Life has a way of sweeping me along, as though I am riding the crest wave of a flash flood. Sometimes, it goes on for a prolonged period of time and I don’t find myself writing. I only find myself missing it.

I had the audacious privilege recently to co-facilitate a grief workshop with horses. The therapist, Sheri Gaynor, calls the day “Honoring Grief Through the Wisdom of the Herd”.

We were together, off and on with the herd, for 6 hours. A small group of nine humans and nine horses. There is an intimate symbiosis between horses and humans in grief. But still, it takes big courage to walk up to a 2,000 pound animal in a wide open space with no where to hide. An animal who is unrestrained and free. And an animal who understands what it is to grieve.

There are far too many details from that day to do a story justice. I came away filled with admiration for the vulnerability and strength and resolve shown by the participants and the antics and behaviors of the horses. It was an amazing experience. One I would revisit if it was in the Winter, Fall or Spring. It was too hot for this old broad to be in the sun for that many hours.

I had hoped the experience would be easier to write about. But it isn’t. A lot of what happens, happens inside. The feelings. The connections. The parallel process of setting something down that we might be ready to at least take a break from carrying. Before that can happen, we have to trust that wherever we set it, it will still be ours to pick back up if need be. We need to know we are safe but we also need to know, our grief is safe.

The idea of ‘setting something down’, something personal, deeply intimate and hugely heavy isn’t as easy as it sounds. When it comes to grief, we get rather attached. We might think it’s something we don’t want riding on our coat tails or wrapped around our ankles, but setting it down feels far to akin to ‘letting it go’ and there is something in us that tells us, that is not possible. Once we experience the thing that causes us grief, our best strategy is to figure out a way to make friends with it. Because it is now part of who we are.

AND, with the right guidance and understanding of the ways of grief, setting a piece of it down for a period of time can be a life saver. As I just said, as long as we know where it is and where we can come back for it if we need to.

I don’t know if any of our participants left any burdens in that pasture. I want to believe they at least left the ranch that day understanding that the option is there and the herd is a safe place for it.

I will be off the grid for a period of time. I’m needed elsewhere and can’t say for sure if I will have access to the technology to post on Substack but I’ll do my best. So please don’t let my silence mean anything more than a momentary ‘setting down’ of this valuable piece of who I am. And, as always, I hope you know your presence as a reader/listener is like an iron infusion for an anemic heart and soul.

I THANK YOU

In the decades since my mom died in 2000, I have worked in hospice. I worked as a chaplain at a cancer center. I counseled families through grief and loss. Again and again, I sat with people who were facing the end of their lives, listening as they tried to make sense of what lay ahead. Through all of those years, one truth has stayed with me: Dying is not what people fear most. What they fear is prolonged suffering, the loss of control, and becoming trapped in a body that no longer allows them to live the life they loved.

For people facing terminal illness, medical aid in dying (MAID) offers something profoundly important: the knowledge that if their suffering becomes too great, they have an option. People feel comforted just knowing it exists. That knowledge alone can change everything.

It shifts the conversation. It allows patients to speak openly with their loved ones and caregivers about their fears and wishes. It restores a sense of control in a moment when so much else feels uncertain.

Over the years, I have shared information about Colorado’s Death with Dignity with countless patients and families. Sometimes people want to learn more about the process. Sometimes they decide it is not right for them.

Both responses are valid. What matters most is that people are able to make informed choices about their own lives and how they die.

So many people don’t even know the option exists. Others feel hesitant to ask about it. Some encounter doctors who are unsure how to discuss it or who are unfamiliar with the process.

Passing a law is only the beginning. Ensuring that people understand their rights, and can access accurate information when they need it, is the work that follows. For the last ten years, advocates and clinicians in our state have worked tirelessly to ensure this law is followed exactly as intended. Together, we have educated communities about end-of-life options and supported dying patients who choose to pursue a dignified death.

And yet today, opponents are trying to dismantle this carefully crafted law through lawsuits, misinformation, and fear. They are attempting to take away an option that terminally ill patients deserve to be able to rely on in their most difficult moments.

And I am left asking why?

For those of us who have witnessed the suffering that can occur when people feel trapped without options, the answer matters deeply.

The ability to discuss and access medical aid in dying has brought peace of mind and relief to countless patients and families over the years. It has allowed people facing terminal illness to approach the end of their lives with dignity, honesty, and support from those they love. To approach it without fear of too much suffering or too much pain.

Protecting this law matters. It matters for patients, for families and for all of us because someday every one of us will face end of life.

The freedom to die with dignity on our own terms is being challenged. This moment is about drawing a line in the sand and saying that unnecessary suffering should never be the only path forward.

I write about this as someone who has seen firsthand what a good death looks like. The ability for terminally ill people to access MAID did not happen by accident. This law exists because people cared enough to fight for it. To advocate, educate and campaign to get a law passed.

Today, that hard-won right is under threat. And we must do everything we can to preserve this critical healthcare option.

If you believe that people facing the end of life deserve dignity, autonomy, and peace, please support it. Ask questions about it. Talk about it. Learn about the way it works. Shed the fear and shame around it and keep it

alive. It will be a sad, sad day if it is overturned after the next elections.

You can learn more about it by visiting www.compassionandchoices.org

I’m on the phone with a friend and we’re exploring ways to answer the question, “How are you doing?”. She is in the middle of complicated, significant, heartbreaking loss. And she’s finding herself enraged by people asking how she’s doing. She knows most of them don’t really want to know. They want her lie and say, “Oh. I’m doing okay.” so they can be absolved of having to hear about what it really feels like to be her right now. And she doesn’t want to talk to anyone anyway. But she talked to me. And for that I am forever grateful.

This is a question that those in the throes of new grief find themselves at a loss to answer. And it’s one that comes at us repeatedly. So we try on different answers to see what fits and we have different answers for different askers. Because we know there are some out there who, when they ask, really do want to know. And who will take the time to listen.

Her answer to almost everyone is, “I’m in it.” That is perfect. It speaks the truth. And her answer will morph as her journey continues. In our phone call she said she believes I could write a whole month of substacks on this topic alone. The stupid things people say to someone who is grieving. I won’t. But I did used to set aside one whole session of the 6 week Understanding Grief groups I did just to talk about what’s been hurtful and what’s been helpful as far as what people say.

The interesting thing in all of this is what we learn as the ones experiencing the things people say. Almost across the board, the realization that would come by the end of that particular group night, was that, we will never again be those people. Once the discussions were had, the stories were told, the rage expressed and the tears dried, we would recall maybe having said those exact things to someone who had lost a loved one. But it was before we knew. It was before we knew how it feels to have someone offer empty platitudes or silver linings for why we need to ‘get over it’ or why we need to ‘move on’ or why we need to ‘be grateful’..

Fuck that.

