Beauty and My Mother

 My mother left this world behind 16 years ago, but I began this day solidly in her presence. She was here with me while I sat and talked with my husband about the day ahead of us and about our children. Her smiling, enraptured presence stayed by my side as we enjoyed Patricia Ballentine’s presentation, “The History and Magical Practice of Beauty.”

In the last months of her life, mom seemed to open herself to seeking beauty and expressing her interest in it as she never had before. Of course, I must acknowledge that she may have been like that at other times in her life that I didn’t recognize or see. When I was a small child she loved purple, and she loved cranberry glass. I remember her pastel pink jewelry box and the lipstick she wore when she was going to meetings or a party. Later, she loved oil lamps and making crafts with my dad. But towards the end, the search for beauty was more personal and more of what she wanted for herself.

I first noticed this with her deep interest in the television show “How I Met Your Mother.”
What really held her attention were the wardrobe choices for Alyson Hannigan’s character. Mom spent all of her life buying inexpensive clothes, most of which could double as work clothes. She chose tee-shirt style tops; casual, loose-fitting elastic waist pants with pockets; and simple jersey dresses with pockets as well. But all of a sudden, she was interested in fashion, and commented about how she would like this or that piece that “Lily” was wearing, and didn’t Alyson look beautiful in that outfit?

While I recognized that I was seeing something different in my mother, it took me years to understand that she had been expressing pieces of her own healing journey even as she knew she was moving closer to dying. Perhaps it was that knowledge of imminent freedom that released her from the childhood and lifetime hurts that caused her to stifle her sense of self-expression and her longing for beauty.

I would give nearly anything to have more time with her, and I am grateful for the effort she makes to share herself with me now.

There were not enough yesterdays held dearly in the there and then. Jean Marie Hill Barker, b. December 25, 1938, d. March 9, 2008.

At various times during my life, I thought my mother didn't love me; I couldn't stand her; she was my best friend; she was annoying, funny, cute, and horrible, but I needed her, and she needed me.

For most of our lives together, we did not understand each other because we did not know how to communicate. We never really fixed the communication part, but during the last 27 weeks of her life, we somehow began to understand each other. What a gift.

Hey Bean. I see you now with my heart instead of my eyes, and these years later, oh how you shine with true beauty! I miss you as much as ever, more than ever, and not at all because I carry you with me.

Photo: my mom with her mother in a photo booth at Sylvan Beach, mid-to-late 1950s. Jeannie and June. 

The False Narrative: The Need for Forgiveness in Order to Heal

The False Narrative: The Need for Forgiveness in Order to Heal

The path to healing from trauma and grief is deeply personal and can be fraught with contradictions and confusion.

I have carried a great deal of anger surrounding the circumstances of my youngest daughter’s life challenges and death. Her mental illnesses and addiction issues took her into terrible circumstances and into contact with some horrible people. Over the years she shared details of some soul shattering experiences with me, and after she died I received confirmation about the worst betrayal of them all.

It has been my experience that many people do not have any idea how truly bad life can be right here in America. I don’t want to share those horrible stories here or anywhere else, but I will say that the cringe-worthy, frightening, nauseating kind of things you see in movies or read in novels or social media posts really do happen to people you know and to people who live in your community. Making that statement isn’t a quest for drama, nor is it an exaggeration. There are monsters in this world, and most of them are human.

There are many victims of those events and those monsters; the individuals who experience them, their families and friends, the communities that absorb the impact, the EMTs, the police officers, the social workers, the emergency room personnel, the detectives who work countless hours to build a case. The list goes on and on, moving out in endless ripples that create small waves for some and tsunamis for others.

In the midst of all that overwhelming motion, victims are often told that they should forgive the person who caused the harm. They are told that forgiveness is the only path to peace, that in order to heal, to move on, to become whole, they must forgive the offender. And if the offender has found religion, found Jesus or Odin or the Divine in any form, the victim especially must forgive them and welcome their presence in community.

I had been hearing that call for forgiveness for 50 years, and after Beth’s death I wanted to believe it because I wanted to finally move away from the pain her years of suffering had caused. I was willing to grab hold of whatever seemed like a viable means to do that. Three years after her death, three years of feeling and processing and thinking, I have come to a point where I call bullshit on the topic of forgiveness as a means to healing.

There are times when forgiving someone may be a healthy thing to do, as when persons in a healthy, balanced relationship have a serious conflict or disagreement and then come to a resolution of the matter. There are times when an individual’s faith allows forgiveness to bring peace. But there are times when forgiveness is a toxic tool, the use of which is driven by misperception, laziness, selfishness, and power imbalances present in outdated patriarchal religious, legal, and community systems.

Who benefits from forgiveness, overall? What falsehoods are behind that mask? Sometimes victims are urged to forgive an offender because it makes it easier for everyone else to move on with their lives, and because the existence of their pain and trauma is an inconvenience to others. Harm caused creates an imbalance that is felt as an energetic negative. Individuals and communities, consciously or subconsciously, perceive that imbalance as a debt that must be paid to restore wholeness to the individual and to the collective. The presence of that debt is, consciously or subconsciously, discomforting and disturbing, and so the whole presses for balance to be restored to itself above the needs of the individual victim. Salving the conscience of the people who cause harm or those who are made uncomfortable by anger and grief should never be made the burden of the person who has been wronged or injured.

The act of forgiveness implies that a debt has been settled or released, and the suggestion that the victim must release the offender from that debt creates an unnecessary burden on the one who has been wronged. It creates a false narrative that forces the victim to give yet another thing to someone who has already stolen things of immeasurable value, and creates a disturbing cosmic sense of the balance of debts owed and paid. Furthermore, there are circumstances in which any debt owed by an offender is owed at a level beyond human constructs; when the injury caused is so grievous a matter that the debt created is held by the Divine, and so the matter of forgiveness becomes a matter between the offender and their own Divine.

