Between stimulus and response lies a space. In that space lie our freedom and power to choose a response. In our response lies our growth and our happiness.

And while Frankl didn’t actually write this, it’s a sentiment that has become a core belief of mine.

I’ve been meditating for over four decades, but encountering mindfulness practices in 2009 resulted in a profound shift in my relationship to myself.

When I encountered Buddhism and started practicing mindfulness, my primary goal was to “fix myself”. I was going to become “enlightened” and everyone would love me. I spent a lot of time beating myself up on the meditation cushion and using my self-aggression build a very solid meditation routine. If it wasn’t for my aggressive perfectionism, I wouldn’t have built the routine that slowly enabled me to heal from it.

There were years where I had a lot of intense “meditation experiences” that sounded cool and made me feel special, but these came and went. However, something more subtle has grown and persisted. Every day, I take at least 20 minutes to sit quietly with things as they are. Over time, this “training in the present moment” has given me self-awareness and the capacity to slow down, even to pause, when things feel chaotic.

It is this quiet slow resilience that continues to grow, and it has made all the difference in my ability to navigate what life throws at me.

A few weeks ago, my dermatologist told me that my entire nose was covered in pre-cancerous cells. I was prescribed chemotherapy cream (fluorouracil) and sent home. What followed was mostly an exploration of my own vanity as the daily applications of this cream made my nose redder and redder. It was also painful, but I focused far more on what people might think about my face.

And now that I’m in the healing phase, it is a practice of not picking at the itchy flaking skin.

I truly believe that the only reason I’m not picking at it is mindfulness. It’s the same reason why I ate only two slices of gluten-free pizza tonight even though my brain was very clearly telling me (in spite of all the body sensations that said otherwise) that a third slice wouldn’t hurt.

The best thing my meditation practice has given me is self-awareness and the capacity to pause. Instead of picking at my itchy nose, I notice the urge and the movement of my hand before I act in a way that I might regret.

Today a colleague invited me to do a task that I absolutely didn’t want to do. My body filled with rage. Instead of behaving in an angry way (okay, I did stomp about privately and yell “no”) or overriding my feelings and saying “yes” because, honestly, it wasn’t a big ask, I was able to name what I was feeling, take stock of my needs, and then enter into conversation with my colleague in a way that was honest and constructive.

Meditation hasn’t made me “enlightened.” It hasn’t even made me more likeable. If anything, it’s made me more myself. And, after years of dedication, it’s made me able to see myself more clearly. It’s given me the ability to pause between stimulus and response so that I can live a life that is more intentional and more in alignment with who I know myself to be.

It may not be as cool as being perfect and enlightened, but I like myself and I enjoy the life I’m living —and that is a very precious gift indeed.

Things I’m offering:

So You Wanna Be a Death Doula… Now What? - online workshop, Aug. 26, 7:00-8:30pm EST

Mindful Connections for Healing After Loss - a free twelve week program for those who are navigating the loss of a loved one to overdose, Sept 1 - Nov 17, 5:30-8:00pm, Community Forge, Wilkinsburg, PA

I’ll be presenting at Serpent Mound Star Knowledge Full Moon Fall Equinox Peace Summit, Sept 25-27, Peebles, OH

Death Cafe at the Millvale Community Library, Oct. 8, 6-7:30pm — Registration required (link not available yet)

Outdoor morning meditation in Millvale continues. Message me for details.

Content Warning: The writing below talks about people choosing to die. Please feel free to ignore this entire piece if that feels right to you.

If you’d like to skip down to my upcoming events, they are at the bottom of this essay (after the flower picture).

I’d also like to say that I don’t have any cohesive answers to what I discuss below, but I hope that by writing this, I will invite meaningful conversation…

Recently I was contact by a person whom I’ll call “W”. W reached out to me because they are 89, isolated, and suffering from osteoperosis, kyphosis, parkinsonisms, and complete incontinence. They feel their quality of life makes life not worth living and, because we live in a state in which Medical Aid in Dying (MAiD) is not legal, wanted me to assist them in the process of Voluntarily Stopping Eating and Drinking (VSED).

I instantly felt a kinship with W, and wanted to help them on their journey. However, I’m going through an extremely busy time in my life and I was legitimately unable to commit the appropriate amount of time to supporting this person. Fortunately, I was able to quickly find another member of my collective who was available and is perhaps and even better match for W than I was.

Nevertheless, W’s situation and request got me thinking deeply about where I stand on the issue of Medical Aid in Dying. I’ve had reservations since 2021 when I struck up a social media friendship with Daniel Ennet and took a deep dive into the experience of those with disabilities in the United States and Canada (though honestly, I’ve been exploring the topic of disability rights and the experience of people with disabilities since 2001 when I lived in a house full of deaf people in Nicaragua).

Many of my beloved friends in the U.S. have worked hard to get MAiD legislation passed in their states. They are passionate about giving those with terminal illnesses the right to choose when their suffering ends. I think this is a beautiful cause to fight for.

What is Medical Aid in Dying? According to Compassion and Choices, “Medical aid in dying [in the United States] is an end-of-life healthcare option in which a mentally capable, terminally ill adult may request a prescription from their healthcare provider for a medication they can choose to ingest to die peacefully.”

As I said, I think it’s a beautiful cause to fight for, but I’m not actively supporting moves to enact the legislation of MAiD in my state because I’m concerned about the current state of our country. I’m concerned about the systematic dismantling of public health and social support systems.

Why? Let’s look at Canada.

In 2021, Canada removed the requirement for “a person’s natural death to be reasonably foreseeable” in order to be eligible for MAiD.

For a good example of how MAiD is offered in Canada, see Reid Davenport’s recent movie, Life After. This movie explores how the experiences of disabled people can lead them to seek death because they are unable to see a viable option to live well. It’s a really engaging and thought-provoking documentary.

The Crip Trip podcast, stemming from Daniel Ennett’s television series through AMI, has brought up some very important case studies and discussions regarding disabled people’s access to MAiD and their relative lack of access to quality care. When the government can’t offer you what you need to live well but can offer you access to assisted dying, the word “eugenics” starts to enter into the conversation.

Here’s a video about how hard it can be to get adequate care as a disabled person (this is Canada, but it rings true for my disabled friends in the U.S. as well):

And here’s a great discussion of some published research regarding how MAiD is unfolding in Canada:

I think the above videos point to how we can’t separate the context of one’s lived experience from access to Medical Aid in Dying.

Historically when I’ve mentioned that my friends with disabilities are upset about MAiD, my pro-MAiD friends have assured me that this isn’t eugenics. This is about giving people autonomy and dignity at the end of life. This is about allowing people the option to avoid a slow painful death. They assure me that this is absolutely not about eugenics. And I believe them.

But if we deny people the access to a meaningful quality of life and enable access to assisted death, then I think what we end up with is a system that allows people with privilege (money, socio-economic status, social currency, etc) the right to meaningfully choose when their quality of life is no longer desirable. But anyone with less privilege ends up with poor quality of life —not because of their disability/illness, but because they don’t have access to adequate care or housing or food. When you don’t have access to these things, death can become very attractive.

So as our social safety net in the United States dissolves, what are we doing to care for those who are the most vulnerable? I don’t think we can advocate for MAiD without also coupling it with efforts to improve the quality of life for those who would very much like to live —and who would be able to live well if they were well supported.

Last I heard, the government in Alberta, Canada was offering Daniel 6.6 (paid) care hours a day. Daniel literally can’t do any physical self care without help (again, see some of the more personal nuanced conversations in the first YouTube video above). If Daniel can’t make do with 6.6 hours of care, his only choice is be institutionalized and risk losing all of his autonomy at the convenience of whatever government subsidized care home he ends up in.

There are documented cases of people in Daniel’s position choosing Medical Aid in Dying.

Situations regarding the choice to die are not often not clear cut (again, see Reid Davenport’s documentary), but as community members and death care workers navigating this issue, we must take the time to assess whether what makes life unlivable for any given person is something that could be meaningfully addressed. If so, what would it take to make that happen? Can I be part of that solution? Do I know someone who could?

In W’s case, ultimately, I don’t think having more social or medical support would meaningfully improve her quality of life enough for her to want to keep living.