What we need is to have someone say, “I won’t ask you how you are but I will say, I’m glad to see you.” Or “I’m so sorry this happened.” Or “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Or “I’m here if you want to tell me your story.” Or “May I come walk the dog?” Or “I didn’t know your mom well, but I’m sure it’s been a complicated time of grief in your life.”

Anything, but “How are you?”

So here’s the thing. Major losses are hard enough. If the loss is death, the circumstances of the death are important. If it’s a snatch away, there’s numbness and disbelief to get a grip on before anything else but there’s also people immediately wanting things from you that you’re not prepared to give. The business details of dying that HOPEFULLY have all be discussed when the death is due to an illness that allowed for the conversations to happen. What funeral home? What method? Where? How? Who? But in snatch-aways, none of those conversations have usually been had.

When the death is from an illness and if you have also been the care giver or the sometimes caregiver, it’s normal to feel pretty well exhausted and overwhelmed by the end. Just plain tired beyond believe. Done. So we then enter the reality of having to learn to put one foot in front of the other and carry on when we are basically too tired to even remember to wipe.

And anyone who has been there, anyone who has had to learn to live when someone they never wanted to say good bye to has just died, knows that the act of grieving, the processing of loss, is some of the most exhausting work we ever do. It breaks us before it allows us to rebuild ourselves. Slowly shatters us, turns us to dust. That’s why we take little bites and why grief counselors have to constantly remind their clients that there are no rewards for speed.

Which kind of brings me back to what I thought I was going to write about. The words we choose to describe how we feel. And I guess it’s a matter of honesty in the moment and having an understanding of the long term. For my friend to say to people who ask her how she is, that she’s “In it”, gives them enough information to know that she’s as okay as she can be in that moment. That she’s on the dance floor or riding the crest of the wave. If she were to say “I’m drowning in my sadness right now, but I’ll be okay” would also give them an honest answer and show that she has an understanding of the future maybe being brighter.

That’s not always the case. Sometimes we don’t have the trust that we will survive certain losses. Sometimes we truly believe the grief will kill us. But then, it doesn’t.

So if you are listening to this or reading this and carrying grief that feels too heavy, sit down and take a breath. Then take another one. And find someone to talk to. Wave the proverbial white flag and let someone see you. Wave it high until you get someones attention. We can survive the most horrific things, but we do not do it alone.

And if you hear someone using words like ‘overwhelmed’, ‘maxed out’ or ‘done’ to describe how they are feeling, pay close attention. It could be their white flag. It could be them asking you to help them find someone to talk to. It doesn’t have to be you, but you can always ask if they’d like some help finding someone they can talk to. I don’t think it’s ever the wrong thing to do. Sometimes just knowing someone is actually listening to what we say, that someone actually ‘sees’ us, is enough for us to move through a particularly rough moment.

I believe that most of humankind is suffering right now. We are scared and lonely, hot and tired, hungry and thirsty. Throw a big fat loss in there and it’s like gasoline on a fire. So let’s watch out for each other in all the ways we can.

Thanks for your time today. It means the world to me to know people listen to these. There are some exciting developments happening in the sphere of my life that I hope to be writing about soon. So I hope you’ll come back.

Until then, please be well.

Love

Sean

A new post from Cheryl Paige caught my attention today. Cheryl and I worked together 9 years ago when she got the phone call that a dear, dear friend had been hit by a truck and killed.

Cheryl was already a seeker, a mystic. But in the years since that pivotal, significant loss she has searched and studied and sought an even deeper understanding of what keeps us afloat when our worlds are turned inside out.

Her posting (July 7 2026) Surprised by Joy, on her Substack page, mysticrichness.substack.com was of interest to me because she writes about ‘signs’.

Like so many of us, when her beloved died, she honestly thought she would never know joy again. Partly, I believe, because again, like so many of us, she equated joy with an absence of grief; as though they are exclusive of one another. She knows now what so many people eventually come to realize. Pain and beauty can, and do, co-exist. They are not opposites and we don’t have to choose one over the other.

Cheryl is a scientist. But not your average scientist. She doesn’t fit the mold at all. Below is an excerpt from Surprised by Joy.

“In the months after Scott died, I became fascinated by something I was learning from neuroscience.

A thought creates an emotion.

An emotion releases chemistry.

That chemistry washes through the brain and every cell of the body.

I would think,

“Scott was hit by a truck and killed.”

And without realizing it...

I would pour myself another grief shot.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Not because I wanted to.

Because the love inside me was searching for someone it could no longer see.

Nine years ago, I believed grief would become the chemistry of the rest of my life.”

And it does. For so many people.

But it doesn’t have to.

Learning a way of integrating grief and joy can happen for any of us. Yes, first we have to disbelief. First we have numbing sorrow and we have to know the inability to move, to not be able to get out of bed. And then, we have to remember that life is made up of the most exquisite moments of pain and beauty doing a slow, sensual dance. Life holds all of it. We hold all of it. And when our worlds are shattered through loss, when we are sucked under by the tidal wave and can’t breathe, we have to remember how to swim; how to roll over and float until our strength returns.

We don’t like big change. When we’re happy, we’d like everything to just stay whatever way it is. But life doesn’t do that. So, we learn to surf. We learn to scuba dive and swim with a snorkel. And while we are at it, we learn to look for the shooting stars, the momentary way a shaft of sunlight highlights the color of something, the way snowflakes taste. As Cheryl so eloquently put it, we learn to belly up to the bar and ask for our loved ones to send us another shot of joy.

Because they are the ones who are teaching us. In their dying, they are who come back in subtle little ways to remind us that they are not gone. They have just transformed. And in their transformation, they will find a new way to communicate. We have to find a new way to hear them.

If this sounds like hocus pocus and woo-woo nonsense, maybe you’re just not ready.

When we assign meaning to something that once felt coincidental or serendipitous, something that instantly reminds us of the person who died, it stays with us forever. And each time we see, hear or smell whatever the thing is we’ve given new meaning to, it’s another shot of joy.

In my life it’s finding random pennies, face side up, in parking lots and on sidewalks (my dad). It’s perfectly formed random feathers along my path (my mom). It’s hearing someone say, “As you were” and it’s the smell of Old Spice (my grandfather). What are some of yours?

I’m grateful to Cheryl, for reminding us that our relationships do not die when someone we have one with, dies. Their physical presence is missing, but being in relationship with them continues.

Right now, in our lives, there are so many things to grieve. Too many reasons to feel afraid, threatened, anxious and uncertain. Every time I see that random perfectly formed feather, I feel my mom whispering to me that I’m ok. That no matter what, the ultimate outcome is good.

That’s all for now. Thanks, as always, for being here. And, as always, please share this if you know anyone who might benefit from these little reminders.

Until next time….

Love, Sean

Okay. A couple of things.

I noticed my last Substack post was my 100th. That felt rather nice. I patted myself on the back, but in so doing, pulled a muscle slightly in my right shoulder. What the heck is THAT all about?