Contained within the grief of losing someone are multiple boxes. One box holds anger and all the other negative feelings directed towards the external factors that influenced a loved one’s death. Another box holds all the questions that can never be answered, all the regrets and unspoken or unaccepted apologies, and all the misunderstandings and miscommunications that were never quite sorted out. But there is also a box that holds the love, the happy memories, and the hopeful dream of one more sunset, one more conversation, one more smile somewhere on the other side.

Comes a time, and it is different for each person, when one realizes that the weight of what is held within that negative box is overwhelming, that its presence causes weariness, that one cannot rise against its pull. With that realization comes the choice to be made: which box makes life better? Which one is worth carrying? Which one is it time to put down?

It is possible to experience compassion without forgiveness. It is possible to have an understanding of circumstances without forgiveness. It is possible and healthy to focus on healing one’s self without carrying the responsibility of healing others, and forgiveness is not a necessary step on that path.

Solstice Day

I woke in the darkness this morning, and before my eyes were even all the way open I could feel the shifting energy of the approaching Solstice. This is the shortest day of the year before the return of the Light and there is a thread of expectent delight weaving itself through everything I move through today. 

I sat in the darkness of the living room for a couple of hours; I did some meditation, my morning prayers, an internal inventory, and then I just listened to Rhodes breathing down the hall, and to the Cottage breathing all around me. 

Although it is cloudy here today, I longed to be out of doors, so I lured my adventure partner out of our warm bed and down the road, seeking. We had a brilliant adventure, sharing views, conversation, music, and a thermos mug of hot mint tea. The Sun, Himself, made a few appearances through thinning cloud cover; bright and brilliant and confident as ever in His ability to shine. 

When Rhodes and I finally wound our way back down the road and home we went for a walk around the Cottage grounds, checking the plants and trees and our plans for the future. I was amused to learn that we have the same plan to build a rock seating wall around the Eastern Red Cedar in the North yard sometime down the road. 

This afternoon I am kitchen witching in the sweetest way, filling the house with memories and love of my Mom, my Grandmother, and the Great Gramma Lewis I don't remember at all. It is her sugar cookie recipe that made one of the most magical parts of the Christmas holiday happen in my Mother's kitchen and at the dining room table.

I don't think it is a secret that my mother was not a very good cook. Whether she was locked into simplicity by the demands of feeding seven children, or had no interest in culinary exploration, family legend says (and my mother herself confirmed this) that when she and my father first married she actually burned a pan when trying to boil water. I don't recall things improving much over the course of my childhood.

But Christmas cookies? Oh, man, that was her shining time of year. I have no recollection of how many batches of cookies she made, but during my early years the list was always the same: mincemeat cookies, pumpkin cookies, oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies (always pressed so prettily with a fork to make a cross-hatch!), chocolate chip cookies, and sugar cookies (rolled and cut with cookie cutters into stockings, stars, trees, angels, and santas).

She made so many cookies at one time that she mixed the cookie dough in her biggest cooking pot, and I can remember the first time I was allowed to help. I had to sit on our wooden high chair with no tray on it at the kitchen counter because I couldn't reach. She taught me how to use a spoon to cream the sugar into the shortening, and let me find out on my own just exactly how nasty vanilla extract tastes right out of the bottle. My favorite part of the making was using the flour sifter. She helped me to carefully measure the flour into the sifter, and then had to help me turn the little crank handle because I couldn't get it started myself. I was fascinated by that process, and when she said we had to do that two more times I was excited.

I don't know how she had the patience, or even the time, to teach me to set the sifter into another bowl, and carefully scoop the once sifted flour back into it; then repeating the process again with the other dry ingredients added. "Go slow. Go slow, or it will fly all over the place." And she laughed at me the first time that it did.

I don't remember actually doing so, but I know we were allowed to help decorate the sugar cookies. If we all participated, that would have been 7 kids turned loose with colored frosting and sprinkles and cinnamon red hots (I do remember that I loved to press those into warm sugar cookies, they looked so pretty) and some years those really pretty little silver balls.

I'm setting the stage for that magic today, baking Gramma Lewis' sugar cookies to decorate with Katie, Justin, and Emily tomorrow. I'll make the icing in the morning, and the bottles of sprinkles will be all lined up and ready to go. 

If you find yourself in need of a real sugar cookie this holiday season, come on by. I'm happy to share the magic!

Solstice blessings to you, my family and friends! May the returning Sun warm your body as it warms the body of the earth, and may the returning light fill your heart and spirit with joy and hope. Blessed be!

Morning Routine

I am out of bed early these days, whether or not I have slept. I am re-learning the power of being true to my body's natural rhythms; for me that includes being up and productive before sunrise. My creative energy flows best in the early hours, and I love the inherent promises imbedded in the arrival of each new day.

I've just been outside to greet the rising Sun. Today He is dressed in long gray robes that flow down from the sky to drape the mountains that surround me. The rain that is falling is cold on my skin; the jellycoat I love to wear for warmth is not exactly water repellent but I have never minded the rain.

There is enough of a breeze to blow the rain onto our narrow front porch and to cause the rain chains to sway in a little morning dance, and I find myself moving with them in the soft ages-old dance of every woman who has ever held a child on her hip. I love the plink-plink-plink sound of water flowing down the chains, through the lotus cups, and down the chains again. I settle into one of the front porch chairs, my hands and fingers kept warm by my favorite mug holding my currently favorite tea.

It would be easy in this time of year to forget about the land that holds the Cottage and focus on indoor projects only. Days are often cold and wet; going outside often requires bundling up and putting on my wellies. Most green things are tucked away for the cold and dark days, held safe in the body of the Mother where she will either consume or nourish them, so it seems like there wouldn't be much to see. But the getting acquainted with my land and the land spirits who dwell here doesn't stop with the turning of the seasons; neither does growing a relationship nor educating myself about the terra, flora, and fauna for which I have accepted stewardship. Rising before dawn, the first cup of tea, going outside to walk the land or breath fresh air, to check in with the land as I start my day - these things are part of the routine that are necessary to my healing journey.

