 2025 (NZT)

This morning at 5:45 am I was awakened by my alarm set to the B-52's song, Deadbeat Club. (check it out, I'm playing it as I type)

Smirking, I admired what a great wake up song this could be for blowing things off and hitting snooze. But today I did not want to go back to sleep.

The song returned fifteen minutes later to remind me to set up my laptop for a video chat with *my* holistic medium, Shane Gadd, who I hadn't spoken to since before my physical condition left me virtually speechless.

Sometimes, and only with hindsight, measuring sticks show up to illustrate just where we are/were mind-body-spirit at a given point in time. It shocked me to realize I’ve been so unwell that I felt unable to engage with Shane’s work until now— I had gotten so much from it.

Shane and I had connected when I was actively involved with The Death Dialogues Project. I'll link my podcast episode with him at the end of this piece so you can get a vibe for him. The fix I get in talking with Shane for an hour is a viable replacement for therapy for me. We communicate on a similar wavelength, he always gives me insights into my current status; that interaction has fed my soul for some time; filed in the ultimate column of my self-care practices.

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Actually I'd purchased this session as a gift for my son Keegan and a couple years had ticked without it being used. It was a video chat with Keegan the other day that reminded me the session was still available as he was making an appointment with someone else and encouraged me to take this one. That was my impetus to drop Shane a line and reclaim the session.

As Shane and I hopped into the session, he shared his observations of the supportive energy he could sense around me and the messages he was getting about me living my life. There was so much. Interestingly, he had no clue that I hadn't been around because of my health and I didn't share that until closer to the end of the session.

Shane was picking up that I'd moved from being in the spiral (circular motions with hands), with all the chaos, illness, and deaths we and loved ones have experienced in the past years, to being more on the sidelines, observing and showing up energetically, so that these inevitable processes are given the momentum and outcomes needed for meaningful shifts. Shane said something like (paraphrased), you are sitting there with grace knowing that some breakdowns have to occur to lead them/us to the alchemy that will expand our/their growth.

Awww yes, I thought, imagining our almost 21 year old's recent video of him commercial fishing on the Bering Sea, freezing cold with huge waves rocking the ship, working 19 hour days, and then the recent video of him boxing in Thailand (for fun!?), and all that has shown up as he began living out in the wide world. ((deep breaths))

It's very sweet that Mr. almost 21 has always been quite open with us, sometimes too open, I'd joke. I could never have imagined sharing with my parents what he shares with us.

Since he's been "adulting" I've been working hard at staying in my lane and highly encouraging him and his dad to do the processing when it comes to the business matters of his life. All the firsts. In a different country. During his recent visit home Mr. 20 10/12 gave me a pat on the back for the love and the reinforced boundaries I’d been practicing.

I think every parent should read Celia Lashlies' book He'll Be Ok, based on her studies of high school aged boys. My husband read it too.

My biggest takeaway was that come adolescent years, I needed to step aside and make room for his father to step forward and intensify their relationship with his son and resist interfering with that process unless there were health and safety issues. There is a lot of rationale that has as much to do with the parents as the sons. (Huge apologies for the binary language. We have a wide rainbow family and I try to be mindful of the language. Celia wrote her book in 2005 in New Zealand. The rest of the content is timeless and can be molded to fit any family)

Because of that scaffolding built from Celia's perspective, through the last years I was reminded to hold back and give space more easily and have been trying to mindfully practice more observation, support, and listening than intervention. Granted, a paradigm shift that my impaired condition allowed me to put in practice easier as a result of exhaustion.

The experiences we've had with our youngest resonated with Shane’s feedback and how I've been trying to show up for our adult kids.

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My son Keegan then came to mind.

I thought as soon as I got finished with the session with Shane, I would take to my journal and write, but I found myself in a sweet, almost blissful, state of exhaustion and enjoyed simply chilling, staring out at our view.

Eventually, a couple hours later, I checked my email, and what do you know, Keegan's latest Substack release was in my inbox. Voraciously reading it, I soon got the cue that this piece was going to raise all the hairs that his earlier raw writing about his travel journeys had. The last time he’d written like this I’d had to set it aside and regroup to go back to it.

Being more open and real about his struggle with substance use disorder this past year, he's been laying his story down for public consumption in a very open (and often gut wrenching) manner. Truth. It is what I’m drawn to read; the breadth of the beautiful-horrible. But like most every parent, I had hoped upon hope for far more beautiful than horrible for this child.

When he finally had brutally 'fessed up to me about what had precipitated his sibs going to rescue him from the Pacific Northwest, my mind was blown. One thing he said landed in my gut and was so true, "I told my friends that I can't OD and die, it would kill my mom." I'd never felt so seen.

Our family had no idea just how much of his experience had yet to be discovered. That early disclosure was just the tip of the substance use disorder iceberg you’ll discover if you follow his story.

Keegan and I have always had a close connection. He wasn't obnoxious to me when he was in the throes of using during his late teens, or ever. I swear it would have been easier on my broken heart if he had been mean to me. I could've detached, with love, easier, but he always gave the long hugs, I love yous with deep eye contact, always pitched in when asked when he was with me; as with all of our children—his beautiful spirit glowed brighter than the mishaps.

Keegan made it very easy to separate the disorder from my beautiful boy. It’s fascinating now listening to him say what a mind-fuck substance use disorder is because it is so fueled by a person’s choices. He gets it.

We had heartfelt talks throughout the time Keegan was on the road. Several times on the call he would be sharing on the road trauma; running into scary people and situations, cronies who had died, or having to use Narcan to revive someone. These are not the bedtime stories the parent of any traveler longs to be told. Always deathly afraid of needles, I hoped that meant Keegan would stay away from them which he claimed was true each time I inquired. (I know, I know ...) I knew he was drinking some but there was so very much I did not know.

Sometimes we would talk for hours and he would sound so happy and energized. We’d get into the esoteric and our personal beliefs. I asked him later— because he never sounded drunk or drugged— were you high on something when we had those marathon calls? “Very likely.”

When you have a loved one who struggles with an addictive process— something our family was familiar with— and you are a deep feeler, as many of you know first hand, the concern for their wellbeing can burn a festering hole into your very soul. The scab starts to cover the wound and at any given time it’s ripped off, poked, prodded. Sometimes there is such an infected, oozing, gaping hole that continues to grow bigger and bigger, you have to jump ship and save yourself from being eaten up as well.

During the better times you try to file the most recent experiences in the folder labelled, "please don't let that happen again." When behaviors repeat, it feels like a baseball bat to the kneecaps. I found living while fearing for his (and another’s) life hell and it took so very much internal work for me to not let it kidnap any sense of peace. My love for him never dimmed.

So after this session with Shane where he repeatedly tells me that my children are all part of my light filled soul clan, which has always resonated … BOOM: Today my email inbox held more of Keegan's raw story. I won't go into detail. I've linked it here so you are welcome to check it out yourself. (And he'd love it if you subscribed to his writing and podcast.)

Because of filling my tank with that session earlier, this time I could read his detailed recollections of just how hard core his life and use had been and not want to vomit. Still some nausea, but hopeful nausea.

He's coming up to one year clean and sober and there seems to be such a vast difference than times before, all coming from within himself. Again, imagining Shane's swirling hands, for me, it's been another example of lovingly taking a seat at the edge of the boxing ring and accepting that there are referees and peers who come to wipe up his blood and sweat are now his people with their hard won insight.

Reinforcing an inherent belief and Shane’s words today— we know that there has to be traumas and difficulties for alchemized shift for more understanding and better coping and growth to higher levels to break through. We’ve all been there.

Perceiving all these signs of his commitment to himself and his health allows me to just wallow in Keegan’s creative storytelling and advocacy work he's putting into the world today. Talk about a paradigm shift. Yes, just one day at a time.

This type of morning, I file under synchronicity. "Fragile" as I might be, to have this reinforcement of my time with Shane’s words wrapped around me, and then immediately revisiting the abyss Keegan was wrenched from-- yeah, not thinking that's a coincidence. That is Grace.

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Ending on a happy note, in May I'll have the chance to travel some with Keegan while he celebrates a year clean and sober. There were so many travels that Keegan missed with us throughout the years because he was either relapsed or in treatment so it feels amazing to have a big adventure with him.

My husband and I start with him and his other two birth sibs in a just planned tiny wedding of my second oldest in Helsinki. After a couple weeks there, Keegan will come to Sicily with us. He's looking forward to being on the road, backpacking, at this time in his life; clean and sober (his words). We will have time together and he'll adventure on his own as he desires.

We leave for Helsinki first of May. We have wonderful house/animal sitters lined up. If able, I'll report in here on the notes feature; I thought of maybe sharing a pic a day if able.

Personally, the goal is that it's a further resurrection tour for me and my health, but admittedly I've been physically feeling a tad beat up of late. As I mentioned in my last piece, my husband and I keep getting hard reminders of LIVE NOW, so we didn't hesitate to excitedly plan this journey.

Sending all the best for your greater good and so much love.

Talk soon,

Becky

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Keegan’s post:

Nowhere

The End of the Road, Pt. 1

If you haven’t, you can look back through my post history to read older posts about my time spent traveling and homeless, and it will give context to these intermittent posts about my past. A large chunk of my three years on the road was spent traveling with Grant, whom I loved dearly…

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a year ago · 2 likes · 2 comments · Keegan Otwell

Meet Shane here; click on image:

Sunday March 30, 2025

Greetings readers,

There’s a feeling that I’m missing a deadline as March has a foot out the door. Every morning, before opening my eyes, I think today is the day I'll write my next piece. The challenge, if I’m writing about the personal, is that there have been many transitions around us. Writing month to month seems to increase my awareness of just how many big things are in constant motion or stuck—personally and beyond.

Is it the age we are, or are all the rest of you surrounded by many deep stories in addition to your own?

You know how there are quotes floating around about how our species wasn’t created to have the rushed and complicated lives that are now the norm to support our living? We were made more in the likeness of homesteaders. Slow, steady, personal work to sustain you with intermittent crisis or “shocks.”

Having a lifestyle now that is more in the homesteader column, setting my own pace based on where my mind/body lands throughout my days, I feel like I can look at that paradigm a bit more realistically. My hypotheses would be the main reason people aren’t always open with others about the trauma, crisis, illness, and all, in others’ lives or their own, is that many simply don’t have the emotional bandwidth to open up that level of energy. It’s all they can do to stay on the treadmill of their lives so they don’t feel they have the capacity for more.

Stephen, my retired cardiologist husband, has served as a medical advocate for friends and loved one’s going through medical treatment and helps folks fill out their advanced care plans.

We get it and I’m sharing to illustrate my deep understanding of how surviving in mainstream society leaves little room for opening to others’ ongoing struggles. It does take multi-faceted energy and time to go on such a journey with someone— especially when you are holding down so many other roles in your life. We must always be checking into our own capacity and capabilities. This is when a community of caring folks is really the answer.

Stephen’s best friend has recently had a catastrophic brain bleed. There’s so much to say, but I don’t feel it’s a story I can share in its entirety.

I can say that this has been unfolding since the beginning of the month.

I can say that this is a person who lived a life outdoors and wanted no part of medical institutions, but, this time, had no choice.

I can say that besides sharing with my husband verbally what he wanted should something like this occur, he refused many encouraging offers, and did not have an advanced care plan.

I can say my husband is being his person, and it is all heart wrenching.

Please, for your families and loved ones, create an advanced care plan, file it with your hospital and primary physician’s data base.

Do this no matter your age.

Keep it where it can be seen in your dwelling.

Talk about it.

Carry it with you when you travel.