I should also point out that Canadians have way more access to Medical Aid in Dying than those in the U.S. do. The U.S. restricts the use of MAiD to those who have a diagnosis of 6 months or less to live. Nevertheless the state of our social safety net is deeply concerning to me.

I absolutely support someone’s right to die if they so choose, but how can we work to make sure that everyone has access to adequate care and social support so that their choice to use Medical Aid in Dying is not because the systems failed to meet their needs.

Are there ways that those of us in the field of end of life care could be pushing back more against the systemic injustices that affect those we care for and how they navigate the end of life?

How we die is deeply affected by how we live and by how we are seen/treated by the social structures and systems that we inhabit. I don’t think that meaningful death care can be separated from meaningful life care.

How do we ensure that both are taken into account for every life that we touch?

I don’t have specific answers, but I think it’s of utmost importance to consider the big picture. I imagine a world in which people who choose MAiD are doing so from a place of feeling loved and supported. And I will do my part to prevent a world in which people are ending their lives because we’ve made their lives unlivable.

Things I’m attending (or hoping to attend):

Awaken Pittsburgh half-day of Mindfulness, June 20, 11:30am-3:30pm, Pittsburgh Buddhist Center, Allison Park, PA

Anna Vigurs art opening at Lights in the Sky 333 Gallery June 21st, Richmond, VA

Things I’m offering:

Death Cafe at the Millvale Community Library, June 25, 6-7:30pm — Registration required (space is limited)

Outdoor morning meditation in Millvale continues. Message me for details.

The front and right side of the car had crumpled. My child, a week before, had announced a preference for sitting directly behind me in the car —which I had thought annoying, but not worthy of denying. If they had been in their previously usual spot behind the passenger seat, I might be writing a different story.

My ankle was shattered, the car destroyed, but otherwise we were pretty okay (physically).

I was thinking of this story today as I thought about some recent synchronicities in my life, and I realized that this event did not make me think deeply about my own mortality. I was 29. My child was okay. If anything, this event may have subconsciously increased my belief in my own immortality or fantastic good luck. I almost died of an auto-immune illness in 1997 and I emerged from that okay, too…

But for many, an event like this can turn the mind toward how fragile our human existence is. It can make us cherish the good things more vividly, or appreciate the day-to-day in a new way.

I’m pretty sure there’s room here for an essay on what makes an event traumatic and what makes an event something that we learn and grow from (I’m not suggesting that it’s either-or), but for now I simply want to talk about facing our mortality.

In two weeks I will again be offering the guided “death meditation” and sound bath for those who live near Pittsburgh. My role as a death doula, and more broadly my role as someone who is comfortable in difficult transitional spaces, brings me ample opportunity to help people find what it most important to them as they navigate what life has presented to them.

I think that if I were in a dramatic car accident now and lived to tell the tale, I would be seeing every flower more clearly. I would have more capacity to discern what to keep in my life and what to let go of. I have seen this discernment increase in those who contemplate death. I am honored to help people find gentle pathways to something more aligned with who they truly are.

It was hard to put the above into words, but thank you for reading my brief attempt. If you’re interested, a list of events I’m attending and events I’m offering is below.

[Please note that I may be writing even more infrequently as the year unfolds. I’m taking 5 hours of classes every week for the next few months (plus study time) in addition to all of the usual things that I do.. After the classes end, I will be working on implementing a grant-funded project. If I find time, I will write more about this in June]

Things I’m attending:

Bridging Gaps: Strengthening End-of-Life Care, May 27-28, CCAC Allegheny Campus

Anna Vigurs art opening at Lights in the Sky 333 Gallery in Richmond, VA. June 21st (this is an aspirational one, but let me know if you want to do a weekend road trip…)

Things I’m offering:

Death Cafe at the Millvale Community Library, May 28, 6-7:30pm — Registration required (space is limited)

Letting Go: A Journey Through Death (Guided Meditative Death Exploration). May 31, 1-3pm at Hahn Funeral Home in Millvale.

Death Cafe at Village Center for Holistic Therapy, June 5, 6:30-8:30pm

Outdoor morning meditation in Millvale continues. Message me for details.

I’m also disinterested in my words being incorporated into the great net of AI.

I’m largely disinterested in the whole digital scene, and yet I still feel the urge to write.

As a world, we are facing such violence and most of us are feeling such powerlessness, what do my little stories matter?

But honestly, we’re all going to die, regardless of what happens in the world. We’re all going to suffer in some way or other in our lives. And we’re all going to die one day. This is simply true, regardless of what we do to protect ourselves from this truth.

From age 1 to age 7, my family lived in the woods of New Hampshire. My neighborhood consisted of a few houses and a lot of trees. I was the only girl and the youngest of those who played together outside. Mostly, I was the one who tagged along with my older brother.

I remember once playing baseball with the boys in the back yard. I was no older than 6. They wanted me to pitch. I was terrified of getting hit by the ball. My brother said, “If you’re afraid, just close your eyes after you throw the ball.” I trusted everything my brother said. I threw the ball, closed my eyes, and turned my head to the side. The kid at bat hit a line drive right into the side of my head.

Around that same age, I followed my brother and his friend Jesse into the woods. They were wandering around knocking down dead trees (I never questioned this version of the story until I typed it just now. How many dead trees could there have been? How could 8 year old boys “knock them down”?). I wasn’t really paying much attention to what the boys were doing. I followed them lightly, telling myself stories and talking to the magical creatures I found along the way. Suddenly one of the boys yelled, “bees!”. It seems they knocked over a tree that had a beehive inside of it. I was 5 or 6. I didn’t know anything about bees, except that they could sting (I’d stepped on one barefoot once and I was still indignant about its response). I was scared, but I figured: if the bees were in a tree, I’d just walk very carefully between the trees until I got out of the woods. … I walked slowly and carefully, looking at my feet, following the voices of the boys who were anxiously calling to me from the edge of the woods. I walked right through the swarm of bees.

I emerged from the woods, covered in them. We ran the half mile home with my brother and Jesse scraping the bees off of me with sticks as we ran. When I got home, somehow I only had three bee stings.

The upshot of all of this? I didn’t die.

I will die one day, but I haven’t yet.

If you’re reading this, it’s likely that, like me, you’re still alive.

Are you celebrating this fact?

How are you sharing your aliveness with the world? How are you using your aliveness to be of benefit to others? You might not be able to single-handedly take down fascism —and, honestly, I don’t know how to write about saving the world. Regardless, you bring your aliveness to everything you do.

I bring my aliveness to everything I do.

I don’t know how to save the world, but I know what brings me joy.

I lean into the small ways in which I’m doing what I can to be a force of good in the world, and I’m working hard to root out the parts of me that are still causing harm.

In August of 2023, I started an outdoor meditation group. This morning, after meditating with a dozen other people, we sat in the sun and people started talking about how meaningful the group is to them. I began to weep as it dawned on me that this was something I created. What it has become is inseparable from those who choose to participate, but my decision to start showing up regularly, no matter the weather, and facilitating a place to practice… this act has unfolded into a community of people who really value being together each week.

We keep showing up and being vulnerable together. Over and over. And it’s been profoundly beneficial in more ways than I can document here.

So… all I can say is: Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Keep learning. Do your best. Do what brings you joy.

We may all die together in some horrible way, but if we manage to live through something horrible, it’s the small things we build now that will be the building blocks of a more beautiful future. And that is true regardless of whether we live or die.

Things I’m attending:

BLOODTIDE: A New Holiday In Honor of the Horseshoe Crab —a book talk via suitcase theater— Saturday April 11, 7-9pm at Assemble (Author Eli Nixon is a beloved friend of mine and no matter what they do at this event, it will be worth attending —please join me!)

Mindful Connections for Trauma Sensitive Practices, starting May 2, online via Awaken Pittsburgh.

Things I’m offering:

Outdoor morning meditation in Millvale continues. Message me for details.

Letting Go: A Journey Through Death (Guided Meditative Death Exploration). May 31, 1-3pm at Hahn Funeral Home in Millvale.

During my busy winter, in the still parts inside me, seeds were sleeping. And as I begin to feel the pull of the next season, the ideas for even more things to do are like popcorn in my brain.

My intention is to focus this year on deepening my study of thanatology, culminating in ADEC certification (which is long overdue)… but the urge to start even more creative projects is so strong!