I did not take it as a sign that we should not feel good about accomplishments. I, instead, chalked it up to my body no longer appreciating being asked to do certain things. I never know what those ‘things’ will be until I’ve done them and then it’s too late.

Losing the flexibility and fluidity of a body that always felt, with no apparent effort on my part, well oiled and strong is a loss I have been experiencing in recent years. I am not a student of yoga and I do not participate in senior strength classes or stretching classes. I believe I have completely missed the window of opportunity to learn Ballroom dancing, something I held out hope for while I waited for Greg to retire. Secretly I still fantasize about singing the blues. I only need to be breathing for that, right? And I know if I would make a practice of easing into my day, stretching my body when I leave my bed, that I’d probably experience fewer of those things that annoy me.

Too many of our friends are saying things like, “Gee, if I’d known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself!” but they wouldn’t have had as much fun. So we live with the aches and pains and ‘catches’ and loss of abilities with a certain amount of Grace. And self forgiveness. And gratitude.

And occasionally we get pissed off or just plain sad that we have to remember to look before we turn, to think about what our next action is and if we are safely rooted to take it. It is no longer a ‘given’ that we can jump out of the back of a truck, or go for a back country hike without serious consequences. For some people it is no longer a ‘given’ that they can get in a car and drive to the store. Or even get out of bed safely and unaided.

I’ve written about this before. The fatigue I sometimes feel, deep in my bones. And I know it’s real. I also know some of it comes from feeling worried too much of the time. There seems to be an almost universal sense of things not being right with the world. And, as though worrying about it will help, many of us are carrying around a sense of dis~ease over it. A grieving we can’t quite put our finger on.

This past Sunday a young friend of mine delivered a sermon at a local Methodist church that spoke so directly to my heart, I wept watching it on the live stream. I realized that I have been ‘praying’ to God and all the guardian angels in my life to keep us safe, to bring rain where there is drought and relief where the temperatures are too high. To tame the raging rivers and replenish the ones drying up. As though, if those things were to happen, then we’d be OK. And my young friend put it so clearly when she said that “We spend a lot of time asking God to preserve the structures, plans, expectations and maps we have created that give us security. But sometimes the ships we depend on have to break apart before we discover that our true hope, our true identity, has never rested in those things at all.”

Storms have a way of stripping away identities we have built for ourselves. A way of exposing our attachment to things ‘staying the same’. But when the landscape of our lives changes so drastically that there is no way back to what once was, to what we thought our future was going to look like, that is when we take stock; standing on unfamiliar ground, untethered, no road map, no idea what is coming next. We take stock of what our truth truly is.

I remember long ago laying alongside a neighbor as she was dying, visiting with her and her daughter, when she suddenly looked up at me and said, “Sean, how does anyone do this without faith?”. Such a curious question coming from a crusty old rancher woman and I remember my answer was, “I don’t know love, but I know they don’t do it with the Grace you’re doing it.” She died later that night. Peacefully. Still crusty, but with a strong sense of wonder. No fear. No worry. Because she believed in something that gave her the ability to stand as though marooned on foreign soil and know she was OK.

There have been times in my life that my faith was strong enough to be able to say to someone who had lost theirs, “It’s Ok, you can borrow some of mine until yours returns.” And there have been times when I was the one who needed the offer of borrowing someone else’s.

I think Sunday was one of those times. I needed my young friend’s reminder that it is not our vessel that’s of primary importance. It’s what we carry in our hearts.

Her words left me feeling a peaceful Grace. An understanding. A foothold. A shift in attitude about what matters.

Thanks for taking a moment to read or listen to this. I appreciate you being here. Until next time…..

It may actually have been a combination of senses.

Once I was completely awake, I heard the symphony of rain on the roof of our home. The window right by my bed was wide open, as it is every night when it’s so hot. Shut up tight with blinds drawn during the day, we open the house around 8 or 9 PM until morning. We have been fortunate that the night time temps drop to a comfortable coolness. At least so far.

Anyway, yesterday morning before even the first inkling of light, I smelled rain. After several days of hazy smokey skies from a nearby (30 miles) wildfire, many weeks of nothing but dry heat, temperatures in the high 90’s and Red Flag warning winds for 10 hours a day, I had not expected rain. I had no idea it was coming.

I sat up and threw my legs over the side of the bed. I was hit with a blast of misty coolness. I walked to the living room and opened the door and watched the rain.

The skies were dark but I could already tell there was no smoke. It was raining hard and steady. No winds. No thunder or lightning. Just blessed, welcomed rain.

Standing with the door open, the first full deep breath drew in that smell of wet earth. I felt a visceral connection to the trees and plants outside. Truly, I was almost on my knees…thirsting and thanking all at once. Had I been brave, I would have walked out into it and stood. I might have even leaned against one of the mighty Pines or Cottonwoods on the property as though say, “Yes my love. I know. I share in your suffering and in your relief.” But I didn’t. I went bak to bed, whispering, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” as I walked down the hall.

It’s great sleep, is it not? The slumber of safety and peace and gratitude. The sleep of one whose thirst has been quenched and whose life has been saved?

Later that morning, I walked outside with Toby and felt the crunch of dead grass, softened and wet. Vegetables standing at attention and welcoming every drop of water that was falling from the sky.

Who knows when more might come. Not me, that’s for sure. But for those few hours yesterday, there was joy in my heart and a sense of tranquility and appreciation for such an unexpected gift. And I wanted to share it with all of you. I have felt your concern since posting Little Fires Everywhere. So, I wanted to share with you that we had a moments reprieve.

Toby was the only one who didn’t like it. He hates getting wet. I used to think I wanted to come back in a next life as a well loved dog. But not if I can’t also love playing in the rain.

Thanks for taking a minute to read this. As always, your presence is the thing that means so much. I hope this finds you, wherever you are, feeling balanced in your life, nourished in your needs and loved.

Until next time….

I hope this finds all of you well and staying connected.

Here’s the link:

It’s fire season in Colorado. Red Flag warnings greet us daily via phone emergency alerts and since we’ve both downloaded an app called Fire Watch, we also get instant notification from the county we live in when a fire erupts anywhere on the Western Slope.

When Fire Watch notifies us of a fire we all go on high alert. If it also happens to be a Red Flag Day, we stay, if possible, close to home and ready to go if needed. Helicopters with water buckets hanging from them are no match for hot dry wind. So today, when the fire started West of us along the corridor of I70, the helicopters were grounded and single engine air support planes ordered in. Even when the notification comes that the fire is under control and the tankers have been diverted elsewhere, we hold our breath.

We lived through two weeks of mandatory evacuation 5 years ago. No one who lived here then will ever forget the gratitude we felt (and still feel) for the ‘boots on the ground’ and the pilots of the planes who saved this little community. Not one house was lost. It was a spectacular display of coordination, cooperation, determination and sheer grit, all fighting Mother Nature.

