grief

I yearn.

Such a gorgeous image. Oh, how I wish to find a feeling of comfort like this in the emptiness of this grief. The softness of a great polar bear, a quiet heart; the nourishment of deep connection and bright berries. I will hold the love of Carl in my heart forever. But now? I yearn only to fall in love with my life once again.

ON THIS DAY ..

May you fall madly in love this year .. in love with someone who unhinges your tired trajectory, in love with a spouse of several years who might be aching for lightning, in love with demanding children and crazy relatives .. in love with the particular pedigree of genius insanity that has perhaps claimed you in spite of your reluctance .. and certainly in love with an animal, a cloud, a redwood, the wild .. these at least once a day. May you fall in love with this fragile jewel of a world, with hard work, real learning, just causes, petitioning and prayers. May you fall in love with wonder itself, with the grand mystery, with all that feeds you in order that you may live .. and with the responsibility that that confers. May you fall in love with heartbreak and seeing how it’s stitched into everything. May you fall in love with the natural order of things and with tears, tenderness and humility. May this be a magnificent year for you. May you fall deeply, madly, hopelessly, inextinguishably in love.
~by Poetess (Rachelle Lamb)

*Image credit: Jackie Morris (The House of Golden Dreams)

{originally published Jan 14, 2015}

gifts.

I just opened up a shipment of photos that I ordered the day before Carl died. Inside the box I found this. A 4″x4″ Somerset Velvet Giclee test print of my equine photography that I was daydreaming of doing something more with. It turned out beautifully. Even better than I imagined, really. Thank you for this, God. I needed it today.

I love you, Carl. Thank you for continuing to show up in the way you do.

{originally published Jan 10, 2015}

the steep part of the mountain.

ALL IN ONE GLIMPSE

…as if, all along, you had thought the end point
might be a city with golden towers, and cheering crowds,
and turning the corner at what you thought was the end
of the road, you found just a simple reflection,
and a clear revelation beneath the face looking back
and beneath it another invitation, all in one glimpse:
like a person or a place you had sought forever,
like a bold field of freedom that beckoned you beyond;
like another life, and the road still stretching on.

Excerpt from ‘Santiago’
From PILGRIM: Poems by David Whyte

*photo credit: a photo of me in the Tetons of Wyoming by Dawn Norris Photography
*poem shared by Cynthia Eckren Jan 9, 2015}

love notes.

ONE DAY YOU REALIZED

…so that one day you realized that what you wanted
had already happened, and long ago and in the dwelling place
in which you lived before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise,
that first set you off and then drew you on, and that:
you were more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach.

~excerpt of poem from ‘Santiago’ by David Whyte

I’d like to tell you where I am, where you might find me these days, but it seems I am somewhere very far away. I would like to find the words to describe to you this place, but there is no language made for it. It is a place of deep wooded paths, dark watery oceans, cold moon-glow and softly falling snow. And yet…it’s not even that. It is a parallel place. Precarious in both its comforts and its pain. It’s a place of lost maps, the journey I must make. But then…there are those brief and beautiful moments when I feel truly, gently held in the hands of God. Sometimes, I have to crawl out of my skin to get there. This hopeful transformation? It still requires all of me. Perhaps from here on out it always will.

Carl. I love this photo of him. He texted it to me along with a love note from the woods outside my cabin one morning when he went out to feed the horses. I could have just as easily looked outside the window and saw him standing there, but it seems that it is in these sweet moments and tender gestures that love is built of. He already had my whole heart, but a little later, when I finally did look out the window and saw him walking back towards the cabin, I saw the gift of a man whose heart I wanted to live out my whole life with. Louie, my big goofy Chesapeake, was beside himself with his own happiness over having this newfound companionship, too. There was a lot of happiness in these woods that day and all the time surrounding it, too.

And now? All this unknowing. Where do I begin? I struggle with how to proceed. My map keeps getting blown away in the cold wind. But always, always…there is this sense of Carl’s love keeping me company, even here, now, from this short-sighted vantage point. I lean in towards this quiet space of listening and learning. Here I am. Mapless. Guided only by some great mystery.