** if you would be interested in monthly death contemplations online or in person, please do let me know **

At the same time as I'm dreaming big, I'm drawn more and more to small gatherings. Slow collaborations of unfolding ideas. The world I see when I look at screens seems overwhelming and impossible to navigate. The small safe spaces I co-create feel empowering, nourishing, wonder-ful.

I want to keep writing to you, but I often don't know what I want to say.

So look at this beautiful waterfall from my walk today.

And the moss at the base of this tree.

I’m going to focus my energy on studying, but I will continue to write when both inspiration strikes and I'm near a thing to write on.

In the meantime, come find me in one of my groups. Or call me. Or invite me out for a walk. Let's slow down and be human together.

Upcoming Events:

So You Want to be a Death Doula, Now What? - for those who would like to talk about this with someone who isn't trying to sell you a program - March 4 - online, 6:00-8:00pm EST

I'll be speaking with Leslie Black Elk at Serpent Mound Star Knowledge Equinox Peace Summit on March 20. The entire event runs March 20-22 and may or may not be livestreamed.

I'm continuing to run monthly Death Cafes at Millvale Community Library. Pre-registration is required and the event fills up quickly. Registration opens 3 weeks ahead of time. Next one is March 26th. Check the library website for details.

My Thursday Morning Outdoor Meditation group continues to thrive. Message me for details.

And if you missed my recent daytime talkshow television appearance, you can view it here.

Much love to each of you who reads this. I appreciate your attention and care.

As I write this, I’m enjoying the way my body feels after reading this short post from Grief & Grits.

Neighbors setting off fireworks meant that D and I didn’t sleep well last night, but we dutifully got up and braved the cold to offer Thursday morning outdoor meditation (it was -9 Celsius).

We cleared snow from chairs. No one showed up. D went home to get warm after about 10 minutes, but I wanted to see it through. So I sat with the sun warming my face, and then a dear friend arrived. We sat together in a silence that felt as warm as the air was cold.

In moments that are marked as thresholds, as beginnings, endings, or in-betweens, I like to take note of who is there. I let myself luxuriate in the very human urge to find meaning.

I went to a party last night, and I was the only one who showed up. I was the only guest who was delighted to brave the weather.

The host and I talked for hours —each topic a prayer for the new year, each new conversational resonance a blessing.

I walked home feeling fully nourished. The snow never ceases to delight me.

I always remember how much I love the snow. I often forget how much I love the special people in my life.

May I find balance in solo and communal delight this year.

May your coming year bring exactly what is right for you!

In whatever ways our lives overlap, thank you for being on this journey with me!

Upcoming Events that I’m offering:

So You Want to be a Death Doula, Now What? - Jan. 7, 6:00-8:00pm EST - online

Mindful Backyard Meditation for Hygge New Year - January 10, 10:00am EST and 1:00pm EST - Millvale Community Library Backyard

Death Cafe - Jan. 29, 6:00-7:30pm EST - Millvale Community Library (pre-regsistration required)

March 20-22 - I’ll be co-presenting at Serpent Mound Star Knowledge Spring Equinox Peace Summit, Peebles, OH

And Outdoor Morning Meditation in Millvale continues to happen every week. Message me for details.

I have a whole series of posts planned in my head about becoming a death doula (see also the event offering at the bottom of this post), but tonight I write about time and dreams and walking (with) the earth.

Some Astronomy:

On Thursday, from Earth, the sun appeared to pass over the center of the Milky Way.

On Friday, 3I/ATLAS came its closest to Earth.

Friday evening was also a new moon.

Today, the sun set for the last time before the Winter Solstice.

We are always moving through liminal spaces, but sometimes these passages are more dramatic or obvious. Sometimes we mark them with our attention and with ritual.

Tonight, after listening to a beautiful interview with Francis Weller, I went up to the woods near my house to watch the sun set.

On Thursday night, my dreams were vivid. In one dream, I was working for a conventional cemetery. I was still learning the ropes, mostly playing a supporting role and doing whatever was needed. One evening after work, I wanted to show my child the headstone I’d pre-paid for. I had brought it home for the time being, so it was in the living room. First we played with the large electronic keyboard that also somehow went with the gravemarker. Then I removed the beige vinyl cover from the large headstone. It was rose colored, about five feet wide, rising up with two curves at the top —a headstone for two. I did a double-take when I realized that there was already writing on the headstone. I had brought home someone else’s gravemarker by mistake —along with a large old oak dresser (and the keyboard). In order to bring all that home, I had borrowed a truck and a friend, and I groaned to think of the effort it would take to return it.

There was also another dream involving the president of Japan and a Tibetan lama, but that’s a story for another time.

I don’t remember last night’s dreams.

When I take myself on adventures, my experience is often dream-like, in that I feel called to do this or that, and it doesn’t always make sense, and I often never understand why, but I’ve learned to trust my intuition. Sometimes incredible gifts appear as a result of going where I feel led.

Around 3:30pm, I prepared some milk and honey and filled my pockets with seeds to offer to the beings-of-the-woods.

I can walk to one edge of the woods easily from my house, but this time I drove up to the entrance on the other side, from which I could best watch the sunset. The entrance is down a dead-end street, past two Jewish cemeteries. As I drove by the first, my intuition told me to stop. There was something I needed to do or see.

I parked at the second cemetery, and walked over to the first. Curiosity was piqued, but expectations were low. I was mostly excited to take a walk before my hike. I started wandering and came face to face with the headstone I’d borrowed in my dream.

I’m 100% sure that I didn’t know “Etty” or “Shummy,” whose names were engraved on the stone, and the grave sparked no other insight, but I knew it was the same grave from my dream. I took a moment to find and place a stone out of respect, but I was left with no sense of how this grave was meaningful to me. The experience was so ordinary, so devoid of charge, that I ended up scouring both cemeteries to see if there were other graves like it. I needed to confirm that I hadn’t simply borrowed an archetype in my dream, but no. It was the only grave like it in both cemeteries.

I still had about 40 minutes until sunset, so I parked at the trail entrance and climbed the hill. Sometimes when engaging in ritual, I am overcome with rich sensations and reverence. Tonight felt oddly ordinary.

Perhaps the magic I was looking for had already occurred when I ran into an old friend at farmer’s market this morning and was spontaneously flooded with such love that I could barely speak.

On this ordinary night, I ducked into my secret place among the brambles and honeysuckle and offered my milk and honey. I whispered blessings to all those who inhabit the place and all those who pass through. And then I began to walk, leaving small piles of seeds for the birds and feeling into the death of the year.

I had intended to take one path, but instead followed the pull to take a different one. I found two downed trees that didn’t appear on the “needs to be addressed” map that the land trust keeps, and reported them using their handy app.

As the sun sank deeper, I sang spontaneous eulogies to the season. Only later did I realize that I’d been walking by some hunters. I hope they enjoyed the song as much as I enjoyed the singing.

I somehow made it back to my car one minute after official sunset. I lit the pillar candle that was waiting for me there, and drove home.

The night still feels oddly ordinary, but I also feel satisfied. I have the sense that I fulfilled an unspoken responsibility, and a warm glow lingers around my heart.

Happy Solstice.

Upcoming Events that I’m offering:

So You Want to be a Death Doula, Now What? - Jan. 7, 6:00-8:00pm EST - online

Mindful Backyard Meditation for Hygge New Year - January 10, 10:00am EST and 1:00pm EST - Millvale Community Library Backyard

Death Cafe - Jan. 29, 6:00-7:30pm EST - Millvale Community Library (pre-regsistration required)

And Outdoor Morning Meditation in Millvale continues to happen every week. Message me for details.

In 4th grade I was sure I wanted to be a professional storyteller when I grew up.

In kindergarten, I convinced my teacher that the whole class should put on a performance of The Pirates of Penzance. I got to be the narrator. I was horrified by what poor actors my classmates turned out to be.

I’ve encountered some amazing stories in my role as a death/grief companion. I am conflicted about whether it is appropriate to share these stories.

I once sneaked into the embalming room of a funeral home in order to see what it was like in there. I encountered the body of a woman in a hospital gown, and it felt so intimate, and my intrusion felt like such a violation, that I knew I would never do such a thing ever again.

When I was 19, I had a pet mouse named William Lee. He lived half-time in my steamer trunk and half-time in my shirt sleeve. I eventually gave him away because I wasn’t responsible enough to care for him.