Since that time, we have voted in (?) an administration that has cut resources to the bone for many departments of public safety and welfare. An administration that has seen fit to target Colorado specifically when wielding the knife that cuts federal funding. We’re unsure if the force to fight these fires even still exists. That makes this season all the scarier. And for someone who really does not appreciate living in fear, it’s an unappreciated circumstance to say the least.

Until the first fires started and the Red Flag days began, I was contentedly living in my little bubble out here in NoNamé (as we fondly call it). I was busy planting small vegetable gardens and butterfly flowers. I was relishing the wonder and beauty of life in rural Colorado. I was busy with my work on the Board of our local non-profit hospice. I was a good neighbor, attentive to the needs of friends and someone who remembered birthdays and appointments.

I hardly recognize who I am when I am consumed by the unpredictability of extreme heat and wind. I have felt distracted, discombobulated, short tempered and anxious. I’m not exactly a very ‘fun’ person normally but those characteristics really make me someone you don’t want to be around.

So, today, I decided to find what is good about the current circumstance of life where we live.

Right now the air is clear. There are fires in Colorado but none threatening our community. When we turn on a faucet, clean water comes out. Good water. Sacred water. At night, the temperatures cool down and the wind stops. We have cell service that keeps us informed. We have refrigeration for fresh food and ice if we need it. We have a river within a 5 minute walk where we can cold plunge ourselves or swim with our dogs to cool off in the heat of the day. We have each other. This is something we know how to manage as far as ‘manageable’ goes. We can have fire evacuation ‘to go’ boxes packed and in the car. We know what needs to be in them. We have neighbors who look out for one another. We have money in the bank. And as I typed, just this instance, a Fire Alert came in that there is a new fire spreading rapidly just West of town, making a run up the mountainside. Aerial resources have been requested but that’s one of those things that may or may not be available. I70 is closed in both directions. I70 is an artery for this part of the state. No other roads connect the East side of Canyon Creek to the West side of Canyon Creek. There are no frontage roads through that canyon. And it’s almost exactly where the Storm King Fire killed 14 woodland fire fighters in 1994.

I really wanted to write about the Chinese Long Beans that started growing a couple of weeks ago. This is the picture I took the morning I walked down to the gardens and saw it. I was so excited.

Instead though, I’ll share this screen shot of the western half of the country as of 23 minutes ago on this 9th day of June at 3:44 PM.

Please keep us in your prayers.

I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, blindly starting down this road that, for once, does not feel like a rabbit hole, but just a road. A dirt road. Seldom traveled by motorized vehicles so I’m safe walking in the middle and looking around at the country side.

In the world I have lived in the past two decades one observation I have had is that we can have a lot of knowledge about a thing but not necessarily the experience of it. And when we get the experience of it, it changes everything we always thought we knew. It shifts the understanding and perspective to a deeper and more intimate level. Thus, changing, entirely what and how we share it with others.

A young woman in one of my grief groups came to group with the story of running into an into an old friend on the street whose father had recently died. The woman in the group was there because her father too had died a long time ago.

So, she runs into this friend who approaches her right away with words of apology, asking forgiveness saying she was so so sorry for the way she had behaved when her friends dad had died; thinking she shouldn’t be so sad or for so long. Now that her own father had died, she got the enormity of this friends loss. They reconnected through their shared experience of “daddy loss”. And even though they are two unique humans with their own unique relationships to their fathers, they had a more common ground from which to honor one another’s experience of grief, and their friendship grew stronger as a result.

Until we experience something, we really cannot know. We can study and listen and read, talk with others and observe and all of that can make us think we do know. And we do not.

In the world of grief, we all know what it feels like to lose something or someone. So we may get comfortable thinking that because we have lost things, we understand what it means to grieve. And we do. But it never gives us license to think we know what someone else might be experiencing in their grief. It’s one of the things I heard countless times from those mourning loss, how utterly infuriating it was to have anyone say to them, “Oh. I know exactly what you’re going through!” or “I know how you feel!” and then go on to tell their own story of loss.

We do not know, ever, what someone else is feeling when someone they love has died or something they loved has gone away. We can lean heavily on our own set of memories from when we have suffered loss and we can remember what was helpful and what was not as we moved through those first disruptive hours, days, weeks and months after a significant loss. We can learn to listen, truly listen, when we find ourselves alongside someone in grief and we can learn to let them teach us what they need.

Grief comes in so many forms, wearing so many hats and always playing by different and unstated sets of no rules. Navigating our own grief can be slippery and disorienting. It’s too easy, as one who has walked in the realm of grief and loss for so many years, to think that I’m ok when I encounter my own grief, when in truth, I am not. It always humbles me greatly when I get reminded. And I have learned how to honor it, how to care for myself and tend a wounded heart.

To become an expert at anything usually requires repeated experiences of it. Coupled with the guidance and mentorship of others who have walked the path ahead of you. And even then, when you’ve taken all the courses, and listened to all the other so-called experts, life has a way of reminding us not to get too cocky. At least my life does.

So, I just continue to show up. And walk to the edge of the shadow that is grief and uncertainty and fear and anger and to do it with as much decorum and Grace as I can find. And I am always ready to lay down my warriors shield and walk naked onto the battlefield because I know I am not alone. I know there are many others alongside, even if I can’t always see them.

Doing this work, living this life, is a constant series of surprises and awakenings. And for some people, that means by the end of it, they’ll be an expert.

I think, for now, I am just a beginner. Still having experiences of things that are new. Things I thought I knew about.

While I listen to my angels laughing.

I promise I’m not going to whine about the way my body has changed and continues to change as I continue to grow old.

I’m grateful for the continuation, for the time being. I like being here. I like being me.

When I first wrote about the grief of growing old, in August of 2025, a lot of you wrote back and said “Thank you!” “Thank you for speaking about this often overlooked part of what we lose as we age.”

I haven’t had any truly significant losses since that first published piece but I did have a fairly serious bout of something 3 months ago. And one of the things I’ve noticed since then is how slowly I have recovered and that even though I know Greg and I are both completely ‘over’ whatever it was we had, my energy level did not quite come back to what it had been previous to being knocked down.

We know, in medicine, that when an older person has a huge set back to their health, like, say, a heart attack, that they usually don’t come back to quite the same level of health they were enjoying prior to the event. But what Greg and I had was a bad cold. We never saw a doctor, we never took any prescribed medicines. We did what our bodies told us they needed us to do. What they demanded of us. We slept. We rested. We drank a lot of tea. We stayed home.

It was a solid two weeks before we felt safe to be around others. And we have slowly but consistently gotten better ever since. But even now, there is this fatigue that is not just physical. For me, it’s also emotional. Not quite back to ‘happy’. It’s the weirdest thing.