Our friend assumed if something catastrophic happened he would die instantly. We have to remind ourselves there are myriad death scenarios, we can never pin point the exact manner we will die.

Have a life threatening condition? You might die in an accident tomorrow. Sorry. It’s true.

New Zealand has created an excellent online document you can complete and turn into your medical team. (linked in this sentence)

Research “advanced care plan” in your country/area to find resources.

We have a living will filed with our will which holds those desires and legalities, but most times loved ones don’t always take or have time to research if there is one when life and death decisions are being made. This is why it is important to have the plan filed within your medical system.

We landed in an area of New Zealand where there is a fair amount of distrust in medical treatment—a vast amount of people attempt to rely on alternative modalities. No harm. No foul. However, there may be a day in your life when you are found injured, or have medical event and you will be taken into the medical system. Please don’t be so grandiose or in such denial to think it will never happen to me.

When I sat down this Sunday morning did I think this was how I’d begin my big hello? No, but there it is. Trust me it’s the compassionate and smart thing to do for yourself and loved ones.

I can’t trust that my own husband will be alive or able to serve in that capacity if/when I need it— though that to me would be the best case scenario. We can’t make these decisions based on best cases, think worst case scenario. Sit with it, deeply process, write it out, share. Encourage those close to you to do the same.

Resources:

Finding your personal advanced care plan resource, complete it, and have it filed with your medical team, attorney, telling your people about it and where to find it. Also add a living will to your standard will.

Book: My Stroke of Insight: a brain scientist’s personal journey, by Jill Bolte Taylor, PhD

Her experience has brought great awareness for best practices for people with strokes. brain hemorrhages, and brain injury to their doctors, caregivers and loved ones.

I was especially struck when she spoke of her mother breaking her from the rehab facility where they were routinely getting her up extremely early every morning, sitting her in a wheelchair or geri chair in the hall or an open chaotic space, TVs, activities, etc. Her mother was appalled, knowing in her heart what her daughter needed for her brain to heal was regenerative rest. Jill believes rest was at the heart of the success of her eight year recovery period from her stroke.

In her book she gives a list of suggestions for medical teams, loved ones re. the approach to take when recovering. Highly recommend finding her work. She’s on youtube in interviews, TedTalks and there are many online links.

“Among the lessons Bolte Taylor has for medical professionals and caregivers: Don't accept timetables for recovery, have hope in the brain's plasticity and ability to be repaired, and appreciate the value of sleep in the healing process.” — Brain and Life

I’m still engrossed in The Telepathy Tapes and their ongoing mission. I’m recently very moved by the stories on how nonverbal adults, following strokes or with other issues, also communicate telepathically. This is relevant to our friend’s condition and helps me think bigger in terms of connection with him.

On a more personal note, let’s begin with a lovely expression for us all—

There have been recurring inner rumblings within us of “LIVE NOW” well before this last medical trauma of our friend. There are always reminders, aren’t there?

As most of you know, if you’ve followed my story throughout the project, we had personally amassed (and continue to) many untimely illnesses and deaths of dear family and friends so we had a hearty rationale of making choices honoring the concept of doing our dreams when the nest emptied. Do it while we can …

Not exempt, we’ve had our own big medical issues. My husband has rehabbed well from his widow-maker heart attack, stayed compliant with his medical treatment and is well rehabilitated.

My own challenge for the past two years required a great deal of medical investigation to explore (hello there national health system, you’re okay), trying to rule out more than the first obvious diagnosis they came upon involving my kidneys. Sparing you my intricate history, my fatigue, nausea, pain, bloat, etc is because of a stage 3 kidney disease I would have never in my wildest dreams imagined having.

Unfortunately the medical mantra is “incurable.” And I get that. Most people with this condition need a kidney transplant and/or dialysis at some point—usually before the age I am now. Of course some opt not to have either and move towards end of life with less legalities than the end of life options presently put a person through.

This condition has absolutely changed my life. My go-to 1 to 10 scale to assess any sort of wellness, 10 being the best you’ve ever felt, has been converted to a 1-5 scale, five being as good as it gets. It’s not an “exercise more”, “do this, do that,” and it will help the condition.

Saying all of that, being limited and not having tangible actions to do for positive change has been more than frustrating. And exhausting. And painful. After all, by changing my nutrition converting to SCD (specific carbohydrate diet) and doing my mind/body autonomic nervous system balancing, I was eventually able to taper off the Crohn’s heavy duty meds in 2011, including a monthly IV treatment. The kind of meds you have to sign off on all the life threatening side effects. I found a way, for me, to improve and thankfully sustain.

Recently I was given a sliver-of- hope-recommendation of trying an approach that may ease the progression and improve quality of life. That dusting of hope has actually had a positive effect on me, feeling more empowered—valid or not—it’s a new, cleaner space to rest in.

Empowerment is medicine for me it seems.

This approach is a six month long trial I’m doing per a recommended strategy. I will report in at the end of the six months. It will be miraculous to me if there are positive results. I’ll be very pissed if there aren’t.

It’s okay. I’m allowed to be angry at times about my life being so altered by this frustrating condition. Stuffing the real emotions does nothing for my health; the frustrations ebb and flow. Good news is, I have the energy today to acknowledge the anger.

One thing that tells me there is some improvement in my status is that I have any energy at all to write. Or have meaningful conversations. May it continue. There was a long period of time that wasn’t possible.

We have many personal transitions happening in our family. One child moving and getting married overseas. One g-babe we haven’t yet met. Our youngest branching out in surprising ways with work and travel. The same one who left on a trip from NZ to visit his US sibs, saying “I’ll never live in the US,” and has been living there on his own for the past two years. Currently traveling after an intense gig commercial fishing on the Bering Sea.

With nine children in our blended family, there are always major transitions afloat. Even with distance between us, we feel very close to every one of them and carry their joys and concerns with them. Thank goodness for video chatting ability. One of the kids talked about how communicating like that gives time for a concerted 1:1 effort, while family functions didn’t usually lend itself to much time to catch up. So very true, And there’s the beauty when we have them with us for extended visits or see them in their own domain.

I’ll wrap with some reflections from the book I recommended above.

Like our friend, the author’s left brain took the brunt of the damage from her stroke, and was paralyzed on her right side. She eloquently speaks of the beautiful perspectives, experiences, and insights within her active right brain while her left brain slept. Her description is that the right brain is the part that is locked into our greater consciousness, while the left is the side that holds the lists, must-dos, worries, and such.

Being a neuroanatomist she had a fascinating perspective of what was going on in her brain and encourages us all to live in our right brain as much as possible by practicing what brings us joy, music, art, writing, and whatever resonates creative pleasure to you and practice a baseline of meditation.

One thing I think I’ll hope to do more of is post more of the nature and life lessons on my Death Dialogues Project instagram account and Substack posts as well. I noticed that they give me a wee creative buzz. That is a simple way to help remind myself of the contentment around us and use a smidge of my right brain. We have some upcoming major, interesting travels and maybe I can share some of the insights from the column of LIVE NOW.

Trust that I have many other thoughts, beliefs, spaces, and practices that have been my personal medicine and connect me to love and a greater good far beyond myself. As many say, the earth-school dimension is challenging by design. That it is.

Much love,

Becky

I highly recommend this podcast episode with Lauren Daley, MD, a palliative care doctor who gives hope and empowering knowledge about end of life and the care surrounding it:

Rather than having paid subscriptions, I’d like you to consider buying our book to support this work—click here for an alternative to Amazon

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Hello Dear Readers,

We have just returned from a nature immersion week. I’m including a few photos from it. Use it to trigger a cleansing breath. I hope you are able to find grounding time in nature; it’s good medicine.

Subscribers, please forgive me for a little unplanned drop into your inboxes earlier this week. There are two choices on writing notes on this platform. I thought I’d try “long form” for giggles. Little did I know that it would send an unedited, Siri hijacked post to you all. That said, thanks for all the lovely feedback.

And welcome to all the new subscribers. We’ve gained over 1k in the last month. I *see* you. Thanks for being here.

The current elephant in every room will be briefly addressed, yes the administration’s actions in the US have been a dizzying head spin no matter what side of the aisle you sit on. Even sitting on this hill in New Zealand we feel it. However like many of you, I’m not surrendering to letting it consume me. Easier said than done, I know.

Every day we are waking up to another dystopian chapter of the world. I barely skim headlines anymore. This morning my husband said—you do not want to look at the news today. He devours world news. I more than welcome his gate-keeping in this area.

For some of us, making sure we take space from the world’s woes, such as news-fasting, is a life and death issue.

Heading into the most important topic today (hang on, it’s further down) decades ago I started clinical work where part of the therapeutic practice addressed autonomic nervous system (ANS) balancing, breath work, mindfulness, all with the aim of teaching folks rapid symptom reduction so therapeutically digging into the history beneath their discomfort would not exacerbate their discomfort during the therapeutic “talk” process AND they would have an invaluable lifelong self-regulation, self-care, wellness, and mind/body tool.

Ya’ll that are familiar with this part of my background, hang on, it’s not the main focus of what I’m writing here.

Over 20 years ago, conducting a sample session with one high ranking physician of the hospital I was affiliated with, taking him through a session where his HRV (heart rate variability) was being monitored, he was taught the technique.

He was given the explanation about how the ANS imbalance played with emotional/mental/behavioral wellness and medical issues/symptoms— and how helpful it was empowering/educating folks to understand how integrated those areas are . . . there’s no binary separation in the way we tick. For example our physiology is entwined with manifestations of what we call anxiety. It’s been wrong to only treat it from a psychological perspective.

The physicians response, “Why in the world haven’t I been teaching my patients this?” (the answer is almost always: you haven’t yet connected those dots and, mainly, time)

However, there is a step similar to the clinical process I used with my professional practice, and we studied in 150 people, that was mainly foreign to the mainstream. Some of the participants cracked wide open and were affected physically and spiritually. I believe they were taping into their soul’s potential, their divinity.

More and more we are seeing examples of how our lives are affected by our greater existence, beyond the physical and mental. My life and many of yours has been full of synchronicity that many times feels like outright magic.

With The Death Dialogues project and previous 1:1 sessions with folks, I heard irrevocable experiences people had with either near death experiences or communication with a deceased loved one. It’s fair to say that these experiences set a trail to follow with my work.

That being said, there has been a small sense of doubt keeping me from reaching my full potential in ongoing connection with the beyond, divine consciousness, if you will. For example, connection with one of my deceased brothers; no matter how overwhelmingly I sensed him, I always claimed that I wouldn’t fully believe it unless he sits down with me to chat over a cup of coffee.

Bit by bit I’ve worked on letting go of any disbelief or doubt. But nothing has allowed me to now live in full acceptance like what I’m about to share with you now.

There has never been such consolidated scientific proof of the exponential possibility within our minds than The Telepathy Tapes podcast spearheaded by journalist Ky Dickens and validated by science that is spreading throughout the world.

Have you have listened?

I speak of “magic” and “the real” on the regular. This is it folks. The Telepathy Tapes podcast defines both and is a must listen. Science marries magic, spirituality, divine connection ...

And let’s be real, so much of science really is magic, isn’t it?

I believe this project and its ensuing results have been divinely delivered (via Ky and all involved) at this challenging time in the world to plug us into “the real.” Living into the magic, wonder, and all that comes with it. You are the author of how it works out for you (listen to understand).

I’m purposely being vague about the content, science and outcomes because I want you to start listening to this addictive content from the start and absorb and expand as you go.

You’ve heard of the butterfly effect?