I gave birth to my son two months after turning 21.

Twenty years ago, my son had a pet mouse named Malfoy who died (what I only later realized was) a horrific death. I’m still not ready to write about it.

My first few death doula clients were people who were looking for a medium, but who really needed grief support.

If you Google the definition of death doula, you find incredibly broad definitions. Many of us are generalists, many of us are not. Take the time to research and interview anyone whom you ask to be part of your care team.

Last night I facilitated a death cafe, and afterward I was talking to a participant about my past. I mentioned that when I was a young mom, I had absolutely no emotional intelligence. They said that after having been in a room with me for an hour, they couldn’t fathom me ever lacking emotional intelligence.

This morning I read a comment on Substack that said that White Supremacy Culture views care as transactional. For most of my life, I didn’t know that there was another way for care to exist.

The first time I competed in a cross country race, I peed myself upon crossing the finish line. At the time I found it hilarious (but also embarrassing). Now I see it as liberating.

I have always loved the idea of being the troll under the bridge. As a child, I was head-butted by a goat at a petting zoo. He got me in the small of my back. I can still remember the feeling of indignation that I had. Wasn’t I like Snow White —friend to all the animals?? I’m pretty sure I know who I’d be in the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff.

What stories are we carrying that prevent us from living fully? What stories empower us?

I’ve been privy to many deathbed confessions. What if we spoke our shame and fear aloud well before the end? For me, the telling of the story, when I was finally able to tell it, has often diffused the entire emotional charge.

How can we create circles of care in which we all feel safe to explore the stories we carry and to build something new from our collective song?

Meet me under the bridge. We can be trolls together!

Upcoming Events I’m offering:

Phase Shift: Lunar Cycle Meditation - October 19, 7:00-8:30pm EST - online

Thursday Morning Meditation in Millvale (message me for details)

I hear far too much talk in the death doula world about how to set up the “perfect environment” for someone who is actively dying, and it usually involves low light, soft music, and essential oils. That preferred setting sounds absolutely terrible to me when I think about my own death… and this is where “what we value” is super important. We cannot be supported well at the end of our lives if people don’t know what’s important to us. And for our caregivers to know what’s important to us, we must know for ourselves what it is that we value.

I’ve heard stories of families who had very little to go on when trying to make decisions for a loved one. One woman told me that the only thing her dad ever said about his impending aging/death was, “If I can’t wipe my own ass, I don’t want to live anymore.” When he was no longer able to speak for himself, she had to make all his care decisions based on that one sentence and her observations of how he lived his life. Now don’t get me wrong, we can infer a great deal from “if I can’t wipe my own ass,” —for instance, for this person autonomy is an important part of quality of life and we know not to keep him alive on a ventilator— but imagine how much easier decision-making might have been if he’d been willing to have a deeper conversation about what he was afraid of and what was meaningful to him.

An advance directive form will ask you about things like feeding tubes, resuscitation, and ventilators, but it doesn’t (and can’t) cover many of the other difficult decisions, big and small, that your loved ones may need to make on your behalf. However, if they understand your guiding principles, there’s more opportunity for finding ways to honor your wants and needs.

My biggest fear, when I’ve thought about my own end of life, has always been the possibility that I’ll be stuck in a low-end nursing home with a roommate, bad food, and a TV blaring in the room 24/7.

Some people fear being alone. Some people fear pain. Some people fear losing autonomy or being in unfamiliar spaces.

Many aging people say, “don’t put me in a nursing home,” but don’t provide any further thoughts on the matter. This leaves their loved ones with only a hard stop and no room to be creative.

In the United States, we are living longer, but the gap between “health span” and “life span” is growing. The average American will spend their last decade of life in a state of debilitation and they may need skilled care that goes beyond what their loved ones are capable of offering at home.

At the same time, our social safety nets are being dismantled and people are struggling financially. Our aging and ill want to be cared for by loved ones who may be working full time jobs and have other commitments. We don’t want to betray our family members by putting them in long term care facilities, but some of us have no other option. And if all we know is that Great Aunt Sally doesn’t want a nursing home, then we can feel like big jerks for putting her in one anyway.

Is there any way to soften the blow?

I try to update my advance directive every year or two. The first time I wrote it, I wrote something like, “If I am in a hospital or assisted living, NO television and no processed foods”. I was terrified of these things and felt that they would ruin my quality of life and the quality of my death. As someone who didn’t start out with a clear sense of my values, I only had a sense of what violated them.

After much self-inquiry, what I now understand is that my spiritual practice is incredibly important to me. I also understand that I am easily overwhelmed by sensory input. I know that my relationship to the Divine is best facilitated when I am lucid and free from distraction. What distracts me? Sensory input. What clouds my mind? Unhealthy food and pain (which, for me, are interrelated). What I value is, for lack of a better phrase, my “alone-time with God” –and my desire for this caused me to fear a nursing home with a roommate, television, and processed food.

If, at some point I become incapacitated and can’t be cared for at home, understanding my desire to facilitate my meditation practice might allow my loved ones to choose a nursing home that would provide more opportunities for quiet time –or one that has a dietician or private rooms. Knowing our loved ones’ values allows for conversations and creativity regarding what might be the best we can do given the reality of the situation.

We will all die, and most of us will have a period before our death in which others will care for us. So what can you do to ensure that this goes as well as it can given the circumstances? Have conversations about it. If you are (or will be) the decision maker for someone who doesn’t want to talk about death or illness, it can be meaningful to simply talk about values. What makes a good day? What do they fear? What did they see happen with other family members as they aged, and how did they feel about it? The Conversation Project has some great ideas about how to begin these inquiries.

If you are thinking about your own values, you might start by making a list of what you desire and what you fear about being sick, disabled, or dying. Over time, you might ask yourself some “why” questions, e.g. “Why don’t I want Uncle Jim to be around if I’m sick?” You don’t have to know the answer right away, it’s enough to ask the question. The answer might unfold slowly: “Uncle Jim talks too much.” … “I don’t like how much Uncle Jim talks because I can never get a word in.” … “I don’t like being around people who don’t listen to me.” … “I want to be heard.” … “It’s important to me to have people in my life who actually listen to and understand me.”

We can also do a related deathbed inquiry in which we reflect on what sort of life we would like to have led, or how we would like to be remembered. This also points us toward what we value.

In addition to clarifying my end of life wishes, understanding what I value has allowed me to turn my mind back to the present moment and say, if I were to die tomorrow, would I feel like I lived a life that was true to who I am? If the answer is no, how can I live today differently as one small step toward living in alignment with what’s meaningful to me?

As I wrap this up, I would be remiss if I didn’t say more about the dismantling of public health and our social safety nets. The future for our dying and disabled looks grim. As we think about our values we need to be thinking about how we will care for each other in a changed society. In October, Nisha Bowman and I are demo-ing a workshop to help people explore how they can help their community members who are navigating death (see below).

We hope to find ways to make death, dying, and grief be the best it can be given the difficult circumstances we are facing.

News:

In addition to my ongoing work with Pittsburgh Community Deathcare, my colleague Nisha Bowman and I have joined forces to offer our end-of-life-care wisdom through Sacred.Centered.You.

Upcoming Offerings:

Phase Shift: A Lunar Cycle Practice: September 17, 7:00-8:30pm EST - online

Mutual Aid in Deathcare: Bringing Humanity Back to Dying: Oct. 1, 7, & 15, 7:00-8:30pm EST - online

Death Cafe at Millvale Community Library: Oct. 16, 6:00-7:45pm - in person

Morning Meditation in Millvale is still happening weekly, always outdoors (message me for details)

Upcoming Events that I’m attending:

Serpent Mound Star Knowledge Equinox Peace Summit: September 19-21 - online streaming and in person (Peebles, OH).

I simply could not fathom the idea of letting someone think something negative about me —especially if it was untrue!

In Buddhism, the Eight Worldly Concerns describe concepts that we crave or reject which keep us stuck in the cycle of suffering: Pleasure & Pain; Fame & Insignificance; Praise & Blame; Gain & Loss.

Since my earliest childhood, it has been important to me to be clearly understood and to be blameless. I always felt that if people could see the real me and understand, then I would be safe and cared for. I know that this belief is untrue and no longer serves me, but it still underlies many of my daily thoughts and actions.