On this soft gray morning I watch the way the water runs down our driveway. I see where it cuts across the stones into the Cottage Garden and note that I will have to consult my Chief Engineer about doing something to re-route it there. I carry my mug to the end of the porch and stand leaning against the railing, watching to see how the water moves around the lavender bed and I am content with the dispersed flow through the river rocks piled there. The statue of three little bears makes me smile, as it always does. I affirm our plan to put a rain barrel in under the downspout on the corner of the North Wing, and make a note to check out the South and back yards for rain barrel placement as well. Creating plans for the future helps me to feel grounded in the Here and Now.

I move back to the other end of the porch to sit for a while longer, and am pleased to hear the morning bird chorus start its song. First one, then another, then another joins in. They call back and forth to each other as they work to sing the Sun into the sky. From where I sit, the plink-plink sounds of the rain chain provide an under-rhythm to the combined sounds of falling rain and bird song. In this moment, everything feels right. I carry the fluid grace and soft energy of this day into the house with me, back to my desk, and into my healing process.

Peace out, people.

The Winter of My Soul

Funny how long it takes to settle things in a home. In the moving-in process it was necessary to dump all of my stuff - writing materials, books, paintings and paint supplies, craft materials and materia magicae (sorry, Mr. Gray! 37 years out of Latin classes with you and I just don't remember as well as I should!) - onto the surface of the repurposed kitchen table which is now my desk, and envision it all perfect in just a week or two. In reality, although it has been functional for a while now, it took five months to get everything in just the right place.

Earlier this week I was doing the final sorting out, prompted by the need to create an easily accessible morning altar space. This process included going through an impressive stack of notebooks and journals and, because I have lost the ability to stay on task, I found myself reading through each one of them. At the bottom of the stack I found the journal I started when I realized I was in the Winter of My Soul.

Nearly two years ago, close to the end of the first year of life without my youngest daughter in this world, I wrote about wishing I could take a sabbatical for six months or a year. Mostly, I said, I wanted to get away and rest and renew my spirit. I wrote these words:

     "I have alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow          down, cannot move fast enough..."

I tried for a while to turn inward with the season. I tried to tend to my own needs, my own healing. I was successful for a short time, but then I let life get in the way. I allowed the expectations and distraction of other people and society to turn me away from dealing with the grief that threatened to consume me. In doing so I shut down all awareness that it was wearing away at me from the inside out.

Events in my life in the past year stripped away all those distractions, and those of you who know me best probably know that I severed the ties of expectations and obligation. While those life changes were immensely liberating and have opened doors of opportunity, they have left me standing face-to-face with the grief that is still raw in wounds that are wide open. This has not been an easy journey, and it is nowhere near complete. I have once again alternately felt as though I am lost, drowning, overwhelmed, cannot breathe, cannot slow down, cannot move fast enough.

A couple of weeks ago I made the decision to follow the seasons in the Turning of the Wheel of the Year, and to turn more deeply inward than I have ever done. To the marrow of my bones I know that it is the right thing for me to do.

When I found that journal yesterday I rediscovered a writing that woke a truth within me the first time I read it, and I read it out loud again as a prayer:

     "When winter comes to a woman's soul, she withdraws into her inner self, her deepest spaces. She refuses all connection, refutes all arguments that she should engage in the world. She may say she is resting, but she is more than resting: She is creating a new universe within herself, examining and breaking old patterns, destroying what should not be revived, feeding in secret what needs to thrive." ~ Patricia Monaghan, Season of the Witch

It is time for me to embrace that truth, and to live in each moment of this season. Self-aware, self-exploring, healing, learning, and turned as deeply inward as I can possibly go. I do not fear the darkness anymore than I fear the light.

I am living The Winter of My Soul.

The Autumn Equinox - Balance in All Things

I am an intuitive person, and as a writer and a spiritual practitioner I have long embraced that aspect of myself. Intuition carries me to the deepest, most magical, brightest, darkest places of thought and emotion and connection in my life. It connects me to my muses, to my Divines, to the people and places I most love. It is my strongest protection, the internal compass that guides me along paths both troubled and happy.

Somehow, in the past year, I have been living Harry Dresden moments. Somehow, in the past year, some Thing dropped a rock wall between my Spirit/Mind and my Intuition. Somehow, despite the hours of therapy and hours of consult and hours of conversation with friends, I could not see that rock wall. It has been crumbling for a while, and occasionally the light breaks through, but I just didn’t realize that it was there. (Side note to catch you up if you need it: No Dresden spoilers here, if you haven’t read the books yet, but the rock wall dropping Thing in my life was simply the ultimate realization of Grief.)

Not long after I woke this morning, I went out on the porch to greet the rising Sun on this holy day of Mabon, the Autumn Equinox. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the warm touch of sunlight, relaxing into a soft meditation. When I opened my eyes again the first thing I noticed was the shining little rows of dewdrops lining the porch railing. My eyes moved from there to the row of sunflowers in front of me, and I noticed how brilliant their color is with the morning sun shining through them. I saw the dew glistening on their leaves, and then I noticed the same with the tall standing corn. Those long green leaves were covered with dew, and as my eyes moved up the stalks, I saw dew drops on the tips of the silks, and even on the tassels.

I was simply enjoying this visual nature show at face value, which would have been a marvelous start to my day. Then the bird chorus started their song, singing the Sun into the sky with their rising chorus. My ears woke up then, and I heard the oddest background rhythm; it was the steady plink, plink, plink sound of dripping water. I wondered if the hose was leaking, and as I stood to look over the edge of railing into the South yard, the rain chain caught my attention.