This podcast is going worldwide and has booted Joe Rogan’s long time #1 podcast over capturing the most highly rated podcast. With good reason.

We are now in a time where awareness of the clinical effects of ANS regulation, breath-work, mindfulness and more is expanding. (cue butterfly flutters)

After the Telepathy Tape’s findings and the stories released in the mainstream, I believe what you will begin to understand how it is clearing a huge roadblock the over-culture has long placed, blocking folks from engaging in the truth and learning our full capabilities. (witch/smart women burning anyone?) We are heading into a time where treatments of all types will be further expanding.

Ky Dickens knew she would not be able to tackle reporting this story without also sharing its validity. She and her team are to be commended for their thorough investigation, study and presentation.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the energy to show up to a topic with this degree of excitement. I love it and hope this flow continues.

In the mean time, check out The Telepathy Tapes. Listen to them all. Like Ky infers in the earlier episodes, keep listening, there is so much more in store: listen to the end. The last half gets even more into the divine messages these nonverbal kids are collectively and individually receiving and involve communication after death and many magical themes woven throughout.

As I write this, I recall speaking to someone after my brother Max’s death and she kept saying, he wants you to know that divinity is all around you. At that time I wasn’t really sure of my thoughts on or my relationship with the word divinity, it was more about feelings. Thanks Max, I totally get it now.

We all need to the message coming through the amazing information you’ll get listening to The Telepathy Tapes.

My passion for this project stems from what we can do for ourselves and humanity at large as we fully open up to our magical brains that we use 1% of and nurture an honest and pure connection to “the divine.” We will all have the names for what resonates with us, but with us all on similar wavelengths and living from love, its the most healing antidote we can find for the external chaos; love can unite us all.

There is a deep sadness for me that comes with the Telepathy Tapes as well. Having worked with non-verbal people decades ago, I am heartbroken thinking of the millions who have lived a life locked in their bodies. My only hope is that they found community in the ethers as described in the Telepathy Tapes.

One nursing home resident, living on a skilled care unit, frequently came to mind while listening. She lived on a bean bag in a playpen. Her body was totally contracted giving her an immobile stiff posture the pose of an infant. Her gray hair showed her 60+ years on the planet. There were no visitors. No interaction with others She needed total care and was mainly left alone in her room. But every time you’d lean over the side of the pen and get eye contact and speak to her, she would light up, smile broadly moving her mouth. Forgive us: all the folks who were nonverbal that we did not help live their best life while on the planet.

I can’t wait until we are all writing about how much magic is showing up in our lives. And I’m right behind you all that have found Substack to be the most sane and healthy place for you to get your soul-fix at. Same.

Take exquisite care of your mind and spirit.

Until next time, talk to me as you listen or if you’ve listened.

Wishing you all things for your greater good.

Big love—

Becky

(wait there’s more below …)

A gentle suggestion:

Most of us are in a constant struggle with wanting to put our devices down and unplug as much as possible. On my health journey, when I was near bed ridden, there were times when the devices actually allowed me to feel connection to the world. We need to be like mindful gardeners and weed out what does not serves our greater growth.

What came to my realization is that I have been practicing big discernment regarding where I spend time on the internet and have found a rhythm that actually lightens and nurtures.

• Remember that you are in control, not the internet.

Rid yourself of any online areas that do not bring you at least a grain of joy.

• Strive for finding the magic out there that makes your heart sing

• Consider tight boundaries on how much news et al. you ingest.

• What feeds your mind will become your mind.

• Is the content toxic for you? Don’t go there.

• Find places that give you giggles. For me, animal videos for the win. Animals and babies together rock.

• Let what you search and go to or have on apps illustrate what “the real” represents for you.

You get it.

In these times make as much time as you can for having a regular relationship with what can bring you joy. There are so many amazing podcasts out there sharing stories of more than meets the eye; if you are into podcasts, that’s a great place to start..

Share life, death, and the space between

within the pages of my book you will find glimpses into the beyond interwoven throughout and there is a committed chapter to such stories.

click on image for an indie online book resource. also available at other online booksellers (Amazon, etc), Kindle and read by me on Audible.

this book also makes a meaningful gift for others. many folks have told me they always keep extra copies for gifts.

consider donating this book to your local hospice. buy one to pass around for your death cafe groups. share with friends that need it. by doing so you keep this platform free and support the work.

I was too unwell to officially launch this book into the world, any help in spreading its word is deeply appreciated.

Death and its Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Beautiful Lessons

At The Death Dialogues Project Podcast we enjoyed hearing folk’s experiences with their ongoing relationship with their loved one into the beyond and other ways connection showed up. Click on photo for Tricia Barker’s magical episode about her NDE and how death has changed her:

This is our favorite stop in NZ’s far north. We do hope that now, with our empty nest and tapping into house/animal sitters, we will do more NZ exploring in than we have in our 14 years here.

This is the first trip with our widowed good friend since his wife died. We were a foursome for the past several years. She had a cancer recurrence and we were a support team. My cardiologist husband would attend her oncology visits. I would give her chemo injections monthly. As symptoms gradually ravished her we had lots of deep, soulful talks. End of life choice initiated by her, memories, desires, and so much more. Mainly our focus was having fun (camping, hanging out, dinners out …) when we could—channelling our inner youth with an edge of naughtiness and enjoying each other as much as possible.

I could write so much more about our love for them and the journey of walking beside them. But back to this beach. This day.

I miss her so much here. It is overwhelmingly bittersweet to watch the boys boogie board, walk the beach, and go full throttle with the bloke-ity bloke talk.

Little do they know that I’m spending much of my time enhancing my dance with divine consciousness—it’s always been a pathway for me but with health challenges and listening to Telepathy Tapes recently (you must) I’m on a gorgeous roll with synchronistic sparks flying. (more on that in my next piece)

Riding the divinity wave is my main self care and an important antidote, an eviction notice, for the current chaos (or health challenges, over-worry about umpteen grown up kids and family—whatever rents space in my head and heart) taking up too much headspace. Staying plugged into “the real” 💫 is a lifesaver for me.

How are YOU doing?

Do take care of youself.

Much love.

Becky

when the song of the angels is stilled,

when the star in the sky is gone,

when the kings and princes are home,

when the shepherds are back with their flocks,

the work of Christmas (holidays) begins:

to find the lost,

to heal the broken,

to release the prisoner,

to rebuild nations,

to bring piece among the people,

to make music in the heart.

-The Rev. Howard Thurman (1899-1981)

Years ago when I discovered the above quote, it deeply resonated; the juxtaposition with buy and gift ad nauseam. Never has the message felt so pertinent as now. If only the powers that be in our over-cultures could let it sink in—syncing their hearts, minds, decisions, and actions.

At present it is New Year’s eve in New Zealand. I sit semi-reclined, leaning on pillows with my back against our bed’s headboard to ease the pressure of what grows inside me: The constant reminder of my latest diagnosis. A gentle rain falls down; as it sporadically stops, the songbirds sing, flitting and fluttering. The music backdrop is my woo-woo women’s playlist. Here with you now, I strive to be fully present.

The annual process of attempting to learn from this year has been in progress for the past weeks. Finding the gifts. Using those findings to build realistic hopes for the year to come. The exercise is much deeper than making obligatory lists of resolutions. Never have I been more aware of the need to sink into my current reality and notice joys and concerns.

What is deserving of my energy to call in? What is best to release?

Lately I’ve taken to foregoing sign-offs that fall beneath the column of “all best” and have adapted a lengthy “wishing you all things for your greater good.”

That’s what having shitty health adventure pop-ups has done to me. Sometimes “the best” or “wishing you well” just feels too far away. There’s the deep realization many of us have— that it is through deep discomfort, it is possible that many of our greatest gifts are eventually born, even if we don’t see them actualized for some time.

(prepare for a paragraph of multiple-metaphor) Trying to stay on the side of the cup half full, at times it feels like a comedy of errors, the amount of issues that continue to arise. Friends notice and comment on the “if it weren’t for bad luck you’d have no luck at all” of my human condition of the past several years.

Literally, I’ve begun to wonder if someone has a Becky voodoo doll that they delight in poking

My internal evolution has been to have constant therapy sessions with myself. The alternative to why-me-ing my self ragged.

What must have been a broken foot after having what I felt like was a long awaited improvement by the end of our three months of travels has been a challenge. (see my last writing) I was so looking forward to immediately continuing the walking after our mega-trip to get stamina back and feel a bit more “normal.” My foot rebelled, which didn’t help my head space. I’m pleased to now be easing back into walking.

A couple additional symptoms have crept up and I made the mistake of checking to see if it could be part of the Crohn’s disease, and wow, that was a bummer. Being reminded of all the possible sequelae was not emotionally helpful in the least. Put that in context of my other condition with moderate kidney failure and its duplicity of symptoms, it’s hard not to think that I’m (metaphorically) fucked for the rest of my time on this planet.

I’m trying to find the greater good in my recent life journey and challenges.

Back in the snail mail days every holiday season I would put together a summary of our family’s status with photographs.

Just think what it would feel like if we were sharing the evidence of ourselves and family being human instead of myriad yippees. It would definitely have to be a globally accepted practice or many readers would be rolling eyes while reading instead of letting themselves understand a person at a deeper level, meeting them where their hurt lives.

The challenges: Breakups. Arrests. Affairs. Relapses. Rehabs. Accidents. Illness. Injury. Failures … you get it. hohohodiho

I love focusing on the joys in my year end review, but isn’t it a more comprehensive story if we speak of the shadows as well? That’s where the magic of our greater good might be found. And, of course, the truth lies in the shadows holding hands with your future greater good, if you can learn and grow where it once felt the light had disappeared.

My spiritual practice floats on the belief that our suffering is part of our full spectrum life-plan rather than something to escape. I also bow to the great mystery and think I have little fear and apprehension regarding my own death, wherein may lie a part of my personal greater good. Who knows? ( I don’t have to)

The greater good project I’ve currently landed on is exploring my connection to the beyond. Meditating and meditating. Zen music and a few deep conscious breaths can be medicine for me; deeply going under feels otherworldly. I find or revisit the stories of near death experiences, shared death experiences, and all things “the other side” or the unexplained that are fulfilling on my personal greater good scale.

There is so much magic around us if we connect deeply with others. I learned this getting into the deep conversations on The Death Dialogues Podcast (you can find it on this platform. I loved to ask— can you tell us if you feel there’s been any communication with you from the beyond? (overwhelmingly the answer was yes)

I find when I verbally try to share this personal terrain I’m journeying, I frequently become tongue-tied; it’s beyond words. Most of the process is just my own. Beckoning starry night skies, in awe of the expansive magic above me, relevant reading and watching videos, an expanding trust and belief that there is so much magic that we aren’t aware of— while our feet are on the planet, sitting still in nature and observing; I’m in awe. These exercises make sense to me since I am no longer able to ride our horses, hike in the out of the way places— set the physical goals I once would (yes, grief certainly lives behind those limitations for me). Seems to make sense to move that focus to connection to the divine oneness and expanding my soul-experience.

There’s so much suffering in the world, I acknowledge that privilege is mine to be sitting on top of this peaceful hill in New Zealand and writing about my personal experiences. Contemplation. If you have time and space for contemplation, you are indeed privileged. This isn’t lost on me and certainly sending loving energy out to the suffering masses is an ongoing practice and never wasted energy.

Below are a few recommendations to ponder

Wishing you all the best for your greater good—

Becky

Recommended reading:

Death and its Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Beautiful Lessons

(you can read the sample)

by Becky Aud-Jennison (cheeky, sorry I couldn’t resist)

I Haven’t Been Entirely Honest with You, by Miranda Hart

Reading/listening to this book felt like the magic of synchronicity. Although we have different conditions, our experience very much parallels. I’ll stop there, but I could write a piece on that itself.