And it has brought forth an observation on the idea that it’s possible that past a certain point, each day takes some kind of small toll on us as humans. That, past a certain point, being mindful of the gift it is just to wake up, is important. And that past a certain point, procrastination is not our friend.

Do it now. Do it today. If it feels important to you, do not wait. Because it’s possible, today will be as good as it is going to get.

It’s also possible I’m full of shit and don’t know what I’m talking about.

This fatigue is annoying. All of a sudden, I love naps. All of a sudden, I have no problem laying down and putting my feet up for a few minutes. I walk more slowly. I can’t be bothered with being in a hurry about anything. If there was a fire and I needed to run, I’d probably die. It really is the strangest thing.

And I wonder if I truly appreciated the things about my life I now carry grief for. Being able to hike rigorously up a rugged trail and then run back down. Always remembering someones name. Remembering where I was supposed to be and when without the aid of calendars and setting alarms. Having the desire to do hard things. Being able to get up and down off the floor easily. Touching my palms to the floor without bending my knees. Pain free days.

I think one of the things I have grief around is just knowing I’m on the short end of living. I’ve had 72 years to explore, experience, love, laugh, dance, and live. I’m way past the half way point and I’ve liked it a lot. It makes me sad to think about having wasted any of it, and I know I did. Now, I don’t want to waste any more of it but I have this new affinity for naps. And idleness has always felt wasteful to me.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, this girl, right now, is going to get up out of her chair and walk away from her computer and go look at the garden. We had some days of rain and now some sunshine. I’m just crazy to see some new sprouts come up out of the dirt. It’s not hard work, watching for that tell tale sign of a crack in the top of a mound that means underneath there is a seed that has opened and is sending forth new life.

And if anyone wants to judge me for being excited about it, so be it. I’m taking my kicks wherever I can find them these days. And I must say, when I see new life, I am in happiness. And I’ll take that too. Anywhere I can find it.

Before I go, I want to say that another thing that makes me happy is when I see new subscribers to this Substack page. THANK YOU to those of you who have signed up to see what’s next. And if you’ve signed up as a paid subscriber, it’s even more awesome given the fact it gives you nothing more than being here for free. Except knowing you are sharing what you have and showing support in a meaningful way. This is a community of connection and compassion and understanding and authenticity. I love being here. And I love having you be here too.

The gardens are calling and I don’t need a nap.

Thanks for listening. Maybe I just needed to speak it out loud. Maybe getting unstuck is just taking a little longer than it used to…

.

I’m still here. And still feel stuck. Still feeling pulled away from the keyboard. Still distracted by hummingbirds, crows, dogs, gardens, books to read, sunshine to enjoy.

I have typically been one to ‘push the river’. First sign of Spring and I’m planting beds and filling flower pots to add color to the deck for a few short weeks of use. Our weather patterns are so diabolically unpredictable right now. We never really had Winter in the sense of snow but we certainly had plenty of cold. We’re still having cold. Still having days that the nighttime low is below freezing and the daytime high is in the 50’s.

A few weeks ago, in March, we had gloriously warm days. Days that a sucker like me can be fooled into thinking it’s safe. Safe to plant seeds in rich soil and keep them moist. Safe to celebrate when the tiny little leaves push through the soil and begin to grow.

Miraculously, a beautiful bed of Arugula beat all the odds and two snow storms when they were about two inches tall to continue to flourish. Maybe it’s because they are planted in an old cast iron claw footed bath tub over a bed of gravel and the warmth absorbed during the day by the iron and the stones stayed in the dirt just enough to keep them alive.

Have you ever had the culinary pleasure of ‘thinning’ a bed of Arugula and turning the little sprouts into an early Spring salad? It’s heavenly.

But I digress. (I’m not sure from what, because I’m not really sure where this is even going. It just feels like a digression).

The warm weather in March would have been when the snows began to melt and the rivers began to swell. But there was no (very little) snow to be melted and we never noticed any kind of rise in the water levels. Trees have died because we are not used to needing to hook up hoses and water them in the Winter months. We lost one very beloved little Pine that volunteered to grow on a berm. One we had been loving along for 5 years. She was about 2’ tall. She’s still 2’ high but dead dead dead. I haven’t had the heart to pull it up. Because I believe in miracles.

I walk by my ‘potting benches’ almost daily. They sit in disuse and disarray awaiting my attention. And I have to force myself not to get too eager with planting pots that I cannot easily bring in each evening and put back out again each morning.

But I did notice on one pass-by, a tiny flash of color and found this little beauty hidden in the dried remains of one of last year’s deck pots.

Two weeks ago I was out walking in the yard and a hummingbird flew alongside my head for the briefest of moments. I always wait, in the Fall, until I haven’t seen or heard one for at least a week before pulling in the feeders and cleaning them for the final time to put them away in the shed. So when this little guy flew up to my ear to let me know he was back I knew we had to get the feeders out. The fruit trees had all bloomed early due to the warm March weather. That may have been what drew the Hummers back. I worried about them at night because it was still so cold but they are here now in full force and busy draining the feeders.

A hospice patient once said to me something about why she believed in God. And it’s a quote that I think belongs to someone but I can’t say who and I can’t remember exactly how it goes. So I’ll risk slaughtering it and say it has to do with believing in what you cannot see, because of all the things you can see.

I think I like that. I think the things I can see and do see are enough for me to know there is something so spectacularly good at work in our lives, something I cannot see, but don’t need to see in oder to believe. It gets me through.

Thanks for reading this ramble from the brambles of my yard. I’m right where I need to be and soon to be unstuck. I’ll post an update when I have one. Until then, blessings on us all as we put one foot in front of the other….

Abagail Thomas is someone whose writings I subscribe to on Substack. She is honest, raw, hugely artistic and often very funny. I never fail to open a Post when she makes one. I almost always make a comment or at least click the heart to show her I liked it.

Today she wrote about not being able to write. How clever is that? Pretty clever if you ask me. Which I realize no one did, but I’ll share my opinion anyway.

I miss being here. I believe as humans, we need to feel seen and connected and valuable to the health of our communities. Well, at least I need to. Especially in these times. And this is the way I do it. So when I have a ‘dry spell’, when I find myself with no words, no inspiration and nothing to say, it makes my life less than ideal. And trust me when I say there are already enough things happening in our lives that can do that.

Recently, working my way through Richard Osman’s Thursday Murder Club series, (Yes. Anything to lose myself in the land of fiction each night before I attempt sleep) I came across this quote, as the final sentence in one of his books. “I know it sounds silly, but I feel less alone when I write. So, thank you for keeping me company, whoever you might be.”

That really resonated with me. I realized that it’s what I miss about writing. Feeling connected. Feeling less alone. As a writer, it’s what I need to do. And when I am not doing it, I am not feeding nor being fed. It’s almost like I’m not participating in my life. Or in yours.

We live a rather isolated life, Greg and Toby and I. We have neighbors but they are as isolated as we are and most of them live in this sweet little hamlet of No Name because we like our space.