The dew this morning was so heavy that it was pooling in the flower-shaped cups of the rain chain. I sat back down and watched with delight as fat, round droplets of water ran down the copper lines of the chain, catching diamond points of light from the Sun.

It was magical. It was magical and it woke something inside me; it pushed another section of that rock wall over and next thing I knew I was inside getting a bottle to harvest the Equinox dew. I tried catching it out of the copper cups but just couldn’t get it. My eyes wandered back to the broad, smooth surface of the corn stalk leaves, and then the rest of me wandered that way as well, down the steps and around the corner until I was standing in front of the corn. I did manage to get a few drops of dew into the bottle, but I knew in that moment that was not really what I was supposed to be doing and I put the bottle into my pocket.

My feet were on the Earth on this Holy Day. I closed my eyes and grounded myself deeply, until I felt the roots of my being mingling with the roots of the corn, and the roots of the sunflowers, and the roots of the Loblolly Pine standing tall in the yard. I used my hands to gather the dew from the leaves of the corn plant, and as I did that a soft breeze went by. A favorite ritual song played through my mind in that moment, and I smiled. Earth my body…Water my blood…Air my breath and Fire my spirit. The corn tassels are tall above me, so I was looking at the Sun through those waving tresses as I raised my eyes to the light once more. I washed my face in the Mabon dew; not seeking beauty as one does with the May but washing myself with Balance as I move into the introspective time that lies ahead.

Autumn has been my favorite season for as long as I can remember, but in the last years of my daughter’s life every Autumn came with a sense of foreboding. This year the ghost of that dread is finally gone; those shadows laid to rest. This year every leaf that I watch fall will represent a healthy letting go; the normal cycle of life and death, beginnings and endings. I am ready to immerse myself in the work of these darkling days, holding a sense of peace rather than uncertainty.

The harvest continues in earnest; gathering in that which is ripe and full, and storing aspects for the future. The days ahead are a time for introspection and preparation for growth. Take with you what you need and leave behind that which no longer sustains you. It is a fine balance point, methinks, to learn that once we let go of something it still serves a purpose. Food for the fish. Mulch for own personal growth. Leaves on the ground; stalks in the field - it all serves to nourish the body eventually.

Do something you love. Spend time in a favorite place. Try something new. Learn something new. Adventure under the sun. Adventure by the light of the stars. Howl at the moon. Let the Autumn sunlight kiss your face. Create something. Let go of something. Shatter something that no longer adds value to your life. Spend time with people who make you happy. Deepen your relationship with your Divine. Take time to share a meal with others. Share kindness with strangers. Share kindness with yourself.

Be fully present in your life.

I can hear the busy chirping calls of the Golden Finches as they enjoy the harvest of sunflower seeds in the front gardens. Another smile in my day. Time for me to step away from my desk and continue to be present in other areas of my life.

Blessed Mabon, my friends. May you find your blessings equally in the light and darkness on this Autumn Equinox.

Overdose Awareness Day~

Today was Overdose Awareness Day. I don't really acknowledge it, in part because it is just too much, and in part because it is my oldest son's birthday and I would rather focus on that. 

I am really proud of the people I know who are active in recovery communities and in promoting harm reduction. Someday I'd like to be back in a space where it is healthy for me to participate in those types of programs and events, but right now I just can't do it.

Addiction is a horrible disease of its own right, but is often also a symptom of other mental illnesses. It is a thief that steals away precious memories, precious time, and precious life.

If you know someone who is struggling with addiction, please encourage them to seek help. Please let them know that they are loved. If you don't know how to help them, reach out to the people or agencies in your community who do. And if you don't know how to do that, reach out to me and I will help you figure it out. We are all in this together.

Peace out, peeps. 

~sheri

Random Musings in the Late Days of Summer

The meeting I had scheduled this morning was cancelled, and I thought I'd use that time to organize my desk and the study. But here I am, pen in hand, so to speak, with my heart and head full of the kind of Random Musings I used to write.

The fog is heavy below the mountains to the south and I am so in tune with the way that Summer is moving towards Autumn that every one of my senses is full to the brim but longing for more. Loose lore around these parts says that every foggy August morning means a day of snow in the Winter. I don't know if there's any truth to that, but I do know that every foggy August morning feels like all of Nature is checking its layers for tucking in against the coming cold and darker days. This is a good feeling.

When Rhodes and I put an offer on the Cottage back in March I had the notion that we'd be completely settled in by June or July. I'd have my morning rituals established, with hot tea and journaling, then writing for a set time. I didn't hope much beyond that because that's all that seemed important. Here I am in August, still figuring out where things go in this house. Still figuring out what material items we can let go of. Still figuring out where I'm going and what I can let go of, too. This is also a good feeling.

The Cottage stands where an old farmhouse once stood, and I am deeply interested in learning the history of this land and the river valley that it is a part of. For the first time outside of the Adirondacks I am putting down roots and that is a powerful, powerful thang.

The corn, sunflowers, and squashes I planted in the rock wall garden are absolutely thriving and I am literally delighted every time I look at them. I love tending to them and seeing them as they are now, but I also have grand daydreams of an Autumn vision of the Cottage with the corn and sunflowers ready for harvest. Being able to hope and dream and see the future - more good feelings.

Hey. You know that friend you haven't heard from in a while? The one who vanished from social media? Send them a message. Go one better, if you have their mailing address, and send a card or a note, old-school. Stop letting "social media" define your connections to people you care about.

Also hey. Morning tea isn't always a steaming cuppa. Today's tea is iced raspberry rose hibiscus, sweetened with honey. I'm still holding onto Summer, actually living every moment, and that is the best feeling of all.

Peace out, peeps. Be shiny!

~sb

The Army of Little Bitty Volunteer Pumpkins

Lemon Honey Thyme Syrup

Awoke from a lovely afternoon nap with a bit of a sore throat and cough, which are probably just allergies. I know this is back to school time for many of  you, which often kicks of germ and and flu season as well, so I thought I'd share this recipe that I've found helpful in the past couple of years. Its for a Lemon Honey Thyme Cough Syrup. Super easy to make, super yummy, and I can pronounce the names of all the ingredients.

