Wonder of Birds (The Innocence Mission)

Whew, what a week (in a good way), busy but rewarding!  

I wrote on Tuesday about attending our second bereavement support group; I am keeping them (mostly widows) in my heart, especially with the holidays right around the corner, a definite trigger. 

I had high hopes for my first therapy appointment, and she met all my expectations, and beyond.  I wept through most of the session, as I was able to speak so freely about Eric... the details of his passing, a multitude of memories, and what coping mechanisms (so many coping mechanisms!) I'm using to move forward.  We have set up an every-other-week schedule, with the next one being Monday November 27 (after we return from our trip to the Atlanta area for Thanksgiving).  I realize it's Pandora's Box, unleashing all the pain and suffering in the (my) world, but I have to believe that, like the myth, Hope remains an achievable possibility... 💖

Sarah and I did indeed follow through on our scheduled psychic reading; I've had so many visitations (stronger at first, less so now), so the timing felt right.  All I told Celeste (our reader) in advance is that I lost a loved one, and asked if we should bring something of theirs; she replied no, that she didn't like to know anything beforehand.  The session resonated on so many levels; I wish I'd recorded it but Sarah and I went back to her house for lunch afterward, and I took notes from what was fresh in our collective minds.  

Celeste used the Light Seer's Tarot deck, and I've been able to do some research since then.  I was pretty much a puddle from the beginning, but Sarah kept her wits about her to ask intuitive questions; The Queen of Swords was what came up when Sarah asked if E had a message for me (notice the bird, one of many in our session; also, many of the cards showcased a grouping of three).  Goosebump-inducing.  So much more, but I'm holding it close for now.  Maybe at some point I will share on Facebook the "map" of our read and ask for opinions/thoughts from those who have tarot backgrounds... 🤷

Lastly, I went over to Sarah's last night so we could watch Funny Girl together (she'd never seen it!); we had previously entertained the thought of attending the touring production, currently at our local Broward Center for the Performing Arts, but the timing didn't work out.  I picked up dinner from our fave sushi place, and warned her that I knew all the words to every song, but would try not to sing along, saving that for Thanksgiving clean-up with my sister Mari (I will share that story next week).  "I got 36 expressions, sweet as pie and tough as leathah" - ha!).

Dinner tonight with friends Buck and Kathy, and tomorrow will find me at the Miami Book Fair (zippity!).  Although grief is always in evidence (as it should be), Life feels calmer, more peaceful, manageable.  E assured us:  "I am standing right next to you".  I feel him... 💗

SONG:  Wonder of Birds by The Innocence Mission

BOOK:  And Still the Bird Sings: A Memoir of Finding Light After Loss by Linda Broder

POEM(S):  One Boy by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Today the heart is full of ghosts—

one doing backflips and one

eating ice cream and one throwing

rocks in the river. One drops

a camera into a lily pond while trying

to take a picture. One peels apples

and one rides on my hip and one

sings country songs. One lights a candle

and one blows it out and one spends hours

arguing about which of the ghosts is most right.

And one is never satisfied. And one

has a thousand dull gray eyes. And one,

one whispers, I’ve got this, Mom.

And I turn to them all, one at a time,

and say welcome, you’re all welcome here.

Even the ghost who slams the door.

Even the ghost who bristles, who swears.

Ghost playing drums. Ghost aiming

nerf guns. Ghost wearing button down shirts.

Ghost with a brain made for zeros and ones.

Ghost with hands in the dirt.

And the heart expands to hold them all—

or were its corridors already stretched?

Straight A ghost. Red canoe ghost. Ghost

of the man I’ll never know. Ghost

who sits beside me at the table,

who says nothing, sipping sweet tea.

Ghost who tucks me into bed, then

slips into my dreams.

While in the Middle of Many Errands by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

At the edge of the Big Five parking lot,

in a tree still fully leafed out in November,

there must have been hundreds of invisible birds

all singing as if singing is what a day is for,

and the riotous song traveled

over the vast black asphalt sea

crossing all the organizing straight white lines—

so much song for such a small tree—

and stunned, my daughter and I stood and listened,

our rush stopped by the glorious commotion,

as if awe is what a day is for,

as if we exist to be stretched ever wider by disbelief,

as if we are here to know ourselves

as part of something greater,

the world calling us again and again

deeper into the mystery.