Reading now:

The Believer: Encounters with love, death & faith by Sarah Krasnostein

Every Moment Since by Marybeth Mathew Whalen

Last reads besides Miranda Hart’s book:

The Friday Afternoon Club by Griffen Dunne.

Rules of the Road by Ciara Geraghty

(it’s been a much better reading year for me than the previous year when my symptoms wouldn’t allow me to read)

Apps that speak to me (yes they are stored under woo in my phone):

• Awakened Way— look into Suzanne Geisemann’s work for someone who is an accidental medium. Fascinating stories and a lot of resources out there. Was high up at the Pentagon, life/death happened and so did her exploration. Boggling. Gems at her YouTube channel too. And books.

• Empower You

• Wildwood

  ---

Watching:

The Other Side NDE— YouTube (I heard stories such as these during my work as a nurse and therapist. So fascinating.)

NDE diary—YouTube

Suzanne Giesemann: messages of hope— YouTube

WE DON’T DIE — YouTube

DOING:

Highly recommend this offering. You’ll be gently held by Sandy.

https://www.yogaforgriefsupport.com/onlinesupport.html

Sandy Ayre graduated from Occupational Therapy in 2000 from the University of Alberta - which began her dedication to using activity therapeutically to support change in people's lives. She was certified as a yoga teacher through the Yoga Association of Alberta in 2009.

Combining her roles as an Occupational Therapist and a Yoga Instructor she naturally uses therapeutic approaches and adapted activity in her classes and with her students.

Sandy's philosophy is one of empowerment. She believes the real practice of yoga begins at the end of the class.

In 2006 she suffered the death of her partner, spurring her along the path of using yoga as a healing modality for grief. Following the "Companioning Model" of grief support Sandy believes that grief is a natural and organic part of life and love, and as such healing grief requires compassionate and heart-centered attention. She uses yoga to find the wisdom, guidance and healing in the midst of the pain of loss.

Sandy is certified in Death and Grief Studies through The Center For Loss and Life Transition in Fort Collins, Colorado. She works as an Occupational Therapist on the Tertiary Palliative Care Unit in Edmonton Alberta. She has been guiding weekly Yoga for Grief Support Groups in Edmonton since 2009. ​​

Writing it down— if you haven’t journaled or given yourself space to spill your experiences or emotions on the page, you may find, as many have, a portal into your soul.

Listen:

Today’s recommendation from our podcast. Sandy (above) was an early guest on my podcast:

Music- For me, music = medicine. Consider making playlists for varying times of your life’s rhythm. I have many playlists: happy, relaxing, exercise, grief of individuals each have a playlist, my death, my husband’s death, dance music, woo woo women, guided meditation, meditation music …

Spotify is worth the price for how I use it. I recently discovered they have audiobooks too. After one deep dive for the meditative work I’m doing, I recommend you consider a decent pair of earphones (mine were under $100), and exploring binaural beats.

I try to include a song that feels like the vibe behind relate to where I’m at in this piece.

Life

by Avett Brothers 2012

One comes of it, love it, love it
Let go of it, love comes from it
We're not of this world for long
Faith and promise, keep me honest
When starvation falls upon us
Daylight told me he would be

Gone with cold words spoke among hers
Wretched is the tongue of their world
We're not of that world at all
We never will be

Wouldn't it be fine to stand behind
The words we say in the best of times
Oh, and you and I know all too well
About the hell and paradise right here on earth

Keep it, use it, build it, move it
Claims can't touch how time will prove it
Watch us fly as loud as we can
Let her heartbeat change what I am now

Wouldn't it be fine to stand behind
The words we say in the best of times
Oh, and you and I know all too well
About the hell and paradise right here on earth

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Robert Crawford / Scott Avett / Timothy Avett

See you next year! (recall how brilliantly funny that was the first time you heard it as a kid- a big wow)

It is difficult to know where to start after so long.

First a huge welcome to you all and a special nod to all of our recent subscribers. I see you and appreciate you.

Your engagement with this space means so very much to me and has been an important connection during some challenging times.

For those who are new and don't know my story you can peruse this platform to learn more if you are interested.

For context of where my message comes from today-–

• I've taken a break from the level of output and interaction with the project, podcast, and my writing since early 2023 when I became physically/energetically incapacitated. You can find it referenced in previous pieces.

• I've just returned from a three month overseas journey catching up with our adult kids and grandkids and friends all over the US and, then traveling to Portugal, staying a few weeks with our dear friends, ending with a processing, self-care stop in the Cook Islands.

• Why so personal? This project was born believing in the power of sharing our stories.

• Sharing personal is just one reason I refer to myself as a therapist gone rogue. We are so pounded with lessons of not sharing about ourselves in our training that it felt odd at first to wander into the world of shared experiences. (retired from over 30 years in human services/mental health)

  

  SPEECHLESS … in Portugal

The entire time we were away, especially in cities or chaotic times, I fondly looked forward to returning to our little paradise up on a hill in New Zealand; getting my zen back while also enjoying some renewed energy.

What I didn't imagine was that my re-entry would be such a challenge. Landing home takes a mindful practice for me in the best of times, more with health challenges.

This time was different.

In the last 10 days of our overseas trip, my husband and I caught a bout of covid. Not optimal. I did take the antiviral. What I didn't realize is that sometimes you can have a covid relapse after you are better. I think that happened after we were back in NZ; not severe and difficult to discern between it and trip-lag but the headache was the same as my covid headache.

Oh, and there was the very painful foot sprain that happened on the day we were flying out of San Francisco. Air New Zealand staff were saints. The check in attendant looked at me hobbling to the desk and immediately said she was calling for a wheelchair. I was treated with exquisite care the entire flight(s). I'm still nursing that injury and that's made me rather sedentary. Again.

You see, we had a couple of nicknames we came up with for this lengthy trip: "full circle" and "the resurrection tour."

Starting a new medication with positive results and mindfully increasing activity on the trip did feel like a resurrection of sorts.

During the first year of my newly diagnosed chronic condition my physician husband and I both thought death might be looming. There were times I said into the void, please don't let these awful symptoms continue. Call me home sooner than later if that's where this is heading. I was miserable. No energy to read, write or even engage with music which is always such medicine.

Eventually during these traveling months I surpassed 10,000 steps one day for the first time in two to three years. Hence, resurrection title, and yes, we can be a bit overdramatic at times.

I was so looking forward to returning home and re-establishing a walking routine as part of a continued rehab and ongoing wellness practice. I felt up for the challenge. Of course I'd have to really tune into my body and not push it over its limits which can change day to day. So yeah, that was one of the reasons I found my self floundering on my return home. I'm still waiting for my foot to heal and be pain free enough to go for meaningful walks. I relapsed stepping on uneven ground to let horses through a gate so I've learned the need to let it heal. In the mean time it’s yoga, band and some weights exercises.

Said horses and gate:

With a sudden surge of less activity and less interaction with loved ones upon our return, grief of loved ones slipped into some of the gaps these challenges left gaping. Going through photos to share with my granddaughter made the longing, wandering into grief, all more concrete seeing family of origin photos. Two brothers and my mother now absent. My oldest brother and I surviving. For now. I know we both feel lopsided at family gatherings with the absence of some of our strongest glue.

All part of love and loss—the emotional ebb and flow of grief.

Answering grief's call, I've been over-medicating with my meditative practice of mindfully, slowly, breathing in their love for me, it landing in my heart. Then exhaling love out of my heart to them. Sometimes I visualize a different person with each exhale. This is best done under a starry sky, as so many things are. Being so very dark with the new moon on our return, I’ve felt like the stars were speaking to me again in return. Magic. (my unpublished memoir through the lens of death that I've been sharing chapters of on here is titled “and then the stars spoke”)

Alrighty then, that's a wrap. There is a list yay long of topics I hope to share with you more frequently.

This song feels like an illumination of my personal journey.

On another note—

All the while I was interacting with others throughout this project, I experienced a multitude of losses and grief along with an ongoing sparring session with anticipatory grief. One of my dear sons went traveling the US and the dangerous roads of addiction.

We are very close and had lovely conversations while he was on his journey, him always assuring me he wasn’t using heavy drugs—usually after telling me about the last OD death of a traveling acquaintance. It wasn’t until his best traveling mate OD’d on heroin and died, while they were apart, that the reality of his trauma reached our family. He began a dangerous spiral of his own drug use and likely a less than solid commitment to staying on the planet.

He’s been through treatment a couple times since he returned to his hometown. He lives in a sober Oxford House. We spent lovely time together in April when he came to NZ to be with us as well as when we were on our recent travels. He’s started the below project and we both would be grateful if you’d subscribe to his writing and podcast. It’s raw, but as I always say: listening to others’ stories will make you a better human. Promise.

Road Dogs

Another One Gone

I talked a while ago about a member of my small Narcotics Anonymous homegroup who overdosed. And it happened again. It’s fucked up because he was there last week. He had relapsed and came back in and was trying to get help. He reached out to people around him, including me. We made plans to hang out last Thursday and take our dogs to the dog park, but i…

Read more

2 years ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Keegan Otwell

And speaking of podcasts, many of you have suggested I re-release an episode of The Death Dialogues Project podcast when publishing. You can find all of the episodes on this podcast on this platform.

Today I’m sharing a story that deeply moved me. This mother has become a friend as we bonded through her process you will hear about. I especially hope that the parents of my son’s best friend who died may have access to it. Maybe parts will resonate—even though their deaths have differences.

If my energy holds, I hope to publish a little more frequently here.

Wishing you centering and loving times during any time of celebration you may be experiencing and all things for the greater good.

Much love,

Becky

(please be patient with any errors . . . rushing.)

I’ve been wanting to write to you for some time, but just haven’t quite had the creative energy to go to the page. (it’s clear from coughing up just one sentence that it serves me to be here more frequently)

Recently we’ve been planning a three month trip from New Zealand to several ports in the US and on to Europe. It’s no small feat lining up primo house/animal sitters. Me and my husband both feel a sense of renewal understanding that with Mr. 20 living in the US— if we are up to it— we now have freedom to travel.

You know the drill, how many things are put off until “retirement” or some other obscure mark on the timeline of your life. My husband being a doctor, and me in the helping field, we were always saddened by folks, some family, who dreamt of the day to come when they could … only to be taken by disability or death before then.

In a way I think because we had a visceral awareness of that possibility we somehow thought we’d get a pass. Then my energizer bunny cardiologist husband was struck by the heart attack known as the “widow maker.” Not long after that I joined the ranks of those whose body rears in medical malfeasance. It’s all too long and boring to go into a play by play of that, but 18 months after the initial investigation I believe I’ve just completed my final specialist consult. Waits, yes. Bills, no, living in a country with nationalized health. (all hail to the silver f’ing lining)

We know what I have— two serious chronic health issues instead of the one I knew about. This last one is very symptomatic and has drastically changed my functioning. Honestly, it has changed who I am.

My husband and I have both been knighted by the wand of “this too can happen to you.” Honestly? It sucks. (I promise I strive to stay grateful for each moment even if this story is a back drop to SNL’s Debbie Downer's skits = no fun at all)

Back to this trip. What started out as a mission of my husband going to help one of our kids’ family settle in after a move, turned into his announcement, “Let’s both go over, visit them all and then head to Portugal to hang with our besties. We may not have another chance …” I saw the lightbulb go off for him: we have to do what we can while we can.