There is a kind of mindfulness and stillness in doing this type of work. It eases my spirit and helps me ground my energy.

Yes. I'm sharing another blog page with you. Is that wrong in blogland? I don't know. But I've used this author's recipe, don't see the point in recreating it, and she certainly deserves the credit. :-)

https://www.reformationacres.com/2014/11/lemon-honey-thyme-cough-syrup-recipe.html?fbclid=IwAR2GYeLW2gjRcbzkKHr6xI--aVwU6ZpD_CxtrFqsrEBl6SLPl60wCBNYQnY

Mother Love. Happy Birthday, Elizabeth Jean.

Mother Love. Happy Birthday, Elizabeth Jean.

Mother love - the most powerful and visceral proof for string theory and of the failure of time as a linear construct. Wasn't it just yesterday when I first held that quiet, preciously sweet, big blue eyed, so alert and watchful baby? And haven't a billion days and nights of love and worry and joy and pride and anguish and grief passed between that day and this one?

In human measurement, that first day with my babiest girl in this world was 31 years ago today. She was beautiful, born two weeks late in one of the hottest summers on record for central New York. Even though through most of her life she was an absolute joy to be around, she maintained her birth-established behavior and never did anything until she was ready to do it. Sometimes that served her well; other times it destroyed us all.

She became a wise and strong woman, capable of being mindful, but still able to be the joyful and vibrant person who brightened the world with her presence. She was loving and compassionate to others, even when she couldn't be to herself.

I am so grateful for all that this precious and precocious child taught me about unconditional love. 

Every year I give a great deal of thought about what I'm going to write for her birthday. Since she died I have composed a dozen different essays and written four or five poems, and not one of them tells the story the way I want it to be told. Lifelines. Doorways. Winding paths. Darkness. Absolute light. Absolute heartbreak. Absolute love.

For my Beth's 31st birthday, I am going to do my best to make the good things matter. I hope you will do the same. I'm going to spend the rest of the day potting flowers for her memorial garden. Given the history of that garden (the massive deck build of 2017), it seemed fitting to wait until her birthday this year to put the altar and garden in place at Bearpath Cottage. 

~~
Some things my mother heart wants you to know:

Write love notes and put them in your kids' lunches. Take the time to read the bedtime story for the 3rd time when she asks you to, even if she can recite the words along with you long before she can read. Snuggle as often as you can. Listen to his music even when you cannot stand it so that you can talk to him about something that he loves. You cannot spoil a baby by holding him when he cries. Let your child know that holding hands with people that you love is okay, no matter how old you are or what gender. Take pictures. Write a journal. Play with playdough and finger paints and bubbles. Sidewalk chalk is good for everyone. Play hide and seek in the yard after dark. Teach your children about fireflies and faeries. Never let your child think, even for one second, that your love for him or her is anything less than unconditional.

~~

When Beth was a baby, she would take my face between her hands and pull my face close to hers, always in this forehead to forehead position. Then she would say in this funny, nasal tone, "look at meeeeeee cloooooose-lllllyyyyyyy." I never did figure out where that came from, but it was an endearing gesture repeated throughout her life. Rhodes took this photo when we took Beth on a picnic supper while she was in recovery at Cornerstone in 2014. It was the night she shared her process poster with us.

Look at me closely, Elizabeth Jean, and see how much I love you! Happy birthday to you, my beloved daughter. 

First Harvest - Lughnasadh/Lammas

First Harvest - Lughnasadh/Lammas

Blessed Lughnasadh! Blessed Lammas! I hope you experience all of the blessings of this first harvest on both the spiritual and mundane levels. What have you planted that is coming to fruition? Are you growing a garden? Seeking a new job? Building a relationship? Doing the hard work of healing? 

Last night Rhodes and I spent time out doors tending to our gardens, weeding and watering and caring for our little bit of land. The pumpkins and squash are doing well, and the lavender bed is thriving. Yard trimmings of all sort go to the mulch pile under the cedar in the back yard, and the grounds of the Cottage are so fertile that even that messy pile is happy. 

The processes that I use for healing and for coping with chronic illness sometimes include random physical and mental wanderings. There is comfort and inspiration in well-worn rituals and favorite places, and I am fortunate that my wanderings set my feet on familiar paths. I was able to navigate the twists and turns that led me back to the spiritual and self-care traditions that ground me. The work of healing can require complicated processes, but it can also happen with the simplest things. 

Dinner tonight will include a good hearty grain bread and other seasonal harvest items. This is just one small way to celebrate the grain harvest and the turning of the Wheel of the Year. I also use this Harvest Sabbat as a reminder to begin preparations for for the cold months that are coming faster than you think by starting some Eye of Newt....

Just kidding. Kitchen witching yesterday and today, mixed in with everyday cooking. These are cherries in an alcohol base, getting a head start on elderberry elixir. (See separate blog post for elixir and syrup recipes!) Another two quarts of cherries are pitted and in the freezer, to use for making homemade cough medicine or for baking. Corn and peaches are also going into the freezer today. Summer flavors in winter have their own special magic.

May today there be peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others. May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. ~ Teresa of Ávila 

Peace out, people, and blessed be.

~sb

29 Days and Words in Boxes

It has been 29 days since I created a solid piece of writing. I have attempted to maintain my writing practice by journaling, but the last actual piece I completed was done the morning we moved into the Cottage. Leading up to that day there was a last minute flurry of packing things up in the old house and shuffling things around in the new. Because of renovation delays and several other reasons our transition to our new home did not go as smoothly as planned.