QUOTE:  "It is the paradoxical nature of grief to lead us to love. There is a seed planted in loss, an evolution made in breaking, a genius found in separation that is rarely apparent in the heart of crisis. But often what looks like deviation is really proliferation, like satellite initiatives born from a group’s dissolution. Intimacy is forged in the hearts of those who know exclusion. To them is given the gift of tenderness which can mentor another through their own isolation." ―Dreamwork with Toko-pa

“Our work is to show we have been breathed upon—to show it, give it out, sing it out, to live it out in the topside world what we have received through our sudden knowledge, from body, from dreams, and journeys of all sorts.” ~ Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Bluebird (Paul McCartney & Wings)

My days are aimless.  I start out with the best of intentions to Get. Sh*t. Done. and about this time in the evening, 9 p.m.-ish, I realize I have Gotten. Nothing. Done.  Well, that's not totally true.  We have accomplished much but, since yesterday was four weeks and tomorrow will be one month, I am more consumed by the landmarks than the benchmarks.  I am trying to write two or three thank-you notes a day, in addition to putting one foot in front of the other, but I am weary and sad and unaccepting of my circumstances.  

It seems that neither side of my brain is working:  the analytical (left) nor the creative (right).  I am forgetting words... I haven't read anything of import since Eric died (not even the NYT e-newsletter, once my Gospel)... I have lost my drive and focus.  I have regained my appetite, but for crappy foods.  I am certainly sleeping better, but morning is still my enemy, and I am napping again in the early-afternoon as avoidance therapy.  Floundering, Listless, Wallowing.  What is the f*cking point?

Melanie sent me a link to what looks like a gorgeous grief sanctuary (imagine that!) in New Mexico.  Tomorrow I will use the Google to see if there's anything similar in South Florida and, if I can't find something local, I will create it for myself, maybe starting Monday:  stretching, meditation, yoga, walking, grief support groups, therapy, massage, AquaFit classes, healthy eating, music, blogging/journaling, etc. (you know, like *normal* people do).  Maybe by going inward, I can use external means to heal.  Boot Camp for Lost Souls (that would be me).  Thank you for the idea, sweet friend... 💗 

I am attending a Reiki Circle this Friday night and, since it's in a New Age store, I might even look into having a private reading done in the near future.  I was experiencing so many signs in the first few weeks (rainbows, an owl, songs) and, although I am still paying attention, it seems as if the visitations have stopped for a while.  I miss him and I want him to come back and reassure me that he's there, even if he's not here.

SONG:  Bluebird by Paul McCartney & Wings

BOOK:  The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl

POEM(S):  The Wild Iris by Louise Gluck

At the end of my suffering

there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death

I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.

Then nothing. The weak sun

flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive

as consciousness

buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being

a soul and unable

to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth

bending a little. And what I took to be

birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember

passage from the other world

I tell you I could speak again: whatever

returns from oblivion returns

to find a voice:

from the center of my life came

a great fountain, deep blue

shadows on azure seawater.

Some Days by Philip Terman

Some days you have to turn off the news

and listen to the bird or truck

or the neighbor screaming out her life.

You have to close all the books and open

all the windows so that whatever swirls

inside can leave and whatever flutters

against the glass can enter. Some days

you have to unplug the phone and step

out to the porch and rock all afternoon

and allow the sun to tell you what to do.

The whole day has to lie ahead of you

like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.

Some days you have to walk down the wooden

staircase through the evening fog to the river,

where the peach roses are closing,

sit on the grassy bank and wait for the two geese.

Invitation by Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time

to linger

for just a little while

out of your busy

and very important day

for the goldfinches

that have gathered

in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,

to see who can sing

the highest note,

or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,

or the most tender?

Their strong, blunt beaks

drink the air

as they strive

melodiously

not for your sake

and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning

but for sheer delight and gratitude –

believe us, they say,

it is a serious thing

just to be alive

on this fresh morning

in the broken world.

I beg of you,

do not walk by

without pausing

to attend to this

rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.

It could mean everything.

It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:

You must change your life.