So when the local city paper published an article that featured a story about me this week, and the journalist got my story wrong, it brought old wounds to the surface. I found myself struggling to keep my feet firmly planted in reality.

I wasn’t the only one she interviewed for this piece, and she got their stories slightly wrong, too. Regardless, this felt personal. I felt unseen. I felt abandoned. I felt so vulnerable.

We did end up asking for minor corrections and the editor granted a subset of those, but the damage was done. I had to reckon with my fear of being misunderstood, and I was left doubting my ability to communicate.

I truly do aspire to have a future in which I don’t care what others think about me, but there’s a lot of work to do between now and then. In addition, I put great care into speaking in a way that doesn’t do harm (but that’s a philosophical discussion for another day).

Eight Worldly Concerns: Pleasure & Pain; Fame & Insignificance; Praise & Blame; Gain & Loss.

If I’m honest, I fear the second half of each pair and I’m generally ambivalent about the first half. I fear the “negative” more than I reach for the “positive”. Fear/aversion is what motivates me when I forget to rest, forget self care, forget to live one moment at a time, forget to surrender to the flow of life, forget to trust…

… I was hoping that at this point in the essay, I would have a clear message to offer to you, the reader, about how to navigate this sort of thing. But the truth is, I feel messy right now. I feel unmoored. I know that I am still okay even if people don’t understand me. I know that I’ll be safe and loveable even if people don’t like me. Nevertheless, my nervous system doesn’t seem to know this, and I’m exhausted.

So for now, the best I can do is take extra care of myself. I’m resting and doing things that I find nourishing. I’m reminding myself to surrender and trust.

In addition, I’ve decided that for the forseeable future I won’t entrust my words to someone else to convey. I will allow audio interviews from people I trust. I will not give interviews to stranger journalists who are going to write their version of what I said. When I can speak for myself, things usually feel much better. Here’s a recent interview that I absolutely love.

So in this way, both setting boundaries and surrendering to what I can’t control, I’ll live another day. Perhaps I’ll even thrive.

Upcoming Offerings:

Phase Shift: A Lunar Cycle Practice: August 20, 7:00-8:30pm EST - online

How We Die Now: Navigating the New Normal (Panel Discussion): August 21, 7:00-8:30pm EST - online

Morning Meditation in Millvale is still happening weekly, always outdoors (message me for details)

Upcoming Events that I’m attending:

Tea Meditation in Wilkinsburg - led by Drayk Moreland: August 30, 12:00-2:00pm - in person

I’m also often at All Bodies Welcome Afternoon Yoga: Thursdays 5:45-6:30pm Millvale Library back porch - in person

I hope to see you at an event sometime soon. Until then, may you be well and well cared for!

I awoke with an urgency that melted into sad longing, and I realized that I'm now officially grieving both parents –who are both still very much alive.

The ache of knowing you're going to lose someone you love is a precious feeling –both beautiful and awful. I call it beautiful because it holds something tender within it. It is a recognition of the preciousness of something –a recognition of what you appreciate about it. It can also be the preciousness of what you wished the relationship could be but never became. The beauty of potential.

The awfulness is in knowing that that precious thing –whether potential or actuality– has an expiration date.

I’ve been actively grieving the eventual loss of my father since sometime last year. Grieving my mother is new.

The truth is that, as painful as it is, I’m incredibly grateful to feel this anticipatory grief. Grieving my father has caused me to home-in on all the things I appreciate about him. Sometimes in meditation or when I first wake up in the morning, I find myself thinking about things like his face when he’s telling a story from his childhood, the way he moves when he’s working in his garden, or the palpable gathering of his attention when he’s focused on a fine-detail project.

The tender ache of loss has pointed me toward calling him more often, and being more fully present with love and gratitude when we speak or spend time together. It’s not that I’m thinking “oh my God, I better get all the Dad vibes because he’s going to die”, it’s more like “oh I really like this person and every moment is precious, so I don’t want to miss anything because I recognize the ephemeral nature of his existence” … but maybe this doesn’t translate as well in text as it might. The distinction feels very clear in my body. The former is anxious/desperate, the latter is relaxed, open, and very tender.

The fact that I had a feeling like this toward my mother is also exciting. For most of my life I’ve held resentment toward her that made my inner-mom-relationship mostly manifest as indifference. I’m so grateful to be able to feel that she, too, is precious and lovable. The anticipatory grief makes me want to make more time in my life for her.

… time. I will be 50 years old this year and I’m still learning that I can’t possibly do all the things I want to do in the time frames I imagine fitting them in.

A choice to take a vacation with friends is a choice not to visit my parents (visiting either parent requires travel and they live on opposite coasts). Choosing to live in Pittsburgh is choosing not to live near my parents. I feel very strongly good about the life that I’m living, but I’m very sad that it means that I’m not making the most of the precious time remaining to spend time with them.

And today, no joke, a book came in the mail: A Year to Live by Stephen Levine.

I offer a lot of workshops and one-on-one practices intended to help people come closer to understanding the reality of their own death. I do this (usually) as a practice to help participants live their finite lives more fully.

I’ve found much irony in how deeply I struggle to conceptualize the reality of my own death. I mean sure, I know I could die at any moment, and I do use that idea to guide how I live my life, but do I really know it in my bones? Do I feel the relaxed, open, and tender acknowledgment of the preciousness of each moment of living my own life?

Not yet.

I’m looking forward to immersing myself in the practices in Stephen Levine’s book. And, knowing me, I’ll probably design some sort of workshop series in response to it. I read so many books about contemplating and preparing for death. I’m really good at metabolizing them for others, but I wish they’d land a little deeper for me.

I’ll keep trying.

At least now I’m getting good practice in something akin to what Chögyam Trungpa called “the tender heart of sadness.” Perhaps the longer I steep in it, the more easily I might be able to turn it inward, to feel the preciousness of my own good life.

I’m pretty sure you’re reading this, Dad. I love you.

My heart breaks over and over, but I’m glad to have such a powerful heart.

–

UPCOMING EVENTS:

Phase Shift: Lunar Cycle Meditations - July 22 7-8:30pm EST -ONLINE- join me for a little astronomy/astrology, a guided meditation, and a discussion.

I’m also still leading weekly free outdoor meditations in Millvale, PA — you can message me if you’d like more details.

I awoke with a headache this morning (third day in a row —my body reacting to the wildfire smoke, perimenopause, and too many days without adequate down-time). I stumbled out of bed and began my morning routine, which starts with stretching and then putting away the dishes that I washed the night before. As I rummaged in my cabinet to put a cup in its proper spot, somehow I knocked a glass jar from the shelf.

It was a perfect undoing: the jar hit the edge of the sink and shattered. It shattered so completely that I’m not entirely sure which jar broke. Glass covered the dirty dishes in the sink (the ones I hadn’t finished last night). Glass covered the counter and the clean dishes in the drying rack. Glass covered the mug I’d set out for coffee and my half-full glass of water. A tiny spray of glass covered one half of my kitchen —including the camping gear that I had yet to put away from hiking last weekend; including all the things that I’d meant to tidy up and yet hadn’t made time for…

Much to my surprise, my first thought was, “Oh how wonderful!” Here was my morning meditation: single-pointed focus, cleaning up glass. Here was an opportunity to clean and put away all the things I hadn’t gotten to yet. I had a full two hours before my work day started. I felt clear and focused, and I began to clean. My headache even went away!

I share this because it is such a beautiful distillation of my own spiritual practice. I am a Buddhist, but I’m not specifically speaking as a Buddhist here. What I want to convey simply is that my primary meditation practice is to show up for things as they are. Right here, right now. My aspiration is to always show up for the present moment, do what needs to be done, feel what needs to be felt, and move on —and if I can bring a sense of love and reverence, a sense of care, into the experience, all the better.

I am trained in a variety of meditation practices from a number of traditions, and regardless of what I’m doing on the cushion (or out in nature), I make a point of sitting in mindful awareness every day. I intentionally show up for things as they are, on and off the cushion. This training has helped me to learn that the present moment is bearable, no matter how uncomfortable. This training has helped created a space between stimulus and response so that I have more conscious agency when presented with crises or simply things I don’t really like.