But, it can be lonely and I miss the interaction of posting things on Substack. I miss the community of those who read these posts.

So, in the beautiful words of ‘Joyce’, thank you for keeping me company, whoever you might be. I promise I’m still here and so grateful for each one you.

And just to plug a recent You Tube piece, if you haven’t watched the one we did with Stephanie Ford, please do. Her creative juices are probably more than enough to make up for the current lack of my own!!

Until next time, which hopefully will be very soon, stay well. Stay hopeful. Stay engaged and stay true.

Love Sean

Because I have acquired a real grown up desk, I needed to dispose of some old metal file cabinets. File cabinets that had quietly accumulated over 20 years of forgotten paperwork. It turns out there are very few things we actually need, any longer, to keep paper copies of. But no one told me. So I’ve continued to stuff every receipt, every statement, every newspaper article (the ones I’m saving for a rainy day to read), every full check register, every canceled check, and everything I’ve ever written in the past 30 years into mis-marked, unmarked and the rare correctly marked hanging folders in these old (and might I say unattractive) file cabinets. I think you can get the drift of what a mountainous project this has created.

Of course, some people would be able to take armloads of things and dispose of them without even a momentary hesitation that there might be something of value in there.

I, am not one of those people.

I have needed to touch every single piece of paper before it goes either in the shred to recycle box, the use-again-in-the-printer pile (Because one side is blank) or the ‘bonfire’ box because it contains sensitive and potentially harmful information Every. Single. One.

Now, touching them with a cursory glance at what it is, is one thing. But I will find delicious pieces of writing that take me to another time in my life. I feel like this is an almost unsurmountable task because some days I don’t get through even one hanging folder.

Today I found a small spiral notebook. As I flipped through the pages reading various notes made at various times I found a small list of stories I wanted to remember to write about. And this ‘note to self’; “Write a chapter on trusting your intuition’”

I suppose we learn to trust our gut because we have had successful experiences doing so.

This is a story about one of those times.

Barbara was a beautifully exotic woman. She lived at the dead end of a street at the very edge of a town. She was not old or young. Just somewhere in the middle. Her husband was a foreigner from a South American country. He was dark and just as beautifully exotic as Barbara. Their small home was filled with treasures from all around the world. Exquisite examples of cultural artistry and color.

When I made my first visit to their home I met her husband briefly but then spent an hour or more talking with, and listening to, Barbara. She was nearing the end of her life and openly willing to talk about everything that had come prior and what she hoped was coming after.

Our conversation that day was rich and honest. She answered every question with thoughtful truth and humor. So much so that when I left her that day, I felt like I had a new friend. That happened a lot to me when I worked in Hospice. Eventually it starts to feel like dying friends can be dangerous friends to collect. Because it creates a steady stream of grieving the loss of what ‘could have been’.

But I digress.

So back to Barbara. I can’t remember now how long she was on service. But I’ll always remember her death. She had one of those tumors that can cause death by rupturing something that causes a person’s body to suddenly drain itself of fluids. We had tried to prepare her husband what it would look like and what he would need to do. We had an almost unlimited number of clean hand towels and bath towels folded up in piles lining their bedroom wall.

The morning I got the call that she had died, there were two nurses already in attendance at the home. They asked if I could come because they were trying desperately to clean everything as much as possible before the husband came back from the store. He had gone to buy candles.

When I arrived, Barbara was lying on the pillows of her bed and looked pale but radiant. Her death had been what we had feared. Hopefully her husband felt prepared, but really, no one can be prepared for what that looks like.

The washer and dryer were in full swing. There was a ceiling fan over the bed and we sprinkled essential oils on the tops of the blades and turned it on high. Even though it was late in the Winter the room was wide open. Every window was as open as it could be and the scent was finally beginning to be tolerable.

While we worked, the three of us talked about our relationships with Barbara and all the things we had loved about her and the things we’d learned from her.

When her husband came back I met him at the door and took the bag of candles, made him a cup of tea and settled him in a comfy chair. I told him Barbara was almost ready for him to see her again and he smiled and thanked me. Because we had bathed her and had not dressed her yet, I asked him if he had any thoughts about what she might like to leave the house in. He said no, that we should just go into their closet and choose.

So, here is where things began to happen. Their closet was a huge walk-in and her clothes were delicious items of fabulous deep, rich colors, and materials as though she had shopped all over the world. We chose a vibrant floor length peasant skirt in many colors, a peasant blouse and a long colorful head scarf.

When we brought her husband in, Barbara was clean and beautifully dressed, her hands folded sweetly outside the clean linens on their bed and she was holding three flowers from an arrangement that had been in the room. We left him with her and told him we’d be in the living room and to let us know when he felt ready to have us call the funeral home.

Several months later, I attended a ceremony to celebrate her life. We were along a wild stretch of river in a flat area. There was a small Altar table set up near the waters edge and in front of it was a poster of Barbara. It was a blown up photograph of her from a cruise they’d been on years before. She was dancing and looking straight at the camera, smiling, as she twirled. It was a full body shot, head to toe and she was wearing exactly, from head to toe, the outfit we had chosen for her to leave the house in.

I stood transfixed with shiver bumps up and down my arms. I looked at her smiling face and just knew that her Spirit had been in that closet with us. That she had directed us to that outfit and that she was now saying “Thank you”.

We never hesitated to choose what we chose. And it didn’t take us long at all. We saw each item and knew it was right. We trusted ourselves and we trusted the process. And we trusted our unseen guide.

So, when you feel something strongly, in your gut, trust it. We are not alone in this journey. And, intuition is important communication.

I have asked Sonja Linman to again be a guest on an episode of Where the Veil Grows Thin in an effort to find some bridge building materials in these times of deconstruction. Some glue to hold together small sticks and stones. Some real estate for the foundational footing of hope. Sonja and I easily share what our truth is in any given moment. This posting is a teaser to let you know something is coming. And an invitation to please join us.

Recently my personal truth has been a highly emotionally charged exercise of clearing. Clearing out. Clearing away. Creating space. The activity of purging almost 20 years worth of papers, files, bank statements and amassed clutter.

It’s been an opening of space with no clearly defined need for what will take its place. I hope nothing. I hope the space created becomes a pathway to actually feeling, in a deeply personal and therapeutic way, the grief I have unknowingly carried and accumulated over a lifetime of compassion. Grief that never was mine to carry. It just kind of got lost in the cauldron and became part of me.

Please join me soon, in the next week or so, for the podcast episode Sonja and Ben and I will tape on the 18th. Let’s find a way to shift our responses to the day to day drama into reflecting a rebirthing, a new way of holding hope and a new way of healing from the trauma of being human.

Until then, carry on. Make every attempt to infuse, with honor, goodness and light, the sorrows that come your way. Sit with, and alongside, the things that feel heavy and we will talk about ways to rise and walk away; ways to release back to the water, the energies you find yourself ready to release.