We’ve both been excited about the travels. I feel much more secure knowing we will be together; he’s my emotional support animal.

Prior to my health bomb I took a solo three month post-covid trip of reconnection with kids and grandchildren in 2022. It was no small task. My daughter asked me why/how could I travel for so long— is this the farewell tour? To which I chirped, smiling, you never know! (right? i know)

Let me pause here for a bit of a catch-up. I started this project because of the intimate experience with my brother and mother’s deaths when we practiced autonomy, including keeping their bodies home with us for three days. It was such a profound and beautiful experience, I wanted others to know the possibility was there. This led to the Death Dialogues Project and Podcast (which you can find here and listen to on this Substack platform or wherever you listen to your podcasts).

A world was opened of connecting with like-minded folks with the similar mission of increasing literacy and awareness around all things death. And wow. Over the past almost eight years that I’ve been in that space, the generations behind me have carried the torch for that mission in creative and poignant ways and awareness towards death, dying, and grief continues to expand.

Recently someone very solid in that death-work community put a post on Instagram saying they were going to have to step away from that work— referring to their emotional and energetic capacity through their personal interfaces with death. Me? Big huge exhale reading those words of honesty. I wasn’t alone.

I can’t even list all the intimate deaths we’ve experienced during those seven years up until now. I want death to give me, my family and friends some respite. Mr. 20 recently said, mom, what is with our family? How can we have so much death and heartbreak. It isn’t normal.

Add to his experience beyond our family and friends, he has had multiple friends who have died. He’s been brought up by grief and death; he continues to process it with each emotional developmental stage he hits. He also has a healthy dose of anticipatory grief, sorry mom, but you guys are old. He will regularly recite his oath that he will move in and take care of us no matter when/if the time comes. Bless him.

Forgive me, but right now I’m in need of a vacation from death.

People in the death and dying space get frustrated when literature or sometimes professionals confuse Elizabeth Kübler Ross’s five stages (DABDA) of grief with post-death emotional response when it was meant to be after receiving a diagnosis of a serious/terminal illness. I’ve been able to witness those for myself.

Denial— I chalk that up to receiving information after a catscan when Crohn’s disease was diagnosed that this condition was actually spotted. And ignored. By my physician, my physician husband, and myself. No fault, no foul. At that state there was nothing that could be done. By the time it could no longer be ignored, denial wasn’t an option for me.

Anger— Yep, I let myself get pissed off about the above fact for a hot minute, but was able to self-talk myself down because official early detection wouldn’t have changed anything. In fact, it would have prevented some life opportunities coming to fruition, so it was a blessing it wasn’t properly diagnosed earlier.

I was angry at chronic illness and death itself because during this period I supported two of my best friends through their illnesses and death. So yeah, fuck death. (an element of that sentiment remains)

Bargaining— To be real? I haven’t really had the energy that is required for bargaining. I’m too well versed with medical journeys to waste what little spunk I have on magical thinking.

Depression/Despair— This phase looks more like despair than depression for me. despair: the complete loss or absence of hope. Again, enough with magical thinking. When you get to the core of what’s happening with me it’s a downward trajectory of unknown rapidity. I don’t have a depression about the possibility of dying earlier than I previously thought I might (I still am part of the faction that knows good and well I could get hit by a vehicle tomorrow). For two folks that have spent careers helping others cope, it’s frustrating to be in the space where there’s nothing more that can be done …

Acceptance— I think I’m there. How can I tell? All the years of being programmed to push through, keep on going, you’ve got this, rah-rah-rah is impossible now. It’s taken a long while to get there, but the action behind my acceptance is what has given me the most comfort. Letting go of guilt related to not being able to function well. Accepting my husband’s (and others’) help without disparaging inner self-talk. Pacing my energy and activities because I’ve accepted this isn’t going away. Staying in the moment. Finding beauty in small, every day ways: the birdsong; the thunderstorm building up and rolling by in the distance; our animals; good movies and shows; love and care of each other …

Part of this acceptance process sees me slowed down enough to recognize some of the full circles of life lessons and how most of the disparaging feelings toward myself stem from family of origin drama that I no longer own.

It’s a radical act when we can circumvent the “should-ing” on ourselves that was put on us from birth by unpacking the painful stories we were not responsible for and rewriting them.

It’s been hard to bring myself to write this. Mainly because of understanding the inherent privilege I and my loved ones have in this life. With all the chaos and suffering in the world, it feels wrong to focus too much on my own experience.

I know many of you have similar feelings. Give yourself permission to process and hold your “hard” gently, even more-so in the midst of unthinkable suffering in the world that can wreak havoc on our tender hearts.

Okay. Back to packing. I’ve been piddling with this for a few days and we are heading to the airport in 15 minutes. As usual, it felt lovely to have the sense of connecting with you through writing this update.

Much love,

Becky

The next chapter of my memoir through the lens of death “and then the stars spoke …” You can go to previous posts to catch up with earlier chapters shared.

Grandma

My mother was always amazed by my memory.

We had a clear marker in time that pointed to just how early my memories were. Just after my third birthday, we moved to Illinois from Oklahoma. My grandmother died before we left. I remembered that. Kennedy had been assassinated before we moved. I remembered that as well. There were other specifics—playmates, places, scenarios.

Knowing that people won’t believe me, I usually don’t mention that I remember sitting in a baby carrier on the kitchen counter and my mother spoon-feeding me.

I thought I’d be able to remember everything forever.

Even in my twenties, I remembered all of it. The good. The bad. The fits. Each one. Honestly, it felt like a curse. I envied my father, who claimed he had huge gaps in his memories and no memory before five years of age, or friends who swore they remembered very little of their early lives. Never in my dreams did I think those memories would leave.

Some memories remain, but many details have finally taken leave. Many are forever gone. One theory I have is that the memories stayed alive because I was constantly processing them as part of my healing. Maybe the voids there now are more about resolution than a failing memory.

In early adulthood, my brother Tom and I would sit up late into the night, sipping cheap beer and going over the mangled shrapnel of our childhood. Ever the armchair psychologists, our goal was as much to get answers to my father’s behavior and choices as it was to have the cathartic experience of venting with each other.

These sessions never ended with a result that kept us sated long-term. The stories were unpacked, aired, refolded, and repacked throughout our lives.

With my therapy training, I had to dissect all of the memories and chaos and choose which therapy modalities, and why I would use what, with my family, ad nauseam, as well as have my own therapy. So just maybe, the intensity of the memories began to fade after enough processing had occurred. Finally there had been enough rotation of the emotional compost that I could be rewarded with the long-decomposing fertilizer; the stuff that would make my life so much richer and allow me to grow only beauty.

Smug, I was. Done and dusted.

Many of the early death memories, or a version of them, still exist.

What I recall of dealing with death in my young life was that it was actually a time of relative safety within the ongoing unpredictability and threat. My father was always in finest form when he was at a bedside, a coffin or graveside. We were safe; he would never unleash the monster in public.

My earliest experience with death was that of my grandmother, Essie Amanda, my mother’s mother, who lived with us in Oklahoma during her end stage of leukemia.

My mother told the story that when the disease of leukemia was “discovered,” Grandma became obsessed with it, worrying she’d get it. She died of leukemia. Was she psychic, or was this an example of the mind–body connection?

Grandma’s leukemia proved to be a monumental teachable moment for my mother, “Be careful of the thoughts you put in your brain … don’t think about things you don’t want to manifest.”

I see myself, tiny, in the living room with my grandmother. She is leaning over the living room trash can and brushing her long hair over it to catch the strands that fall out with each stroke. I’m such a tiny thing the receptacle goes up to my chest. I beg her to let me brush her hair. After a couple finishing runs of the brush through my own hair, I then attempt to clean out the hairbrush as she did each time, putting that hair in the bin.

My grandma has a soft smile, and she loves me. I feel it. She lies on her side on our sofa. I snuggle up, spooning into her softness. She’ll sleep, but I can’t, so I trace my finger over the rough texture on the faded red couch. I wonder why a material that is meant to be against our body is so rough that it makes marks on my face and feels uninviting.

There comes a time when Grandma isn’t in our home anymore. I’m told she is in the hospital and I’m too young to visit. The hospital has rules.

My soft-spoken, gentle, perpetually cowboy hat–wearing Uncle Hugh, whom I felt a deep connection with, says he’ll sneak me in. I’m standing over Grandma’s bed, head reaching out from under the coat where I was hidden as he carried me. I remember this.

I lean over, reaching for my grandma—I want to lie down with her, like I always do. I’m not allowed. She takes my hands in hers and kisses them.

That’s the last memory of my grandmother. I loved her. I remember the feeling of her love, same as I can feel Uncle Hugh’s. I don’t remember her words or her voice—just the softness and the love of her. My mother adored her “mama,” and her memories kept that softness alive for me.

There was talk of me being too young to go to the funeral. I’m not sure I did. My mom’s dead, so I can’t ask her anymore.

I feel like I ran around a cemetery, possibly after the service. Did I? I don’t know.  Ask me everything you want to know. There will be things you want to know later and I won’t be here to answer them. How many times did my mother say those words?

Later, I would run around many cemeteries throughout my young life, and they are still a place that feels comforting.

There were a couple of revelations surrounding my grandmother’s death in the last few years, after I had experienced my own deep loss.

How deeply had my mother grieved? She adored her Mama. She spoke of her as if she was a saint. Sharecropping in the dust bowl of Oklahoma during the Depression—unimaginably difficult times. She and her siblings were hungry much of the time, living on dried beans and cornbread. How she could continue to love beans and cornbread the way she did throughout her life was beyond me. But now I think I understand. It was the connection to her mother she was consuming as much as the food.

My mother loved her Papa as well, but she held resentment towards him that came out more as she aged. He would take off, “gallivanting” around; a renowned cock-fighter who never brought winnings home that were substantial enough to ease the burden Grandma carried.

“She may as well have been a single parent during those times,” my mother would say with resentment.

As a wee child, Mom could hear the adult cousin that would take her Papa away coming from afar because of the pots and pans and metal jangling on his cart. That sound put an ache in her tummy, and she would see her mother bristle as it heralded the fact her husband would be taking off and leaving them to fend for themselves once again: the farming, the animals, children, and chores. How was she to feed and clothe these children on her own? Those were the days of not only farming your fingers to the bone, but milking and churning your own butter, boiling your water to wash clothes … a life of hardship and heavy labor.

“Mama worked like a man; she had to,” I heard my mother say throughout our lives.

As she would share these emotions I’ve tried to recall, why didn’t she cry more or outwardly grieve? I know she missed her mama greatly. And then I think—of course.

My father wouldn’t have allowed her to show the outward grief. She felt she couldn't speak positively about her siblings and parents. He would have been resentful. Jealous that other people might be taking up her emotional bandwidth. Resentful that he did not have memories of loving parents and family.

The time demarcation of my young life happened when we moved to Illinois, not long after my grandmother died.

I recall Kennedy’s assassination while still two years old. John-John and I were the same age, and I was fascinated by him. Even then, my heart hurt for others when I sensed they were hurting. I turned three in April and we moved to Illinois in July of 1964. Mom left her remaining family in Oklahoma. After 19 moves in 21 years, she told my father she would never move again. True to her word, she did not move for over 50 years, until the last two years of her life, when she lived with my family in New Zealand.

Growing up in our home in Illinois, always bored, I took great delight in exploring my mother’s dresser drawers. One was full of Sunday hats and gloves for church. I’d put them on, model, find a purse and pair of dress shoes, playing dress-up. I have a memory of when I was tall enough to stand on my tippy toes and finally able to open the top drawer of the dresser.