And sometimes things just suck. Sometimes I don’t like things and I’m totally caught up in the energy of “I hate this! I can’t wait for it to be over!”. But little by little, I’ve become more likely to meet the awfulness with “oh how wonderful!”.

Oh how wonderful that my friend’s death has deepened my relationship with his family! Oh how wonderful that the terror of these times we live in has helped me to put more effort into my circles of care. I’m not being Pollyanna here, life is rough, and it hurts. That being said, the more I make time to be still, the more I notice all of the beauty that is also present in all the awfulness. And it makes all of the awfulness much more bearable.

Being able to find beauty (or at least space) in each moment actually strengthens my ability to fight for the world that I want to see. The world in which all beings feel safe and loved.

This Sunday, I will guide a group of people in visualizing their own death. I truly believe that this practice helps us live our lives more fully. If you live in Pittsburgh, you are welcome to join us. There are still some spaces left (tell your friends!).

Everything I’m offering right now can be found here, except for the Thursday morning outdoor meditation (you can message me for details if you’re interested).

Ultimately, if this post offers you anything, may it be a willingness to expand a little when bad things happen. May you take a moment to breathe and notice what else is accompanying your present experience. You may find that there is more space for love and joy than you at first realized. May you find beauty in every moment, and may it help get you through the terribleness of these times.

“My mother has a week to live, and I need a death doula.” —there were two of these calls in a 24 hour period.

“My mother is in and out of nursing homes, and I need help navigating the terrain of end of life.”

“I want to take out my wife’s feeding tube, but I feel guilty.”

“I’m in crisis, I’ve hit bottom, and you’re the only person who I think can understand.”

“I can’t stop puking, can you please come take my trash out and change my sheets?”

Now granted, I am often the first point of contact for people needing support in times of transition or crisis. But usually the calls come in once every month or two, not all in the same few days.

On top of all of this, in the span of the same week, a friend underwent open heart surgery, a client had knee surgery, and a close family member had a hysterectomy.

I don’t usually have to navigate this much intensity all at once… except for when I do.

You see, sometimes these periods of intensity do happen in my life. I’ve tried to pin it on a particular astrological occurrence (Uranus is a reasonable scapegoat), but if I’m honest, this may just be the regular ebb and flow of things. An expansion and contraction of energies. Some periods of time are contracted and intense, packing a punch, and some are expansive.

And from this view, everything seems to expand and contract. They say that the Universe is expanding, but my experience of the Universe has always been a pulse, like the breathe or a heartbeat. I imagine that the Universe breathes, with us, in and out.

When I’m in the woods, I watch the daily cycles and the life cycles of plants. I see these as cycles of expansion and contraction. The water cycle: expansion and contraction.

And it gets personal. When I’m in pain I notice that it comes in waves. Sometimes it’s a long slow contraction of intensity, but then it eases… and then it comes back in for another punch. This is true of physical pain, but also of grief. Waves of grief. An intense turning inward as the grief swells, and then, eventually there is the possibility of opening to expansive joy —or at least the opportunity to breathe and remember the rest of what life is offering to us. In fact, all of my emotions expand and contract in this way: opening out, contracting in. The pulse of feeling.

I can tune in to the expansion and contraction of my breath, move inward to my heart as it expands and contracts, moving blood cells which pulse in their own rhythm. I imagine each atom in an ecstatic dance of outward and inward, creating the life within me. And as I visualize the dance of the atoms, I see my inner world as galaxies, a micro-reflection of the throbbing pulse of the Universe.

The Universe breathes, as us, in and out.

I write all this to remind myself that on every level —from the impersonal vastness of the universe to our human experience and on to our inner world, we can feel the movement of the breath of life. And that we can align with that flow and find our balance there.

Getting hit with so many support requests at once pushed me to the edge of my capacity and I had to lean into my meditative tools to keep myself in alignment with my own needs. I was able to connect some people to resources that were not me, but I also showed up over and over again for deeply painful conversations, and I was able to stay grounded, to breathe with the situation, to remind others to breath, to stay connected to body and earth, as they navigated the deep vulnerabilities of the human experience.

It all comes and goes. Even this precious human existence. We are born, we live, we die. Some say we do this over and over. Expansion and contraction.

I have found that acknowledging these rhythms in all aspects of life has helped me to align more deeply with things as they are. It also allows me to remember that periods of rest are part of this cycle. That an expansion requires a contraction, and vice versa. It is my hope that the things I offer to others helps them, too, to align with the flow of life in ways that are empowering and healing.

—

Things I’m doing:

Ongoing in-person, Thursday mornings, 8:30-9:00am: Outdoor Meditation in Millvale (message me for details)

Online, Saturday May 24, 7:00-8:30pm: Phase Shift - Lunar Cycle Meditations

In-person, Sunday June 8, 1:00-3:00pm: Descent into the Underworld - Death Meditation & Sound Bath (a guided journey of contemplating your mortality)

[As always, scroll to the bottom if you’d like to skip to the list of my upcoming events and offerings]

I initially started using Substack as a newsletter service because I didn’t like the email marketing platform that I’d been using previously. I quickly realized that Substack inspired me to write all sorts of things about my life and mind, and by September of last year, I was inviting my subscribers to unsubscribe if they weren’t willing to join me on a journey beyond a once-monthly email related to the topics of self love, meditation, and/or deathcare.

And so I started the practice of writing a whole essay in one sitting, whenever I felt inspired.

… and then I stopped feeling inspired.

I get excited about ideas, but lately, I haven’t been able to form a full piece around a single idea. So, inspired by the formatting of Tearoom Conversations, and in an effort to get myself to write, I offer a few shorter thoughts that I wanted to write as longer essays.

Grieving a lost opportunity

Over the last few years, I’ve had many dreams about my son as a toddler (he is an adult now). He shows up in all sorts of scenarios in which he needs my care or in which I am unable to keep track of him. I’ve come to realize that these dreams are about my own child-self —requests from small parts of me that need me to pay attention. The dreams are very helpful, if sometimes distressing.

But a week ago, I dreamed of my toddler, and upon reflection, I realized that the dream was literally my longing to snuggle my young son again. I’m sure that this is a common experience for parents, but it was new to me. I was a very young and very emotionaly immature mother. I saw my son as more of a responsibility than a gift. I didn’t enjoy parenting and had no maternal instinct. For most of his childhood I was trying very hard to do the very best job I could because “I had chosen to put myself in this situation.”

It is only now, in my late 40s, that I’m learning about joy, and play, and giving and receiving unconditional love. I want so badly to snuggle that wee one again and give us both the love that we deserved.

Breathing into the hillside

Last night I was facilitating a meditation group, and I guided everyone through a Loving Kindness practice. For those of you who may be unfamiliar, the standard format of this practice is to offer words of loving kindness to yourself, then to someone whom you feel positively toward, then to a neutral person, then to a difficult person, and then to all beings.

When I was instructing participants in the practice, I suggested that the second offering should be toward “a being who is uncomplicated and easily brings you joy” —maybe someone who’s been kind to you, or a pet, or a child. When I began to visualize this for myself, I saw the hill by my house.

Three days ago, I climbed the hill for a hike and halfway up (it’s actually quite big), I fell to my knees, pressed my hands to the earth, and began to breathe deeply, each inhale and exhale carrying a conversation between the land and me. I have worked closely with others to preserve and steward this land, and as I pressed my hands into the earth I found myself praying that we care for each other, this land and I.

So, it was a great joy to see the woods and hill emerge in my mind during Loving Kindess practice. I see this piece of land as a living being whom I love unconditionally. A being full of other beings —which I suppose I am, too: I am a being full of other beings… all worthy of love!

Blood pressure

For the entirety of my adult life, I’ve had low blood pressure. Several times I’ve been told “you have the blood pressure of a child.”

I’m not in healthcare settings very often, but the last two times I’ve had my blood pressure read, the results have suggested hypertension. But also, the last two times I’ve had my blood pressure taken, it was right after something stressful had occured in the exam room (this last time it was because the young assistant tried to forcibly remove my respirator so she could take my temperature orally! … what??).

This has left me wondering: has my blood pressure gone up, or is this simply “white coat hypertension”?