QUOTE:  “I will cut adrift—I will sit on pavements and drink coffee—I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim—this fine October.” ~ Virginia Woolf

I Saw a Bird Fly Away (Dar Williams)

SONG: I Saw a Bird Fly Away by Dar Williams

BOOK: Bird Signs: Guidance and Wisdom from Our Feathered Friends (Book & Cards) by G.G. Carbone (Author), Mary Ruzicka (Illustrator)

POEM: Spirit of Place: Great Blue Heron by William Stafford

Out of their loneliness for each other

two reeds, or maybe two shadows, lurch

forward and become suddenly a life

lifted from dawn or the rain. It is

the wilderness come back again, a lagoon

with our city reflected in its eye.

We live by faith in such presences.

It is a test for us, that thin

but real, undulating figure that promises,

"If you keep faith I will exist

at the edge, where your vision joins

the sunlight and the rain: heads in the light,

feet that go down in the mud where the truth is."

(on a plaque in Portland's City Hall, for Portland's city bird)

QUOTE: "I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven." ~ Emily Dickinson

The Wonder of Birds (The Innocence Mission)

Continued introspection, as I straddle the line between last week's exhiliaration and this week's exhaustion - thought the following relevant for more than a few reasons. Every evening at dusk, the neighborhood birds gather on trees a few blocks from my home, to roost through the night - in passing, they appear to be giant white magnolia blossoms... until one rustles a feather or decides to relocate. "Grace will be ours" indeed - when I revel in the magic of this sight, I truly believe it already is...

SONG: The Wonder of Birds by The Innocence Mission

BOOK: Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

POEM: Why I Need the Birds by Lisel Mueller

When I hear them call

in the morning, before

I am quite awake,

my bed is already traveling

the daily rainbow,

the arc toward evening;

and the birds, leading

their own discreet lives

of hunger and watchfulness,

are with me all the way,

always a little ahead of me

in the long-practiced manner

of unobtrusive guides.

By the time I arrive at evening,

they have just settled down to rest;

already invisible, they are turning

into the dreamwork of trees;

and all of us together —

myself and the purple finches,

the rusty blackbirds,

the ruby cardinals,

and the white-throated sparrows

with their liquid voices —

—ride the dark curve of the earth

toward daylight, which they announce

from their high lookouts

before dawn has quite broken for me.

QUOTE: “A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.” ~ Maya Angelou

Three Little Birds (Bob Marley)

I subscribed to The Sun literary magazine for almost a decade - last year we were going through some financial difficulties and I vowed to cut some things out of the budget that were "non-necessities". I thought I could sacrifice a few of my subscriptions - I was wrong. As I was going through some back issues this past Sunday, I came across the poem I use here... and it took my breath away - what I absolutely love is that its jumping-off place is Emily Dickinson's verse, first published in 1891, a few years after her death. I might not have known that if I didn't wear a bracelet on which is etched the first two lines of her poem - the beauty of Bursk's follow-up, over 100 years later, is that he never once writes the word "hope" but the intent is clear... and you can bet I'll be re-subscribing first thing tomorrow!

“Remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. “Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy . . . but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

SONG: Three Little Birds by Bob Marley

BOOK: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

POEM: The Thing with Feathers by Chris Bursk

It's the first thing you hear in the morning,

the last you hear at night.

In the woods, in the swamps,

in the old steeple, in the ruined eaves,

over the wreckage of a car

your mother drove straight into a wall.

The bird won't stop singing.

It is perched in the ashes of a house that burned to the

ground.

Wherever you move, it's one hop

ahead of you. Tireless

as a creek, it's a tune that will not allow itself

to be forgotten. It keeps building

and leaving its nest, all chatter, all expectation,

water singing to itself

in the shadows as well as in the sunlight.

That insufferable optimist.

No matter how many doors you slam,

curses you shout, rocks you throw,

it pipes up louder than ever

on this very branch of this very tree outside your house

---as if stones must be your way of applauding.

It was singing the morning you got fired,

the day you brought grief to the person

you most wanted to protect,

the evening when the great cause you'd pledged yourself to

failed. It sang

while your father was writing his suicide note,

the night your dear friend told you he was HIV-positive,

the night you could find nothing remaining

to believe in, when all you wanted

was to be left alone. It sings in places so dark

you can't see into them.

It's out there singing now.

QUOTE: "Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark." ~ Rabindranath Tagore