There was a carefully laid out Plan A, but as any fan of Leverage knows, you need multiple back-up plans if you want to succeed. Somewhere between Plan D and Plan K we wound up with the guest room filled with boxes and piles of things that don't fit in boxes, two closets and Larry's front room filled with boxes and more piles of things, and boxes stacked three deep along the west wall of the living room. Plans L through R involved shuffling all those boxes around, picking stuff up from temporary counters and niches and dropping it in boxes, then moving those boxes around too. I am habitually a meticulous labeler of moving boxes, but by the time boxes were being reused for the second and third time all the sharpies were misplaced (probably packed in a box!), multiple friends and family members were involved in the Great Box Shuffle of 2019, and accurate labeling became a thing of the past.

What does any of this have to do with my writing? One day last week, when we were finally able to start putting things away where they belong in our new home, I found myself staring at the diminished number of boxes in the guest room. I could actually see the guest room walls and could even see that back corner that I thought had disappeared into the third room, which is a story for another day. Most importantly, I suddenly realized that somehow in all the kerfuffle of the GBS19, I must have dropped all of my words into a mislabeled box, and I had spent the better part of a month miserable without them.

In conversation with a friend I managed to find the pile the word box was buried in, and I've spent the past few days locating and then unpacking it. 

There is a lot going on in my head these days. Suffice it to say that grief, trauma, and therapy are not for the faint of heart. Once upon a time I would have written my way through this process, and I hope to get back to being able to do that. But it wasn't just the difficult words I accidentally boxed up, it was also the ones filled with joy and happiness. I am enjoying unwrapping them all, folding back the tissue paper to see what treasure it has kept safe, holding the words and turning them in my hands with delight the same way I turn the unwrapped ceramic pieces, framed photos, and treasured glassware.

Here are a few of the joyful bits that I've uncovered:

The Juneberry trees were planted in our front yard the day after we officially moved in. Appalachian Creek Nursery helped get our dream of a critter and pollinator friendly yard off to a fine start. When the Wheel of the Year turns back to summer next year we should be harvesting berries from our own trees, if we can manage to save any of them from the bears and the birds. Hopefully there will be a pie or two made with the sweet, juicy, goodness and flavor that is a cross between cherry and blueberry. I might even manage to can a few jars, to save some Summer for the coldest Winter days.

We had the day lilies moved from the rockwall garden down to the northeast corner of our property, where we have already started a Forsythia hedge, and plan to create a wildflower garden. Day lilies, Black Eyed Susans, and Milkweed are on the list, and we are happy to take suggestions for other plants!  

The sunflowers Katie started for us in the little greenhouse on the Mountain have bloomed and brightened many days for many people. Have you ever smelled a sunflower? I never had, until curiosity led me to stick my nose into one of the gorgeous flowers in my own garden and I inhaled a mixture of sunshine and spice, golden honey and citrus, and the scent of Summer already leaning into Autumn. 

I love the sunflowers so much and was so delighted by the success of our corn that I had most of the volunteer plants cleared out of the rockwall garden so I could start more of both. I also put in some zucchini and summer squash. It has been a little more than a week, and there are neat little rows of green plants reaching for the sun. I am thinking ahead with anticipation, sure that those crops will not only brighten our Autumn days but also feed our critter neighbors well. 

The land at Bearpath Cottage has let us know that it is fertile and it seems to want to grow things, and both land and house our thriving under our loving care.

We had a temporary visitor one morning! Oldest son Justin and his fiancee Emily found a baby possum on their deck. After careful observation it was apparent that Mom Possum was not returning, and Emily put a lot of effort into finding a wildlife rehabber to take the little guy who we called Jimmy. Rhodes and I took temporary custody of him until Em heard back from Edith Allen Wildlife Sanctuary in Canton, NC, then we gave him a ride out there. As you can see from the photo, he was certainly too small to drive himself. Things we learned: Sometimes Mom Possums have to leave a baby behind. No one seems to know why. But there are a lot of good people doing the work of helping wild critters that need help, and I am deeply grateful to see some of the best of our humanity showing in these environmentally challenged times.

Regarding the Jimmies in our lives: many moons ago Rhodes and I were having a conversation in which he was trying to recall the name of some financial giant. He was certain the name was Jimmy Diamond, or something like that, and he was close! But I was so tickled by that name - Jimmy Diamond - that I decided then and there that that next critter we adopted would have to be named Jimmy. Years down the road (and just a couple of months ago) we spent 18 hours falling in love with a little lost pup, and we called him Jimmy while he was with us. We knew he would be going back to his people, but we just couldn't help ourselves! When he went home the next day we knew the name was lost to us...until Jimmy Possum came along. We've decided that any critter who comes into our temporary care is going to be a Jimmy; a seemingly odd yet simple reminder that it is okay to love knowing that you will have to let go.

The lavender planted with our little bears continues to thrive, and I have already harvested a few bundles to dry. I am excited to make lavender tea and lemonade, and even to try a recipe for lavender cookies. I'll share those recipes and pictures later. But I will be even more excited when I figure out where to hang my drying rack in this house!

There is still much work to be done here, still so many boxes to unpack. I mean that literally and figuratively. But this place feels more like home than anyplace I have ever lived, and I find affirmations of HOME in so many ways. I'll leave you with one more image; one which conveys the timelessness of these processes, and the timelessness of home.

Peace out, peeps.

~sheri

Moving Day

Moving Day

It is 10:30 in the morning, and except for the cats who are stuck in the bathroom until the movers work their magic and deliver all our furniture and heavy boxes, I am alone in our new home. Bear Path Cottage. My dream come true. We will spend our first night here tonight, but our first sleep here will take place sometime this afternoon when we've made the bed and Rhodes and I and the cats settle in for an afternoon nap. I've been looking forward to that nap for days.

When we took possession of the house two months ago, a nap wasn't at the top of my list for "first thing" in the Cottage, but this has been a long, happy, stressful, joy-filled, exhausting, thrilling, two months. An afternoon nap in the soft green-tinted natural light that fills our beautiful bedroom is absolutely the most perfect celebration I can think of.