At the local community garden two weeks ago, I mentioned the above to a friend who is in nursing school. I also told them that I have a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope at home, but haven’t learned to use them. The friend said, “I can read your blood pressure and teach you how to do it yourself.” And suddenly a crew of people in the garden were suggesting that we gather those of us who have equipment and start offering community workshops on how we can read our own (and each other’s) vital signs.

The political upheaval in the United States has left so many of us feeling disempowered, and I firmly believe that it is the love of our neighbors and friends that will help us to build systems of care instead of —and in spite of— the chaos that we are experiencing.

Summation

… upon further consideration, I realize I’ve written a cohesive piece about love and care. May something within it feel meaningful to you!

UPCOMING EVENTS:

Morning Meditation - in person- Thursday mornings 8:30-9:00am, Millvale, PA. Message me for location and details.

Phase Shift: Lunar Cycle Meditation - online - April 25 - 7:00-8:30pm EST

How We Die Now: Navigating the New Normal (Panel Discussion) - online - May 8 - 7:00-8:30pm EST - online

Descent into the Underworld Meditation and Sound bath - in person - June 8 - 1:00-3:00pm , Millvale, PA ~Stay tuned for the registration link!

From the age of 6 until sometime in my 20s, I had a recurring dream. The first time I had this dream, it went like this:

There were monsters living on the first level of my house, and they had kidnapped my friend, Kyra (Kyra was a delicate girl who I protected on the playground at school). In this childhood home, the major living and sleeping areas were all on the second floor, so it was easy to continue to live while monsters were below. We kept the door between the levels shut and locked. But somehow, the monsters kept kidnapping people who I cared about. They would sneak upstairs when we weren’t paying attention, and worse: they knew I was trying to find a way to stop them. As I schemed about how I would fight them and rescue everyone, they drew closer and closer, abducting my family members and turning them into monsters. The dream ended when the monsters finally caught me. When they did, they turned me into a monster, too, and then there was no longer any problem.

For a stretch of my childhood, this was the general gist of the dream and it terrified me. It made me uneasy in my own house and sometimes afraid to sleep. As I got older, the dream continued, but there were variations on the theme. It was no longer confined to a house, it could be anywhere. There was an evil, it was claiming the people I knew and loved. Sometimes it was a monster, sometimes aliens, sometimes a virus, sometimes an evil cloud of something or a wind. Regardless, it would capture those I loved and incorporate them into its evil. In the dream I always wanted to stop it and save my friends, but it knew about me, and it knew I knew about it. I knew I was the only one who could defeat this enemy, but I was also terrified of confronting it. The evil would draw ever closer. And always, at the end of the dream, it would get me, I would become part of it, and then it wouldn’t matter anymore.

For the first few years I had this dream, I’d wake up afraid. As I got older, I thought, “What the heck is this dream trying to tell me?” I had theories, but none of them rang quite true.

And then one day, when I was in my 20s, it finally dawned on me. I had seen the 1978 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers when I was far too young. I was fascinated and haunted by the movie… and my recurring dream was endless variations on the same theme.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers was an allegory about communism. My recurring dream had ultimately become a way for me to ponder my relationship to the world and to my own identity and place within it.

After I realized that Invasion of the Body Snatchers was the source, I stopped having the dream.

To be honest, I’ve spent my whole life trying to navigate the relationship between my inner world and my outer world. I struggle with behaviors that really don’t serve my needs and wants. I struggle with knowing exactly what I want from pepole and how much I want. I’m getting pretty good at understanding my needs, but sometimes my needs conflict. And my needs and capacity definitely don’t always match my desires.

So sometimes I look to my dreams for direction, and sometimes I look to my needs and to the feedback I get from the phenomenal world. It is my hope that if I keep looking at my experience with open awareness and acceptance that I will be able to make choices for myself that achieve balance.

[and here we transition to my astrology-themed advice]

This week ends with a total lunar eclipse. The sun, moon, and earth will align. Eclipses tend to bring intensity (we’ve already been feeling so much intensity in the United States and around the globe). As always, when things are intense, it’s good to lean into practices that are grounding. In addition, I invite you to look at what you may have been neglecting that is asking for care. Are your dreams or your practical needs pointing toward something that you’ve hidden away? What is asking to be addressed so that you can move forward in a way that is more aligned with who you know yourself to be?

Eclipses come in pairs, so be open to the potential for things to feel like a lot (or confusing or delusional) for awhile. The second eclipse is a solar eclipse during the new moon on March 29. As always, I will be leading my lunar cycle meditation two days before the new moon. I offer a grounding practice for releasing the energies of one cycle and opening to the next. See below for details if you’re interested.

I have always had a vivid dreaming life, and I get a lot of information from my dreams, sometimes working with my dreams in real-time: waking up, processing, and heading back into the same dream with intention. I see my waking life and my dream life as interralated. And honestly, they genreally seem more in synch than my inner and outer world in the purely waking realm.

But sometimes we can make too much out of symbolism. My recurring dream from my childhood was not some deep dark reflection of my psyche as much as it was my brain trying to make sense of a story that frightened and intrigued me. At the same time, I can’t say that the story didn’t affect how I relate to myself and the world on a deep level. Sometimes dreams, our intoxicated thoughts, and/or our spiritual thoughts can serve only to confuse us. Is there something simpler, something more grounded that we’re missing? Or are our dreams pointing toward something that needs our attention and our processing?

Perhaps we can all pause and check to make sure we’ve got all the information and everything we need before we plunge deeper into the intensity of these times.

UPCOMING:

March 27, 7pm EST online: Phase Shift - Lunar Cycle Meditations ($11)

Every Thursday, 8:30am in-person: Outdoor Community Meditation (free) behind Harold’s Haunt (enter from the alley behind 142 Grant Ave, Millvale, 15209)

I’m hoping to offer more online death-related content soon, and stay tuned for info about the next in-person Death Meditation & Sound Bath

May you have many moments of joy between now and our next interaction!

I have spent my life cultivating a rich inner spiritual world, while also rejecting the spirituality of others. My father was very angry about my mother’s spirituality. He resented her practices and ideas, and he felt trapped. And I learned both roles well. My mother was spiritually seeking, trying to ease her pain. My father was trying to ease his own pain by controlling his environment.

Both of them wanted a world that made sense, but their methods were incompatible. I learned both of their ways and then went to war inside myself. Suspiscious and angry of both rational and irrational in the world and in my psyche. This is a story that continues to unfold, and it is one that I have told many times in many different forms.

I know now that my strength lies not in the fighting, but in the surrender. My strength is in my capacity to hold more than one truth and to be able to walk between the worlds of the material and the mystical. Some days I am able to be the soft one who navigates the veil between dualities, and some days I am overcome by rage at the harm done by “spiritual people” or the harm done by materialists.

But a soft surrender to the energy that moves through me, a soft surrender towards acceptance of life on life’s terms, a soft surrender to the force of gravity, a soft surrender to the mystery of “what the fuck is going on??”… the soft surrender brings me such strength and clarity.

I used to deny that I was an astrologer, I just knew a lot about the system of astrology. I denied so many “non-rational” things about myself because I was afraid if I fully embodied them I’d lose control and somehow do harm. I wanted to desperately to “make sense”, to be consistent, to have only one Helen inside of me.

To quote Dame Marjorie Chardin: “Consistency is not really a human trait.”

And life is asking me to soften now. Hard Saturn is entering non-linear Pisces… and his path will take him into a dance with Neptune, whose watery nature will further erode the sense-making, plan-making, timely march of Saturnian energy. This is not a time to build and fortify, this is a time to sink my feet into the mud, to let my trunk be supple, let my branches dance, my leaves rustle. What new currents will the spring bring us?

The world rages on in an ever-increasing dance of confusion and delusion. We must find ways to nourish ourselves right now so that we can show up for what is being asked of us. We must find our own cycles and connections to earth and spirit, ways to ride the current, so that we can be of meaningful use to our neighbors and loved ones in the coming weeks and months.

I’d love to hear how you are navigating these times. Feel free to comment below or send me an email. If you’d like to join me in some practices to navigate your own experience, I’m still offering in person outdoor weekly meditation and monthly online lunar meditations:

Mindful Mornings Outdoor Community Meditation - Thursdays 8:30-9:00am behind Harold’s Haunt, 142 Grant Ave, Millvale, 15209 (go around to the back of the building). This event is free and all are welcome. We usually end up wandering over to Lemon Tree for coffee after meditation (112 Sherman St) and you are always welcome to come socialize even if you don’t do the outdoor sit with us.