Be mindful of what you practice.

This is Sean Jeung for Where the Veil Grows Thin. I hope you’ll continue to come alongside these ramblings and to find something of value along the way.

And, please feel free to invite your friends along for the ride. I promise to practice good driving…

I wrote once about how life can change literally in the blink of an eye. And then I asked Siri, “On average, how many times a day do we human blink?” She said between 15-20,000. Which means there are anywhere from 15-20,000 moments in each day for our world, as we have comfortably come to know it, to be, metaphorically, blown to bits.

When that happens it often means there’s been a tragedy. Someone has died. Unexpectedly. Sometimes, naturally and sometimes violently. ‘Snatch aways’ are what I call them, these losses. When someone is here, and then in an instant, they are not.

Even in expected deaths, when someone is very old or has been suffering from a life limiting illness, we can feel disturbingly surprised when they die, as though we didn’t really think it was going to happen.

But when we kiss a child good-bye for a school day or we leave for work like we have thousands of times before, assuming, as we are prone to do, that whoever we are leaving will see us and we will see them when we return, but then that does not happen, what do we do with the strange uneasy numbness that follows? How do we move through the unfairness of having to continue life with such enormous emptiness?

There is a void that opens within us that is invisible to anyone else. A hole so huge we might feel at risk of being swallowed alive. We move more slowly. We have a blank look on our face. We fall apart easily. We have very little control over our bodies or our minds. It is a time of great danger when we suffer losses that leave us feeling like this. It’s a critically important time to be part of a village, a tribe, or a family. A circle of fellow humans who will protect us and protect others from us.

For some fellow Americans, this may resonate as a state of our lives currently. A numbness that what is happening in our country is really and truly happening. A disbelief that it is true. Whatever it is.

And because we love our country, we feel the loss deeply. We feel the sorrow, deeply. And we suffer, deeply, the effects of this loss. Many of us feel ourselves consumed by the latest reports of whatever sensations the news has to offer.

And, then, a friend dies. Not due to the actions or inactions of another person. Just dies. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Unfairly. And the grief is immediate. The numbness comes quickly to those nearest and dearest whoever has died. And what do we then do? Those of us in the outer circle of the inner circle of this person’s life.

We rally round.

We extend a hand. We bring food to feed arriving family. We make beds and entertain children and walk the family dog. We set up meal trains and bank accounts. We build a kind of fort around their home in an effort to protect those within its walls who are most fragile and most vulnerable to further harm. We do our own mourning privately. Because, unless we are the immediate nearest and dearest, I am of the opinion that we have no right to publicly display our sorrow. Whatever comforts there are to be offered, belong to those most impacted.

But, we can comfort one another.And we need to comfort one another. We need strong tribes of heart centered connection. We need to become more comfortable with saying aloud, “I love you” before we hang up or part ways with those we care for. And in the larger community of our lives, we need to do the same thing. We need to acknowledge our appreciation for those we share community with and those we share a neighborhood with. In our actions and in our words.

In the middle of all that is happening globally every day, there are snatch away losses in intimate detail happening in every neighborhood. Little personal tragedies that will isolate us and alienate us if we aren’t paying attention.

The next time you feel moved to harshly judge another’s actions or behavior remember that maybe they are carrying something unseen by anyone else. Maybe they have gotten lost in the darkness of a grief never honored, never recognized, never expressed. Maybe they are in the middle of one that very moment.

Naomi Shihab Nye, in her poem, Kindness, says that “before we can know the tender gravity of kindness, we must first travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road”. That in order to know kindness we must lose all manner of things and know what it is to wake up with sorrow every morning.

It isn’t reasonable to expect that every hurtful, inexplicable unkindness experienced on our streets right now can be chalked up to the idea that we are a country populated by the ‘walking wounded’. I certainly don’t mean to simplify whatever the ravages are that haunt those who wield their power in outrageous and harmful ways but we all have the power to change the tide of negativity and fear.

It can begin with writers that write. Pushing aside all the reasons not to, and doing it anyway. It can begin with voices that will not be silenced.

Even in death.

I laugh at the term ‘open concept’ when I hear people fantasizing about their perfect home. I suppose it’s because I spend too much time thinking of my body as my home. After all, it kind of is. And I’ve created lots of little rooms where I can put things. The thought of ‘open concept’ makes me laugh because I just see all those rooms with no walls and all the ‘stuff’ mixed up and tumbling around in there together. Utter clutter and chaos.

When I think of someone as having blinders on around a particular subject, it isn’t really that they don’t see it. It’s probably more like they have built a room for it. And they’ve tucked it in. Maybe nailed the door shut. But it’s there. Everything, is there. Every experience, thought, injury, joy, Every moment.

I’m not sure where this thought came from but in grief work I almost always talk about building a room with an altar, inside your body. There’s also comforting benefit from building altars in our ‘other’ homes. The home we live in with our pets and our beloveds. The ones with solid walls and roofs. I have an altar in the corner of our bedroom. I’ve shared it on here before (Hidden Treasures, October 8, 2024) and in the Spirit of not having you look for it, (on the off chance you would) I’ll share a photo of it again.

It is a visual reminder to me of lost loved ones and I treasure the things that are on it. (The round wooden box is what the original piece was written about).

Rosemerry Wahtolah Trommer first introduced me to the idea of building rooms inside ourselves through her exquisite poetry around grief. Building a room that is the most beautiful room ever. One that has windows that always have sunlight pouring through. Or skylights that fill the room with moonlight. The colors and textures of the room are soft and welcoming. It is a place to keep memories of anything that’s been lost. Good memories. Comforting memories. Happy memories. A room that goes everywhere we do and one that is always accessible. The door has no lock and there is a soft downy daybed where I can lie down and recalibrate. Where I can go to be reminded of the love that is alive in the memories.

It helps me move forward after significant loss. I know there is no such thing as ‘closure’. As, ‘getting over’ it. But building an altar helps me feel completed enough in my relationship to what was lost that I can move back out into the world, knowing that I can revisit the loss when I need to or want to and that it’s always safe within me.

As I was writing this, I looked around the loft where our computers sit, always idly waiting for fingers on keyboards. And I see so many small ‘wall altars’. Little treasures that hold memories and stories of love. Not necessarily loss. But I have begun to see them differently. To look and remember why they were worthy of being displayed..…where they came from and who they came from.

These ‘things’ have meaning. Sometimes, only to us, but that’s enough. And when it feels as though something that once held meaning to me can be re-homed, gifted to someone else, it helps me to share that meaning with the person it is going to. Completion. What happens beyond that, I have no attachment to. It isn’t necessary for the person receiving it to have the same connection to it but it does help them understand why I’m gifting them with it.

This new way of being with things I’ve loved or treasured makes gifting things to others, so easy. Shopping at home. De-cluttering rooms. Lightening the load, should I predecease anyone. Because no one else would know why that thing was important to me.