In it, I see a long, loose parcel of tissue paper. Inside it are light brown, almost blond, neatly plaited braids. I touch their smoothness. Overwhelmed with emotion, I run to my mother. “Are these Grandma’s?”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes holding the story of missing her mama. My fingers stroke the braids, wishing I could feel all of her.

A revelation occurred after the birth of my own granddaughter.

I looked up at the photo of my grandmother, and a memory of connection and love flooded me at a time in life when I was feeling tremendous love for my new granddaughter—my first grandchild.

I realized in that moment that if our ancestors can, in fact, watch over us, of course my grandma would be companioning me throughout life. I had been the first granddaughter born, after 13 boys. We spent an intense time of connection together in those three years and at the end of her life. Of course she’s on my team on the other side, if such a thing resides within the great mystery.

Thank you, Grandma, for showing me some of the first unconditional love ever experienced and for embedding yourself deep within my heart.

Song: “All My Life” by Jeen

I shall try post some updates while away … Not taking a computer so may be easier said than done. x

Greetings Gentle Reader (cue Bridgerton theme music)

I promise there was once a time (it feels like in another lifetime) that I shared obnoxiously positive holiday letters and updates:

What’s on your mind? How grateful I am for this beautiful life and loves …

In hindsight, we were a “lucky” family. Major tragedy like some of those shared on my podcast (which you can listen to here on Substack) had largely bypassed us. Lifelong “extremely hard” wasn’t a such regular visitor. Journeying with my brother with his brain cancer in 2016 seemed to open the floodgates. He died in January 2017.

Mind you, HARD visited at times, however the above thoughts entered my mind as I begin this letter to you because there is total awe at the fact I used to have to temper my enthusiasm about what was going right …

Now I’m restraining myself from being a total downer by illustrating how frequently the hard circles around.

Since I’ve last written, my son whose substack I recommended in the last post, relapsed. He’s now out of inpatient treatment and it’s a relief that I can say you can read his substack , Road Dogs, to engage with his story as he writes about it.

Fellow loved ones of those who struggle with an addictive process of any sort or other major challenges: I feel you; my pain and confusion sits with your pain and confusion. Until you go through this with someone you deeply love, which I have in a prior relationship and with other relatives as well, you cannot understand the gnawing ache that accompanies it. An anticipatory grief sits on your shoulder. The work to stay differentiated and detach with love is all encompassing.

My said son once told me that my motto needs to be “save yourself.” Damn. It’s true. If I ever got a face tattoo it would be the mirror image of those words to see when I looked at my reflection.

Also since I’ve last written there have been three deaths of precious loved ones. One of my best friends here in NZ, one extended family member, and an old schoolmate.

My last visit with my NZ friend was 48 hours before she died. She gifted us with being able to process her impending death with her. On one of our visits she instructed us to put together a playlist and photos for her funeral; we did much of it with her. Her daughter read the blessing I had written for her journey forward to her while still alert enough to comprehend it. I spoke at her funeral held at the crematorium, went home and finished packing and the next day at 4 am headed to the Cook Islands with my husband. We landed at our first stay we’d reserved hoping the same friend and her husband could stay with us.

I felt so heavy, it was a rejuvenating space of exhaling, being in the moment with nature, unplugging and feeling my true self in a way I haven’t for a very long time. My broken body could flow through the water with ease and, awestruck, view the magical sea life. Bright blue starfish. Swimming with a school of hundreds of tropical white and black striped fish. Viewing so many spectacularly colored species.

Feeling weightless, to connect with the natural world on such a multi-sensory level was pure medicine to my mind, body and soul. In no way did I feel like I was running away or copping out, still feeling all the feelings. It simply validated the idea that we all need to regularly feed ourselves time in nature to commune with what is real and solid and miraculous in this life we are living as sad, stressful and tragic as it may feel.

We’ve been back four days. Blood drawn twice, acupuncture and a new specialist appointment done. Another specialist appointment next week. Not expecting any great answers to improve what renders me so unlike myself. Not getting them. The quickest way to explain is my previous 10/10 is now a 5/10 at best. I’m not whining, promise. My condition feels like such a daunting, moving target, it would be total denial not to be honest and make space for the challenges it has brought to my life.

Can I tell you one thing that lifts me on a daily basis? Daily, I get emails about the people, you, subscribing to my writing on this substack. Yes, it is followed by a twinge of guilt of feeling undeserving since my writing has been few and far between, but as a lifelong writer there is a joy in having my words welcomed. I hope to touch base more frequently; it does make me come alive to connect with you.

That’s enough of an update for now. Below, as promised, I will share Chapter Two of my memoir through the lens of death, and then the stars spoke … and link you to one of our podcast episodes I think you’ll enjoy.

Just a reminder, with this book I have a song after each chapter that was relevant for me in processing what happened there. I’ll link it. If you want to catch up on the intro and first chapter, they are in my two previous substack posts that you can find on this platform.

third chapter of and then the stars spoke …

sins of the father

I was conceived into rage.

The very amniotic fluid I swam in pulsed with the hormones released out of fear and doubt and regret and sadness. The thunder in the background was my father’s booming, venomous shouts. The jolts and jumps expressed the tensing of my mother’s body. 

There were ancestors surrounding my wee self, surely shaking their heads in disbelief, but also knowing the why that lay before me. The why that tortured me throughout the soreness of my childhood.

Before I was even born, I’d lost my father. 

Born in 1961, I was the youngest of four—three older brothers, seven, nine and 15 years my senior—and the first female grandchild on my mother’s side, after 13 boys. 

My father’s rage had already depleted his capacity to love by the time I was born. 

A novelty of feminine energy in our extended family, I was not the miracle that everyone must have hoped would allow my father to lean into love and turn his back on rage. 

My mother and father, who were 38 and 40 when I was born, raised me with the story that they were ancient. Listening to them, you’d expect to find them in the Guinness Book of World Records listed under “oldest parents to ever have a child.”

Old age was the excuse for why they could not playfully engage with me. 

“I’m too old, I can’t get on the floor anymore.”

“ I’m too old, I can’t play ball with you.”

Exhausted by their own drama, they simply chose not to spend meaningful leisure time with me. The aging excuse was the handy blindfold to slip over my young eyes.

My father was a complicated, angry man, and my mother was his hostage.

My father was born in 1920 to a troubled mother who abandoned him and his two brothers to their paternal grandmother, whose response was, “If you leave these boys with me, you don’t ever look back.” His father was a meandering alcoholic who was married five times and randomly flitted in and out of his life—mostly out.  

With the poverty monsoon of the Great Depression rapidly approaching, those were economically hard times for all, and my father’s grandmother, who single-handedly ran a boarding house and cafe, would place the boys in an orphanage for long periods, in part for economic respite. 

My father showed me a photograph of the three boys, the youngest in an antiquated stroller, grinning. It's obvious who my father is, head bowed, glancing up, a look of shyness with a hint of a grin. “That’s me,” he said, pointing. “It was taken at the orphanage.”

Even as a child, trying to make sense of his raging “fits” (my mother’s word for the phenomenon) in a how could anyone possibly be so mean way, I understood that whatever had occurred in the gaps of his memory about being moved about like cattle in his childhood had caused lasting damage. As I studied attachment theory in young adulthood, when we were beginning to realize the impact adverse childhood experiences have on lives and mental health, I developed a deeper understanding. 

My father rarely shared scenes of his childhood, claiming he had vast memory gaps. The one story he shared with me about his transient father ended with my father physically striking him after he had missed his high school graduation, arriving late and drunk. 

The overriding theme of his young life was abandonment. There was no one who thought he was the sweetest little person or who relished hearing about his day. If he could only have explained to me that he didn’t know how to parent, that no one had ever showed him how, maybe I would have taken his hand in a let me teach you what your child needs way.

My childhood was spent with two fathers: one, a handsome and charismatic, helpful, humorous, church-going public face; and the other, a ridiculing, shaming, explosive, and sometimes physically violent rage-aholic within our home. 

Although I can remember a few tender times when I was very small—sitting by him on the couch, fascinated by watching the television war show Combat—I do not recall ever having an interaction like the one described in my visitation dream.

A memory remains of falling asleep on his chest as we sat on the couch in the living room, television blaring in the background, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Awakening and then clenching my eyes tight. Even my wee survival instincts were active; surely he could not spring into attack mode with a three-year-old sleeping on his chest.

Time with our father within the household was one of tiptoeing around land mines–never knowing what would trigger his backhand across your face and an ear-piercing rant. The outbursts were always unpredictable and irrational: 

Get that look off your face!

What are your books doing on the table?!

Stop chewing so loudly!

Transgressions registering low on the typical parents’ Richter scale could set off a violent tirade that would continue to escalate and could last for hours. His face would turn a crimson purplish hue as the veins in his forehead bulged, spit flying. Furniture would be shoved about. Items thrown. The vibrations of the scuffling, the belt taken off with one pull, and the wisp of it meeting the air—almost popping. The signal for my youngest self to attempt to shrink from view, slinking off to hide until the acute storm passed.

My mother, rendered helpless once again, would shove herself between him and my two older brothers—the oldest brother, fifteen years my senior, having already escaped. 

 Would the kitchen telephone hanging on the wall, the one with the wood plaque with the golden letters of the Serenity Prayer hanging above it, be used to call the police again this time?

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.

When my father was next out of the house, our mother would huddle us together and we would process what had happened.

Unlike the Serenity Prayer’s proclamation, there was no courage to change anything and no serenity to be found, only the wisdom to know that this man was dangerous, and we were trapped. 

As much as she feared and despised his behavior, my Great Depression–era mother appreciated her husband’s ability to keep a roof over our heads and food on our plates. There were no women’s shelters. My mother was paralyzed with fear at the thought of having to venture out on her own, go to work and raise her children. The worst possibility was that we might go hungry, as she had in her childhood in the dustbowl of Oklahoma, picking cotton until her fingers bled, at the age of three.

Ultimately, she was afraid he would hunt us down and kill us. A fact she confided in me from a young age. And when every argument for her leaving my father was posed to her, the final call was the promise she made to God. The God she turned to repeatedly with pleading prayers to change her husband, to protect her children. 

Thing is, I never saw her prayers answered. Not once.

Our plight was so complicated, my child-mind reckoned that her God, up yonder, as she would say, would never be able to find the solution to our predicament. And true enough, there was no peace until my father died.

Song: “Sad Eyes” by Big Fox

The podcast episode, Talk Dying to Me with Lauren Daley, MD shared here is very relevant to my husband and I as we journey with others through end of life. Repeatedly, doctors seem unable to address the impending death of their patient and have the conversations about the reality which would actually make their final months, weeks, days, hold more ease, steadying the wobbly raft they find themselves on, holding as it passes through their end days on the planet.

I hope listening to this can empower you with what to address if you find you or your loved ones in need. Quick link here

Wishing you light and love and all things for your greater good.

Becky

This project was created in 2017 on the heels of two deaths of precious family members. Living in NZ I had seen death done more intimately— the dying and the aftermath—and that empowered us to take that approach with my brother in the US and my mother who was in NZ with us.. After witnessing that beauty and power I was keen to hear and share others’ stories and let others see that they had a choice. Most always, in my interview, I’d ask, have you ever felt you’ve had contact with your loved one after death? at the end of our chat if it hadn’t come up.

In my many interviews, I cannot recall one person who hadn’t felt they had some contact from the otherside. Since I too had such experiences, beginning with my father’s death in 1982 (I write about this in the first chapter of “and then the starts spoke” that I share below) and had heard stories of contact and near death experiences decades ago in nursing— I wanted to get “everything death” out of the closet. After having my health lag this past year, I’m blown away at how that genre is exploding. (sound the celebration for increased death literacy).