Phase Shift Lunar Cycle Meditation - Feb 25, 7-8:30pm EST - online - we meet two days before the new moon in order to release the previous cycle and open to the next. I talk a little about astronomy/astrology and then guide a visualization. We end with a check in and discussion.

Regardless of whether you join me for anything, if you’ve read this far, may your days be full of surprising beauty and may you know ease.

I was taking a walk last night and took a picture of some cool seeds on a vine that climbed a chain link fence.

When I got home, I looked up what they were. Clematis. At the sight of the word, I began to cry.

When I was a child, I fell in love with a book titled Clematis, which was written in 1917. It is the story of an unhoused girl (named Clamatis) who is picked up by a police officer and put in an orphanage. The story is one of a child finding her place in the world. She is continually baffled and hurt by all the rules and customs of the situations she is put in, and she is always getting in trouble for following her heart and doing what makes sense to her.

This is not a complicated story. It’s not earth shattering. It’s sexist and colonial. It has a classic surprise happy ending. But the story always spoke to my soul.

As a girl who read above her grade level and who was interested in the esoteric from a very early age, the book seems a strange pick for an all-time beloved story.

So why did this book hold my heart? I was never quite sure, but last night, an understanding finally flooded in.

I have always been uncomfortable in new spaces. I spent most of my life scanning the room, needing to figure out all the rules before I felt safe to act. I was constantly surprised by the ways things were “supposed” to be done, and I was horribly ashamed when I got a “rule” wrong in someone’s home or in a community space. I didn’t understand how the world worked, but at home I was encouraged to follow all the (often unspoken) rules of “the right way” to do things, and mistakes were likely to subject me to ridicule. I quickly learned that everyone had a “right way”, but that all the right ways were different. If I wanted to be accepted and loved, I had to somehow figure out all the rules without letting people know that I didn’t know them.

In the last few years, healing and growing has lead me to some truths:

1. the people who love me unconditionally don’t care whether I get everything right

2. safe people can accomodate my mistakes

3. safe people are open to questions about how we can navigate spaces together

4. I have the right to surround myself with loving people who are safe for me

5. AND … the term “nuerodivergent” presents a useful framework from which to view my experience of the world

With respect to #5, I have not been formally diagnosed with any particular form of neurodivergence. Regardless, I spent the first 45 years or so of my life constantly performing a level of functioning and behavior that didn’t match how I felt. I was constantly guessing at how I was “supposed” to be in any given situation.

In the story of Clematis, Clematis is frustrated that she can’t have coffee and donuts in the morning at the orphanage. She doesn’t know how to peel potatoes. She really struggles to learn the orphanage culture of making the bed first thing in the morning. At one point in the story, she ends up staying at a farm and she makes her bed in the morning in order to please the family that owns the farm. She is later told to unmake her bed because on the farm they let the beds air out for a couple hours in the morning before they are made. This proves very distressing for Clematis. Or maybe it was simply distressing for me as a young reader.

Clematis loves the farm. She loves the fresh air. Her stay there is temporary and she goes back to the orphanage where she proceeds to get very sick.

Clematis is sick because she misses the farm. The farm is the place where she can be free. The farm is the place where she can truly be herself. Clematis is sick because she is stuck in a place where the rules don’t make sense and she must constantly pretend to be someone she isn’t.

When, in the end, she finds out that the couple who own the farm are actually her long lost grandparents, they adopt her and she lives happily ever after.

I’m sure this story resonates with many modern humans who struggle to find their place in the world and wish for a happy ending. Last night, the story felt resonant with a story of neurodivergence —a story of constantly guessing at what I was supposed to do. I have always been good at guessing, but the stress is exhausting, and I’ve had stress-related illnesses for most of my life.

In the last few years, I’ve surrounded myself with people who accept me as I am. Yesterday, my partner and I had a friend over for tea (we really haven’t had guests since the pandemic began) and I burst into tears because I was overwhelmed by navigating all the social things that we hadn’t established yet. But I was able to articulate my overwhelm and this friend had the capacity to navigate the situation with me.

It is a great privilege to have found a community of people with whom I can feel safe and with whom I can put down my masks.

Am I neurodivergent? Probably.

What do I need in light of all of the above? Simply to grieve. Clematis reminds me of all the years I spent working so hard to appear to be someone I wasn’t. Now that I am able to stop trying so hard, decades of unacknowledged heartache is begging to be felt.

UPCOMING EVENTS:

January 27 (online): Phase Shift - Lunar Cycle Meditations 7:00-8:30pm EST (to register: https://sacredcenteredyou.com/registration)

Thursdays (in person - outdoors): Mindfulness Meditation on the back patio of Harold’s Haunt 8:30am-9:00am

[all images are my own, except for the final flower, which is from Jack Blueberry on Unsplash]

We had been told that the surgery would be easy and that her prognosis was very good, but it’s easy to think of the worst when one is sitting in the waiting room and… waiting.

It’s also easy to remember how precious life is when the reality of its end comes into view.

Next week, my online workshop begins. It’s called Contemplating Our Endings, and it’s an opportunity to take some dedicated hours to think about your own death and what you might need to do to prepare for it. In this workshop I’ll guide contemplation, we’ll write, and we’ll discuss our thoughts and feelings as a group. I’ll be able to talk about the practical application of what comes up in our time together, but my focus will be on helping you orient to what is asking for your attention.

I’m going to die, what do I need to do to support an ending that is in alignment with my values and wishes?

We will meet in two three-hour sessions focused on Impermanence (session 1), Identity (session 2), and Legacy (session 3), and there will be room for talking about the impermanence of our worldly structures, too —e.g. climate and political structures.

Whatever participants bring to the group, we will weave into our exploration of what it means to be mortal.

The first session of Contemplating Our Endings was supposed to be this week, but I postponed it so I could travel 15 hours to be with my mother. So now we will gather for our first session two days after the U.S. presidential inauguration. So much is uncertain right now, and many people are scared. It is my hope that this online group will be a safe place to be vulnerable.

I’m posting this now because the early bird rate ($55 USD) ends at 6pm EST on January 15. After that the cost is $77. More details can be found here.

If you have any questions, feel free to comment below or write to me directly. If you’d like to attend, but have obstacles to doing so, please let me know.

Being human can be scary, and the more we are able to show up for what is real and true about our human existence, there more we can find ways to thrive.

I’ve spent most of my life resenting my mother. And now, as I face the truth of how little time we may have left, I’m letting my heart blaze. May it melt the ice of my habitual responses. May I have clear boundaries and take care of myself, but also may I tune in to the ways that she delights in the world and the depth of her own tender heart.

For years now, my mother has been asking me which family heirlooms I want and telling me which ones might be valuable. She tells me stories about relatives that live on in the butter dish and the afikomen cover. She wants to know that the objects and their stories will continue to have a home when she’s gone. She wants to know that they will be well cared for, or, if sold, that they will help me.

No one else wants all these things, and she can’t bring herself to donate them or throw them away.

Today I said, “there’s no market for antiques anymore” and she said, “well please at least tell me you’ll take my mother’s couch. It’s so comfortable.”

And then she said, “It’s the only time I ever remember my mother being nice to me. When I was a child, if I were sick, my mom would let me lie on the couch and she’d stroke my forehead and do nice things for me.”

After she told me about the couch she became suddenly defensive and started trying to justify the possessions she wants to pass on. I wrapped my arms around her, held her close and said, “I care about what’s important to you.” I said it like a mantra, over and over, “I care about what’s important to you” until she relaxed in my arms.

For most of my life, the dance with my mother has been a painful one. And now, as we move toward the end of it, I’m grateful for the moments when we can be tender with each other. All she’s ever longed for was connection, and her attempts to find it have mostly pushed others away.

This week, during my visit, I’m sleeping under a skylight —a place where she slept for most of the summer. Both of us light up when talking about seeing the stars as we drift off to sleep.

*******

Upcoming:

Contemplating Our Endings starts Jan. 22 — online workshop, three Wednesdays, 6:30-8:30pm EST

Phase Shift - Lunar Meditations online, Jan. 27, 7:00pm EST