The process of restoring this house and filling it with good vibes, love, and peaceful energy has at times been a challenge, and a solid, tangible, touchable metaphor for the painful healing journey I am on. I have learned that the Cottage will not give up the scars it carries from its 37 years of existence, and I have learned that it is okay for those scars to show. She earned her scars just as I have earned mine, and although they don't always reveal their backstory, they are a testament to strength.

If there were a banner across our front porch it might read "This Home was Made with Love." I am (and Rhodes is too) deeply grateful to the family and friends who helped us fill these rooms with love, laughter, music, and memories through the days of transformation. It might be difficult for some folks to understand that moving into this dream and knowing that Beth will never physically be here with us is deeply painful. The built-in memories and hand-crafted touches of love that we are starting with help to ease that pain.

Last night we heard a bullfrog singing his night song somewhere down the road, and when we got back from a riduculously late dinner our yard was filled with fireflies. The gardens are growing, and yesterday we found fresh bear scat in the part of the yard we call the North 40. Our notch-eared neighbor rabbit makes an almost daily appearance in the front yard, and the birds fill the air with song and raucous calls. We are surrounded by nature. We are surrounded by magic. We are doing our best to respond with love.

Six years and three days on the Mountain, and now that we are leaving, we are finally home. Welcome to Bear Path Cottage.

Peace out, peeps.

~sheri

Even When All You Can Do Is Remember To Breathe

There are moments in any given day, and days, and weeks at a time when my grief for my youngest daughter, Elizabeth Jean, washes every moment with tears or finds me standing at the edge of sanity, wondering if I shouldn't just jump. Those moments have been many, of late. I am grateful for the anchors that keep me here. 

She was drifting away for such a long time. I have missed her for ages, and can only hold on to the belief that someday I won't have to miss her anymore.

May 30, 2106 - I didn't publish this one, because it was about Beth.

(Never) Lost
Those who don't know can't know it,
And those who do try hard not to show it.
There is always an empty place at the table,
Always a do the best you are able,
Even when all you can do is remember to breathe.
There is always some old when to remember,
And always an extra chill to November,
Even with extra hearts hanging on your sleeve.
Color the tattoos, run in the sun,
Color outside the lines of your life, Learn again how to have fun.
Live every day to remember how to live every day.
Even when life begins to seem better, there will always be an empty place at the table.

May 30, 2016 - This one, I shared, because it was about Beth and so much more.

Never Lost
The sun rose today and I reveled in its warmth.
The sky was blue, with wispy clouds, and I adored its promise of forever.
I adventured to a place where I walked a mile high,
And I heard the wind singing wild songs through the trees and the wires.
I walked 600 feet into the body of the Great Mother,
Where I felt Her heart beating in time with mine, felt Her love brush away the cold breath of death remembered, and the tears She wept for fallen warriors kissed my head and upturned face.
I talked and laughed with, and hugged and kissed, the man who is my best friend and lover.
I soaked up every minute of living, filling my spirit with Life each time I filled my lungs with air.
I ate ice cream and drank sweet tea and drank in honeyed love,
Because your lives and your deaths have taught me the importance of being in the here and now.
I thought of each of you today, I grieved and cried and smiled at memories of you.
These are the things that keep you safely in my heart.
My faith tells me that you are safe and at peace somewhere on the other side.
Safe in heart, safe in your own heaven,
You are, then, never lost.

Peace out, peeps.

~sb

Reading List (Or, Down the Happy Rabbit Hole)

Random musing: I was delighted this morning to see that the lavendar in the front garden is starting to bloom! This was the first thing I planted here at the Cottage, and I have hopeful plans for a larger lavendar bed somewhen down the road. I love the scent of this flowering plant, and just walking by and brushing the leaves to release the scent or clipping a small piece to carry with me can elevate my mood. I have also been reading that lavendar can be helpful with improving memory and reducing stress. 

I have difficulty focusing for long (and short) periods of time these days. (Thanks, fibromyalgia and PTSD.) The twisted one I live with suggested that I write just the first sentence and end this blog post there. I think not! It has taken me three days to write this, but I will see it through to the end. 

One of the things I am doing to work on healing my brain is reading. Remember books? Those physical objects, bound with paper or cloth or some version of it? I sure do. My love affair with books started before I was four years old, and actually holding a book, feeling the paper, and even the scent of a book can help to ground me. Those things can also send me off into a world of daydreams, but that's not important right now.

In a couple of weeks my pile of unread books will be stacked in a crate on my desk where they can tease my mind every day. I hope that eventually I will be back to my old reading 2 or 3 or 4 books a week self.

What's on your reading list? Please feel free to share in the comments below!

Here's what I have in my To Be Read pile, in no particular order:

• Touch the Earth Kiss the Sky: Allowing the Rational Mind to Welcome Magic & Spirtuality – Diotima Mantineia   (not yet available, but soon!)
• The Boy and The Girl Who Broke the World – Amy Reed (not yet available, but soon!)
• Carrots Love Tomatoes: Secrets of Companion Planting for Successful Gardening - Louise Riotte
• Roses Love Garlic – Louise Riotte 
• Hexology: The History & Good-Luck Meanings of the Hex Symbols - Jacob Zook and Prof. Johnny Ott 
• Hopkins: Poems (Everyman's Library Pocket Poets Series) - Hopkins, Gerard Manley 
• Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays - Christa Wolf 
• Personal Mythology: Using Ritual, Dreams, and Imagination to Discover Your Inner Story - David Feinstein Ph.D.
• The Heroine's Journey - Maureen Murdock
• Writing Fiction, Tenth Edition: A Guide to Narrative Craft (Chicago Guides to Writing, Editing, and Publishing) - Janet Burroway
• Beyond the North Wind: The Fall and Rise of the Mystic North - Christopher McIntosh
• The Lavender Lover's Handbook: The 100 Most Beautiful and Fragrant Varieties for Growing, Crafting, and Cooking - Sarah Berringer Bader, 
• The Seven Perfumes of Sacrifice - Amy Logan
• Leaves of Grass – Walt Whitman 
• MISTY OF CHINCOTEAGUE - Margaret Henry 
• The Fern Herbal: Including the Ferns, the Horsetails, and the Club Mosses - Elfriede Martha Abbe 
• If Women Rose Rooted: A Journey to Authenticity and Belonging - Sharon Blackie
• The Mythic Moons of Avalon: Lunar and Herbal Wisdom from the Isle of Healing - Jhenah Telyndru                                                     