It would be fair to say we raised our now adult kids to be curious and open-minded.

During much of the project we continued to experience rapid fire deaths and tightrope walks of loved ones and that hasn’t stopped— as well as me and my husband both experiencing medical crises. Many of you can relate.

If dealing with all that wasn’t enough, one thing I only shared with folks I was very close to was the ongoing anticipatory grief the fourish years my son travelled the US rough. There were close calls. During his travels we had amazing hours-long phone conversations where he was very open; we’ve always connected on the words front.

He’s a writer, poet, and has a gift for acting. His story hovered at the backdrop of my tender heart while already being body-slammed by death. I’m sure many of you can relate to having a grown child who’s going a direction that we fear may be a treacherous choice.

He’d given me permission to share his story for years but I just didn’t have the ability; instead I looked forward to him sharing when he was ready. Although it was part of my story, it wasn’t my story to tell.

Today, it brings pleasure to share that he made it through by the skin of his teeth, unlike many of his tribe, including his closest travel-mate which guts us all.

Keegan was just visiting us in NZ (was lovely) and he wanted us to watch Beautiful Boy as he’d never seen it.

After the viewing I could tell he was struck: smart, lovely, adored kid who came from a loving home, eventually taken hostage by his choices which summoned the Big Man: addiction. Having read the books that inspired the movie, his wheels seemed to be turning and during our time together he decided he might just put his other writing projects on hold and dive into compiling his story from his time on the road.

Another impetus that greased the writing his traveller story gears was that he was awaiting for his episode where he shared a bit of his stories on the Otherworld Podcast to air his hair-raising story, which was overwhelmingly received and validated the choice to get more of his story on paper. (Part one of his Otherworld Podcast was published two days after he returned home)

I’d like to introduce you to my son, Keegan. Clean, sober and walking the recovery walk for over 1.5 years, working full time helping others: doing it all, one day a time. I’m thrilled that he is bringing his experience into the light. Here is Keegan’s new Substack. I hope you subscribe and follow his writing— it would mean so much to him.

It might be helpful to first listen to his podcast episodes he discussed with host, Jack Wagner, on Otherworld Podcast— part 1 and 2, episode 78 and 79. Also available wherever you listen to your podcasts.

I think most of you drawn to the work of this page will likely find Keegan’s story very interesting, troubling, yet triumphant. You would probably be fascinated by following the podcast; my kids got me into it a while back and I appreciate the content.

As discussed in my last letter where I printed the forward to my unpublished book, and then the stars spoke, today I’m dropping (very brief) “Chapter 1”, below.

the visit

Bolting upright from a deep sleep, 3 a.m. glowing red at me from my bedside alarm clock, I’ve been awakened by a noise. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

Surprisingly, I’m not overwhelmed by fear. I arise and cautiously open the door of my antiquated trailer to find my father there, with a gentle look on his face, a hint of a grin, and an uncharacteristic tenderness in his eyes as he gazes up at me. 

There are no words. 

He steps up the squeaky metal stairs and stands before me, dressed in his signature faded Fruit of the Loom pocket T-shirt and worn Dickie work pants. 

We stand and look at each other for just a moment before he gently pulls me into an embrace. I feel the pressure of his arms wrapping around me, the warmth of his body, his chest pressing against mine. 

The connection provides an overwhelming sensation of care and security—something I’d never before experienced from him. 

A warmth flows through my body. A sense of telepathic communication in action. I feel him expressing an all-encompassing love and deep apology for his actions. This sensation seems to ooze into every part of my being; it has a magical, visceral quality. I let myself relax, exhale, feel into the embrace.

The year is 1983. I’m 22 years old. And my father has recently died.

Suddenly I’m wide awake and sit up in bed, still feeling the warmth and pressure of my father’s body pressing against mine. My first thought, That was real, and no one can tell me it wasn’t.

Song: “May I Have This Dance” by Meadowlark

(as mentioned before, a song that felt meaningful was chosen for the end of every chapter)

Please, if you’ve had any stories of connection, feel free to drop them in the comments. People sometimes hold them tight, concerned about what folks will think. This is a safe place…

All love until next time.

Becky

Right now I’m camping here in Towanda. Keegan and I were last here together.

mural by Felicia Olin, artist of my book covers and me

Greetings fellow travelers and thank you for being open to conversations that do not attempt to elevate pleasantries above all else. The real.

There’s so much chaos and injustice going on that enhances concern for our wider family and loved ones as they negotiate life in these times. Frost that cake with some personal health issues that frequently leave me physically and emotionally feeling drained, it’s difficult to not spiral into a perpetual “Debbie Downer” mode— sound on.

In these strange times, my most recent effective antidote involves, first, noticing (easier said than done most times), and then fully acknowledging and sitting with the hard. Finally, finding one speck of gratefulness within that challenging paradigm. I have a funny feeling that may be one of the places where grace lives.

An ailing friend going through severe health issues: remembering specific memories and the beauty of our relationship with gratitude for having them in my life.

Wishing a situation could be better for one or more of our children: acknowledge the learning that challenges can bring. (in our hearts, they never stop being the essence of those precious wee ones they once were, do they?)

Frustration with my own health challenges: gratitude for what this body has given me (cue jazz hands from the birthed humans) and any moments I spend in relative ease.

I try to apply this concept to the micro and macro societal troubling issues in any given moment. Acknowledging and sitting with the hard allows me to not feel as though I’m simply denying reality and “sugar coating.” All of the challenging times we experience have at least a hint of a crack of light just begging to be unleashed.

One thing I’m grateful for is that, unlike last year when I could barely muster the energy to read or think, much less write, today, I was actually looking forward to putting some thoughts down. I’ll take that. (p.s. so far this year I’ve read eight books—huge compared to my near zero status of 2023)

With “our” youngest going out into the wide world we had planned to do some extended travel this year. At this point we are leary to venture too far afield from New Zealand’s nationalized health care that as citizens we partake in. No matter how raunchy I feel there is still a youthful spirit in me that aches to explore. We found a compromise in planning a trip to some Pacific islands, that a final bequeathment from my mother’s estate will fund; she’d approve. Less of a plane ride, total r&r on the sea, not too far to abort swiftly if health plummets. It’s a trial run of sorts, one we both can benefit from and hopefully will open the door to courageously travelling further afield one day.

I don’t have the stamina for continuing the podcast and at the same time am amazed at the blossoming of offerings available in the same genre.

One I’d like to share is Dead Talks, hosted by David Ferrugio .

When I was in the US for three months in 2022, I was supposed to wrap the visit with an interview with David in LA to talk about the book and project before I flew home to NZ.

Totally wiped out, I sadly cancelled that interview.

Back to his podcast— he was early in the production at that time and I applauded him for his effort. Kudos to him, Dead Talks podcast has blown up—in a good way. Much like me, he has folks on to share their stories surrounding life/death. Highly recommend.

Over the past year+ while I’ve been struggling with health you may have heard me say how pleased I am that the next generations are rising to the fore and creating beautiful, unique and excellent spaces to explore all things death. Dead Talks Podcast is the perfect example. Like The Death Dialogues Project Podcast and its 128 episodes (which you can find on this Substack account), David is deeply interested in others’ stories. Highty recommend!

The other day I listened to a podcast episode that had automatically queued itself up on my podcast platform. Hearing messages, such as this beautifully articulated conversation, at just the right time, are the bits of magic and synchronicity that I hold on to tightly.

I’ve always felt like the podcast On Being is a bit like church for me, but this episode with Nick Cave and Tippet blew me away (filing it close to John O’Donahue’s episode).

Nick so articulated his view of death and loss in a way that landed deep in my soul; his every word resonated. Among many losses, an earlier history of addiction, family deaths, two of his sons died, one at 15 and the other later at 31. May I be so bold to say that grief rewiring him was one of the takeaways: listen to his beautiful words and see what you get from them. If you are here, you’ll surely find meaning there.

A while back I took a poll of followers of the project on Instagram to see if there was interest in me sharing chapters of my unpublished memoir through the lens of death. The response was 100% yes (she shudders).

Music has always been one of the primary ways I have processed challenging times. Its effect is unexplainable, what it lights up in me. After every chapter I have a song that feels very resonate of the chapter you’ve just read. I’ll link them them so you can listen as you go… others have felt that it adds a dimension of understanding.

I have the inner stamina to share this introduction and the first chapter in another post. Full disclosure: I may need some affirmation from the readers to continue sharing chapters of the book. Again. Vulnerability.

Here is the front cover created by Felicia Olin in Springfield, Illinois. I adore it.

Introduction

Death tore me apart and put me back together differently.

After years of working in the helping field, first as a nurse and then a mental health clinician/therapist, my life has now given me the privilege of being able to honor the calling of my heart. 

Called by death.

The heavier side of this journey involves my immersion into death as a child, death in clinical settings, the aftermath of humans ending their lives, and the intimate death and dying of my personal loves from my family of origin. 

Indeed, death has had its way with me.

Raised in a tumultuous household, I was always a deep feeler and had a sense of knowing as a child that surely helped keep my head above water. 

Part of the deep knowing included an understanding that, quite possibly, there are no accidents. I don’t claim to have any concrete answers to our ultimate questions about death, dying, and the aftermath; I bow at the feet of the great mystery.

What I do feel quite certain about is the magic our universe holds.

Those déjà vu moments, the whispers we hear that point us in a direction we hadn’t seen before, the coincidences, the signs. If you read no further than this paragraph, I implore you to start slowing down, pausing and taking notice of the trail of breadcrumbs the universe drops down for us to follow.

While being trained in therapeutic intervention, I thankfully was required to dig deeply and excavate the nooks and crannies of my life that held blockages and pain. I took that work seriously, believing it was my duty to be as grounded and sound as possible if I was going to help others navigate their emotional terrain. 

Embarrassingly, there was a long period of time I took pride in feeling that the deep inner work was done and dusted. Yep, I’d picked through the bones of the chaos we lived in; therefore I could only move ever forward, thank-you-very-much.

What I was not prepared for was to what degree complicated relationships, complicated childhoods, and complicated lives beget a very complex grief process. 

Messy. Messy grief.

As I was coming to the realization that we need to let our stories surrounding death out of the closet, I'm sure my deceased brother whispered into my ear to start The Death Dialogues Project. The rationale was made crystal clear by my academic experience, therapeutic training, but especially my personal experience with the dying process and the aftermath. That experience led to my awareness that we do not learn from someone who has never known great loss and the ensuing waves of grief, or sat by the side of a dying soulmate or child, or gotten that phone call in the middle of the night, or waited for someone to come home who never would again. Nor do we learn from textbooks with rote, generalized information. 

We learn from deeply connecting with people’s real life stories—walking intimately with them through their experience. True stories of how death and grief have had their way with people. This makes us better informed when it's inevitably our time to walk that path, holding hands with grief. 

Absorbing lessons from these stories is like absorbing vitamin D from sunlight. Our lives are enriched and we are fortified. We become better humans.

After suffering a hurt-full childhood, the saving grace for me was that my mother gave me space to process, to work through our story; this was a coping skill that followed me as a young adult and into the rest of my life. Repeated practice at talking about or writing out the fact that my father’s bizarre outbursts were about him and not us, and speculating what could have been responsible for this huge chink in his armor, taught me how to practice the same discernment throughout my life. 