I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole. This was not where I was headed but it is where I have landed.

It is a beautiful Winter day here in Colorado and the sun is calling me. Also, I have some gifts to wrap……..and some stories to share.

Until next time,

Love, Sean

I started this year by staying up until Midnight playing cards with friends (unheard of in recent years) and then staying awake until 3 AM reading a book Shelby had given me. She said she knew I would like it and she was so so right.

I don’t make a habit of telling people what to read. Even if I think ‘you really should’. Just because I soaked my pillows through and through in the final pages of Shelby Van Pelt’s book, Remarkably Bright Creatures, it certainly doesn’t give me license to expect anyone else might be moved to tears (and laughter) by this incredibly thoughtful, beautifully written, touching story.

The next night, I picked up Catherine Newman’s, Sandwich, and the same thing happened. I stayed up way past what might be considered an appropriate time to go to sleep given the fact that we have dogs who have never taken my need for more sleep into consideration when they get up at the first inkling of light in the sky.

Jason Buchholz’s recently published second novel, The Cartographer of Sands, is another book that took hold of me in the first pages. I am not used to being a day time reader. For decades I was too busy in the day time to even think about ‘sitting down with a good book’. In recent months, since my retirement in June, I find myself making a cup of tea and sitting in the recliner by the window. I love to read by natural light. When I find a book that calls to me in the middle of the day, it’s hard for me to concentrate on anything else. It doesn’t happen that often. Jason’s first book, A Paper Son, did the same thing.

These are all novels. They are fiction. Non-fiction shaped my life for so many years. Studying child development, family systems, end of life, grief. The books I devoured during those years were treasures; vast vaults of information and education. And important in the work I was doing. But at night, when I would need to read just a little something like a ‘beach book’ I often ended up doing a crossword puzzle instead because I found it might take months to finish a book. I could rarely stay awake long enough to read more than a couple of pages. Now, I have the time to read and I want to be invited into someone else’s way of navigating life. And, truth be told, I want to escape the sometimes harrowing reality of our world right now.

I have always believed that fiction has to come from somewhere and even if it comes from a writer’s imagination, the writer’s ability to imagine comes from somewhere and true life experiences are in there. What I love about these books is their authors’ ability to build relationships among their characters. And when the ‘characters’ are not all human, it is even richer.

What a wondrous thing it must be to have an imagination so creative and deeply thoughtful that you can bring other living things to life. Animals. Trees. Rivers. Desert sands. And to then weave them into true relationship with the human characters in the story.

I love to read a good story. I love to be moved to laughter and tears when I read. I am grateful to the above authors for providing me the opportunity to immerse myself in their creative juices and be so thoroughly entertained.

I’m not necessarily suggesting anyone else might read them…..but……then again, you could be missing out on something really great.

That’s all for today.

I have a book to finish reading.

Beginning with Thanksgiving through the end of the year, my Mom’s spirit is strongly present. It was her favorite time of the year and I don’t remember ever hearing her complain about all the additional work it created for her to, in turn, transform our house into a Holiday wonderland.

For some reason the past year has found me managing my own energy in ways that are new to me. It began with choosing this year to have a small intimate Thanksgiving. I’m not sure we’ll do that again. I think we both missed the gathering of so many beloveds around that particular shared meal. But one side effect I enjoyed was that I found I had the energy to drag ALL the Christmas bins up from the basement. It didn’t matter that on the actual day of Christmas it would be just the two of us, what mattered was creating the Spirit of Christmas. What mattered was opening the boxes and being flooded with memories. Choosing which things to hang from a tree whose branches could never accommodate everything there was to choose from.

I am in awe of my mom for not drowning us all in a bathtub. There were eventually 5 of us. The first three coming in less than three years. My dad was a full-time student with a full time job. So was my mom if you stop to consider that nothing could have prepared her for 3 babies in less than 3 years before she was 25 years old. It would be just a bit much for anyone. So she was in on-the-job training to be a parent and I now know, her work truly was never done.

She loved the holidays. In the stories I wrote about her dying time I talk about a big two story bare bones doll house that became the focus of her energy. She needed to see it ‘made right’. In other words, as she eventually explained, that meant seeing it painted and fully decorated for the Holidays. A request we made happen over a period of months. When it was finished, so was she. But that’s all in the other stories.

What had me thinking about her so much this year was how just doing the things I knew I wanted to do, I was pooped. Getting all the bins from the basement, putting up the tree, designing the villages and the nativities and making it all look so beautiful. Meanwhile, when I needed to sit, I’d write a few cards to get in the mail. Then I’d go back to the decorating. Or baking spiced pecans to give to friends and neighbors. Or cleaning up after myself. (I am a very messy elf)

What I did not do, was care for the needs of five kids at the same time as doing all that other stuff. Or the needs of even one. I honestly don’t know how those of you who do it, can do it and not lose your minds. I don’t remember my mom ever making us feel like we were a lot of work. She never made us feel like her life would be easier if she could just focus on the things that brought her joy.

Because, we were what brought joy. Her enthusiasm and brightness for the Holidays came to life when she started her family. Making the holidays fun and festive and special for us is what made her so happy. And that is something I can relate to.

I only got to have one child. I don’t talk a lot about Shelby in these posts. I don’t think she’d like that. Even if she is one of the funniest, most thoughtful, smartest and most beautiful people I know. She’ll be 40 on her next birthday. But, she will never get too old for me to not take delight in doing things that bring a smile to her face. And Shelby and her husband Kris were coming Christmas Eve for dinner. So, as much as I may often wonder aloud how my mom ever did all that did and made it look easy, I guess I do kind of understand how. Bringing joy to the ones we love, creates more joy. It’s that simple.

Mothering is a term often used in a loving way, sometimes in a smothering way. I get that, too. Maybe that’s why the two words are so close to each other. However, smothering, is not mothering. Smothering is depriving someone of oxygen. Mothering is providing oxygen. Just to be clear.

I can’t imagine my life as anything other than a mother. It defines me more than anything else I’ve ever done. It has brought an unparalleled richness and depth to my life.

So, even if there was no one else who would be delighted to see the Spirit of the Season alive and well in our home, I would do it for myself. Because it makes me happy too. And it brings memories of my mom alive.

Fortunately, I have Greg and Shelby and Kris to share that joy with for now..

I hope this finds anyone listening or reading, in good health and in a peaceful home. I know the Holidays are brutally difficult for untold numbers of people. Especially people in the throes of grief. Missing someone we love is hard enough. Missing them during the Holidays is barely bearable. They are over now. The Bell Ringers are gone from the front of the grocery stores, the overwhelm of sugar has been wiped from our counter tops, the additional pounds on our waistlines can now be addressed and hopefully, and I mean this with all my heart, hopefully the Holidays brought a least some new memories that can be enjoyed throughout the year.