Rainy Day Peace

We arrived at the Cottage late today. That old rain-on-a-tin-roof lullaby made for a sound night's sleep on the Mountain, and after feeding the cats their breakfast, Rhodes and I both were lulled back to sleep. Our days have been long and sometimes hectic during this time when we are going back and forth between houses, and once or twice a week our bodies make it clear that they require some catch-up sleep. Three more weekends (including this one) before the movers carry our furniture to our new home, and I will be content when we spend our first night here.

The weather has been mostly rainy for the last few days, with a few thunder boomers thrown in for good measure. The gray sky with its various cloud formations is to me as comforting as a warm quilt, and I sometimes close my eyes and pull the sky around my shoulders to wrap myself in peace. 

When we leave the Mountain we will be leaving behind a place that kept us sheltered and isolated during a time when that was what we needed. We are going from living part way up Fork Mountain, where we were surrounded by the forest, to a life in the Swannanoa River Valley, where we have clear views of the mountains all around us. Eventually we will learn their names, but for now I am just enjoying the views and the comfort of their presence. I love the way they look with clouds settling down around them, sometimes just wispy fingers and other times covering them fully.

The rains mean I haven't had to water the gardens, but I am still checking on the plants. There are two Yucca plants near the edge of the driveway, and they have come into full bloom in the past couple of days. I have seen them along the highways in WNC, but never smelled the flowers until today. The volunteer pumpkin in the rock garden has one little baby growing already, so it is a step ahead of the giant Connecticut pumpkin plants growing in the raised bed garden. I found this odd spiky plant in the backyard, perhaps some kind of geranium? If I can identify it I'll move some of it before Rhodes starts building the deck. 

Peace out, peeps.

~sb

The Many Faces of Grief and Mental Illness

After a Lemony Snicket Series of Unfortunate Events type of Monday happened this week, I started writing a piece about the Many Faces of Mental Illness. I wrote in short bursts, but for probably a total of 10 hours between then and now (1:15 on Friday). I also wrote in my head for many additional hours. I started four separate pieces, pouring my heart and soul out along with a great deal of detail, and just couldn't find a solid direction to move in, let alone find a direction to finish a single piece.

After another such writing start today I realized that all I really need to tell you can be summed up in neat little line items. (Note, I didn't say bullet points, because #13, #15, #16.)

That a person who is grieving:

1. Might cry uncontrollably at any time, day or night, without any reason that is apparent to an observer or to that person.
2. Might seem to be functioning normally, even completing normal tasks.
3. Might not have any memory of completing those tasks.
4. Actually might not be able to complete normal tasks on any given day or night, and, in fact, might not remember the task needs to be done. 
5. Might not feel like or remember showering, or brushing their teeth, or remember that they wore that really cool Hawaiian shirt three days this week. 
6. Might not be able to get out of bed some days. 
7. Might not want to eat. 
8. Might eat too much.
9. Might be irritable or crabby.
10. Might lash out in anger that seems irrational or even volatile.
11. Might go into a rage over seemingly inane matters. 
12. Might make rage-y threats against those who harmed their deceased love one. 
13. Might engage in self harming behaviors. 
14. Might feel overwhelmed.
15. Might have suicidal ideation without actually being suicidal, and might actually be able to tell the difference; or
16. Might be suicidal and completely unable to tell the difference. 
17. Might feel hopeless.
18. Might dwell on the past.
19. Might be overcome with guilt.
20. Might not be able to sleep.
21. Might have nightmares.
22. Might sleep more than they are awake, which is not the same as not getting out of bed.
23. Might participate in new activities, which can serve as a distraction. 
24. Might spend hours binge watching television or reading in an attempt to escape their own thoughts. 
25. Might have a sudden aversion to watching television or reading because of the thoughts they stir up.
26. Might do their best to act like everything is fine and normal even when it is not, or even when it is detrimental to them to do so.
    
    Here's where it starts to get tricky, friends. Because a person who is grieving also:
27. Might smile.
28. Might laugh.
29. Might have good days.
30. Might be happy.
31. Might feel hopeful.
32. Might dare to plan for the future.
33. Might have to move forward with normal life decisions, like buying a home when their rental property is no longer available, whether or not they can handle it. 
34. Might plant a garden.
35. Might paint.
36. Might write.
37. Might socialize with friends for happy occasions. 
38. Might love.
39. Might dare to try something new.
    
    And the very trickiest thing of all:
40. Might do any or all of the above on any given minute or hour or day, in any given week, month, or year. 

I know, right? It's crazy, and can be crazy making. But I'm asking you to remember that there is no timeline for processing grief, nor is there a timeline for healing from any type of mental illness, including Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In my case, its been 858 days since my daughter died, and I've finally run out of the 800 or so days of distractions that kept me from doing the work I need to do to heal myself.

Part of that healing work is happening as a kind of companion planting. Claiming the Cottage and hoping and planning for our future here is as vital to my healing as is continuing in therapy. Every bloom, every rock put in place, every wall painted is a positive step. 

Please do your best to be mindful of what other people might be going through or processing. Please do your best to listen, and to remember to ask "how can I help."

Please do your best to be kind, always. And please, if you need help, do not hesitate to seek it.

Peace out, and blessed be.

~sb