When great loss struck me more recently, I wanted to go back to all the people who had paid me to sit with them as their therapist throughout the years and say, “I’m sorry, I would have done better if I’d only known.” My father’s death when I was 22 was not the lesson in deep loss I thought it had been. You will understand from my story how ill-equipped I had been.

As days and nights morph into months and years,  I realize more and more that my academic and clinical foundation have been trumped by life’s greatest joys and sorrows. Within these pages I bequeath to you the wisdom I have mined from the classroom of The Real. It took laying down my academic and clinical cloak to fully awaken to the lessons that were right in front of me: the stories inside myself and the stories of others.

When your expensive education and work experience and ethical requirements insist you deny so much of your humanness to set appropriate boundaries, to keep yourself safe, to maintain professional distance at all costs—and instead hunt for the correct diagnostic box to tick—the ability to listen and connect to the layers of another’s humanness is frequently deeply damaged. 

Here is my personal story. 

Messy. 

Complicated. 

Disturbing. 

Beautiful. 

Magical. 

This is an outpouring I’ve yet to share in this depth and detail, which I hope will illustrate the answer to a question I am frequently asked. The why behind my decision to create The Death Dialogues Project. 

How in the world can someone stay so deeply involved with death?

Another book, Death and Its Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Beautiful Lessons: field notes from The Death Dialogues Project, that has been simultaneously released holds lessons, too, but not just from my stories. The lessons in those pages also come from brave souls who have shared their tender hearts with me for The Death Dialogues Project and have given me permission to share glimpses into their experiences. Because the book encompasses so many interviews and conversations surrounding dying, death, and the aftermath, the wisdom shared in it is a treasure chest of clues for better understanding the great mystery.

Life really is fueled by the stories we tell.

One of the ways I process my personal stories, especially those about loss, is with music. There is a Spotify playlist you can find called and then the stars spoke. I invite you to listen to the songs in the context of the section you’ve just read if you would like a deeper peek into my inner journey. This is one of the answers to the question, “How do you do this?” Imagine that I’m sinking into these songs with you as I did while pondering these stories and writing this long and messy tale. Over and over again.

Thanks for being here. 

Song: “Who are We” by Ian Randall Thornton  

As I’m linking Death and its Terrible, No Good, Horrible, Very Beautiful Lessons to Amazon, I’m seeing they are basically giving the Kindle version away at the moment. Even if you don’t want to purchase from there, you can read the reviews, read a sample and hear a sample of the audio book.

Highly recommend you grab it. The physical copy’s cover is simply a beautiful piece of art and makes a lovely, thoughtful gift. The book is also available on most other online bookstores. Bookshop.org is a sweet indie choice. You can have me read the book to you by getting it on Audible.

A final thought, as I have shared pieces of my heart with you, I’m struck by how much more vulnerable I feel about putting my work out there right now. I can only imagine that exacerbation grows from the vulnerability my health has drenched me in over the past 18 months.

And I will say for the record, I am not officially dying at the moment (yet, we are actually all dying in this moment).

Here are some words from Kahlil Gibran for those who might find comfort in them:

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Sending love and understanding-

Becky

In November/December 2022, I was sitting vigil with my dear friend at the end of her life. That journey feels so long ago in many ways; 2023 will forever be known as my year that wasn't.

In January 2023 I was slammed by an underlying condition that had yet to be diagnosed. Much of my 2023 was spent bedridden when not being scanned and probed ad nauseam (literally, lots of nauseam). Month after month I struggled. My career as a clinical mental health professional came in handy for tapping into tools that had long been imprinted in my brain; they are what I leaned on.

My primary tools follow, in case someone may find them helpful or comforting on their journey–theirs or someone dear to them. Forgive any redundancy from my last post. I’m now able to give this topic a bit more energy.

Breath-work. Knowing I was regulating my autonomic nervous system helped center me when all else felt wobbly and unsure. Whether it did or not, I convinced myself that the practice was mitigating symptoms and slowing the trajectory of my condition. The practice allowed me to have a sense of control; we can all use grounding and centering in our lives. Most of us know that slow even breathing can give us a visceral sense of ease. It's been my job to pick up those changes, tiny as they may be. (look up HeartMath if you would like to see some research and techniques)

Mindfulness. If I didn't practice being in the here and now, my mind went to some of the places where grief also can live.

Regret: Ruminating about times in my life that I could have done better or had downright screwed up. No, that didn't help. Those times live in the past. Using my own advice, I'd remind myself to stop looking in the rear view mirror.

Fears for the future: How long can I live like this? This isn't living. It's the closest I've ever felt to being given an end of life prognosis and has turbocharged my empathy towards those who have received one. Wallowing in negativity about what could happen in the future was futile and did not help me or my loved ones' greater good.

If I turned the regret into gratitude for the life and loves I've had along with the miracles experienced, and turned the fear and dread into compassion for those suffering worse than me, it resembled a spiritual practice.

Remembering that this moment is the only one I can be sure of reminded me to open my eyes and heart to beauty. The blue heron couple who, for the first time, became our regular visitors. Nature, however and whenever I was able to experience it. The stars dancing above us. The tender care of my husband–par excellence. Our loving (adult) children and grandchildren and extended family and close friends (whanau).

Nature. There aren't enough words to describe how many times nature came to my rescue. If nothing else, putting my bare feet on the ground and imagining healing coming from the earth. Grounding.

From the NIH library: Grounding or earthing could be the anti-inflammatory antidote for modern man. It is one of the greatest kept secrets when it comes to our health and aliveness and only a small part of the scientific community really understands the concept. Once health professionals and others realize that grounding is especially important in preventing inflammatory illness, an incredible effect on public health will be realized. The breadth of validation from previous published data and real-life testimonials is a testimony of the earth's dramatic impact on healing the human body.

Nature brings us many cues and opportunities to stop and fully put our awareness on what's happening in front of us (alert mindfulness). The wind in the trees. The sway. The howl. The response of the animals. The movement of the clouds. You get it. Any aspect of nature holds so much if we only pause and focus. Let it trigger nice and easy breathing and sense of connection to all that is, was, and ever will be.

Non-judgment. Boy did I want to beat myself up for all of the things I did not have the capacity to do. To not even have the energy to write or read blew me away. A soothing elixir was when my writing friends would express empathy, "Oh yes, I get it. Writing takes a lot of energy."

When my brain pauses mid-sentence and I have to collect myself and work out what I want to say, instead of being terrified, I restructure to, of course with the fatigue and energy zap I will be word-searching at times.

Not having my usual talkativeness and desire for social connection. When there is no energy, previously beloved connection falls low on my list of needs– feeling near impossible. As I’m easing into more connection with others there is concrete evidence of how that buzz of friendship is frequently paid for with a wave of exhaustion. I’ll take it. (unless I can’t)

Once and for all letting go of blaming myself for not doing this or that to keep myself healthier: this is an inherited disorder. I'm just lucky it hadn't reared its ugly head many years ago; my life would have been so very different if it had.

I shamelessly paced myself and reorganized my closet over a week or so, only keeping clothes that would feel comfortable on my expanding girth (part of the condition) because that was the loving thing to do for myself. I refuse to smack-talk myself about my slowness or girth.

Accepting medical treatment. Having been diagnosed with Crohn's disease in 2009, I was thrilled that I didn't have to have medical intervention since my move to New Zealand in 2011. My mind-body practices worked well. Sensing changes, I had a self-care system that worked to turn any symptoms around.

Seeking medical consultation, assuming my Crohn's was in a mean flare, I finally chose it after being primarily bedridden the first three months of the year. I was scanned repeatedly, poked and prodded as this new condition was discovered, and other conditions ruled out.

I've now joined the ranks of being a full-fledged patient and I'm grateful for the compassionate care I've received.

Bumps? Yes. I'm still awaiting results of a chest x-ray that was done months ago. I've had covid since then with a lingering wheezy cough which would likely make the first results null and void.

I'd still take nationalized health care any day, as my friend who died frequently vocalized. Also being a US citizen, she couldn't wrap herself around the fact that New Zealand healthcare would leave her and her survivors with zero medical bills for her extensive medical intervention.

On the flip side, my husband and I fear being in the US and having a health flare or emergency that could bankrupt us, which means we love having our nine children, grandchildren and partners once again being able to come here to visit.

Releasing expectation. No, I can't sign up for a future walk, run or event. A definitive rsvp for anything is a thing of the past. Any travel plans will be the most spontaneously planned of my life, if they are made at all. We will likely splurge more for the flexible tickets than the travel insurance. If either of us crash, it's smarter to high-tail it back to the land of nationalized health care.

My status is unpredictable and can change within a day. If I'm able, we'd love to take an extended trip that we've always fantasized about–just the two of us–since Mr. 19.5 has flown the coop after 36 years of parenting and supporting youngins.

Not only do I release expectation for myself, but for others. A son and his partner were recently here for two months (heaven), along with our youngest son (who has ventured off to the US) for a very short covid-Christmas. Next, a couple more sons will soon stagger their visits. That is a beautiful thing and much appreciated and something the COVID lockdowns had stolen from us. We compassionately do not expect it of others in this life that is such a challenge for everyone to navigate.

We file every visit under: count your blessings.

Understanding death more intimately. A little ironic, eh? Ms. Death Dialogues Project.

I wish I had the energy to write out my feelings of this "big picture" puzzle being assembled along the way, but given that view mainly correlates with the times my functioning and energy is at its worst, that hasn't happened much.

These times seem like the heralding of the stage of life my demographic-peers are headed for or already immersed in. This year we've had multiple friends navigating their own waning health. Deaths. Close calls. Life.

Sometimes I wish my inner spirit felt as old as my health demands, but it consistently feels like I'm held captive in a decaying shell; a common theme other aging and/or ailing folks have shared throughout the years. My mom lived until 95 and would frequently say, "I'm always shocked when I look in the mirror and think who is that old lady?" Each time she'd give a childlike giggle as if it was her first time saying it.

I have friends contemplating the end of life choice act; when and if to start the procedure to be considered. Of course, that brings up a more personal experience of me contemplating what I might choose if I was in their situation. I warned my son during his visit as we talked about about the issue, there could be a day that living miserably may not seem like the kindest choice for myself. While also reiterating that I no longer felt anywhere near that time, just planting the seed that I fully agree with folks having that right when their time comes.

Writing has been a cathartic process throughout my life. It feels good to write this but I'm becoming so bored and tired of looking in the mirror and pontificating on what I'm experiencing when I do have the energy to write. And I imagine it becomes boring for the reader.

I now have a bit of a renewed sense of my mana (a Maori reference for the power of the elemental forces of nature embodied in an object or person). That light was snuffed out for most of 2023. Since recently starting a very low dose of medication typically used for other conditions, that was offered to me earlier in this process and I rejected, I'm finally experiencing a bit of relief from the symptoms that rendered me incapacitated.

Rather than functioning at a 2/10, I'm happy to take a 6/10 and can only hope that holds. In typical parental fashion, I accepted the newer med more on the chance I would function better with family visiting, than taking it for myself. That's okay. I've found it now and hope the results continue.

It would be lovely if I could say that I'm fully on the other side of 2023s brand of "hard," but since it's a hereditary condition, I won't ever be able to swipe my hands, "spit-spot, I'm done."

My hope is that there will be more pieces from me here, because that type of writing has been such a part of my living, I'd like to share when I'm able. I'm keen to feel alive.

Thank you to all of you who have reached out. Your support lifts me.

Until then and with love–

Becky

A warm greeting to all of the new subscribers. Seeing the subscriptions come in is a bright spot in my days. I'm very pleased to see those of you who've come over from John Pavlovitz's Substack. He was a fairly early guest on our podcast. You can hear his episode HERE.