But wait…let me ask this more clearly: “How do I proceed?” This is the question I ask God. It turns out that, as well-intentioned as I may have always been, before Carl’s death, I had it all wrong. As authentic, spiritual and honest as I was trying to be…I had it all wrong. For two months now I have been asking this question and feeling my way in the dark towards a better understanding of the answer. You see, I can feel the answer, even if I can’t yet see it or hear it or put it to words. Silly for me to think that I can have it all neatly spelled out before its time. I want clarity, knowing, a guarantee. Instead I am offered Faith and Trust. It’s like holding water in my hands. Even so, I know that water has the ability to carry me far. All that matters is whether I can look into the eyes of this Great Something and not let fear or doubt draw me away from its invitation. The most horrible thing has happened. Carl is gone, carried out of this world in a grinding collision. Is it possible for me to draw strength from even this?

Yes, I think this is what is being asked of me. I am being asked to draw strength, even from this. We planted a seed. Now it is time to let it grow.

I love you, Carl Bratlien. With you, I want to keep this song alive.

{originally published Jan 8, 2015}

lullabies.

I could listen to this song a thousand times as I go to sleep….

“I Go to Sleep”
When I look up from my pillow
I dream you are there with me
Though you are far away
I know you’ll always be near to me
I go to sleep
And imagine that you’re there with me
I go to sleep
And imagine that you’re there with me
I look around me
And feel you are ever so close to me
Each tear that flows from my eye
Brings back memories of you to me
I go to sleep
And imagine that you’re there with me
I go to sleep
And imagine that you’re there with me
I was wrong, I will cry
I will love you till the day I die
You were all, you alone and no one else
You were meant for me
When morning comes again
I have the loneliness you left me
Each day drags by
Until finally my time descends on me
I go to sleep
And imagine that you’re there with me
I go to sleep
And imagine…

I love you, Carl, until the day I die.

{originally published Jan 7, 2015}

nourishment.

Courage is like love; it must have hope for nourishment.
~Napoleon Bonaparte

Finding nourishment where it can be found. This is perhaps what happens when one is reduced to their simplest self.

Beauty in eggs from my cousin’s chickens.

{originally published Jan 5, 2015}

wild horses.

“I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.” ~Kurt Vonnegut

This photo is from a somewhat recent adventure into the wilds of the Pryor Mountains of Wyoming. We crawled out of our tents at sunrise, drank a hearty dose of camp coffee, and then headed out by foot in search of wild horses. We followed a herd most of the morning, but they were restless and we were often left on the mountain with no horses in sight. It didn’t matter. We’d find them again.The morning was cool, but inviting. We walked to the edge of the earth and then we walked some more.

My friend, Sage, shared this quote today and it made me think of this photo. I decided to dig it up from the archives and share it with you tonight. Today started out its rough and usual way…but it got better. I received and then wrote a message to Carl’s brother, Andrew. It had the miraculous effect of somehow lifting my spirits. I tended to more of Carl’s life details with his mom and then we went out for a hot chocolate. It felt good to spend some time with her, just the two of us, without the usual commotion of kids and a houseful of chatter (which I also love!). I connected with several friends, took care of the horses, tended to some Stray Dog Arts business, took a bath, gathered information for a grief counselor, unpacked more of Carl’s things, did two loads of laundry and played with the dogs.

This is what I would call a good day. Good days make me a little nervous because the few that I’ve had have been followed by even more difficult days, but…I’m going to take this day for what it is: a gift. Perhaps these gifts will start building on each other and a breathing space will occur.

These mountains and wild horses are something that Carl would have loved. I looked forward to bringing him there with me, but it never happened and now it never will. There are a lot of things that I will never get the chance to do with Carl. That is, except in spirit. I lived an adventurous life before Carl and I don’t have any plans of changing that about myself.

Everything feels craggy and broken. It’s sometimes hard to breathe. But then…there are these vistas. If I am brave, I will continue giving myself to the very edges of things. And, in this way, I will know that I have lived and loved well.

I love you, Carl. Always, you are with me. Always, you will be my most precious mountain.

And for the umpteenth time, I’ll share my very most favorite song. This song…it’s about unconditional love. Oh, this life…it has offered me much.

{originally published Jan 2, 2015}

empty.

“It has the dignity of the angelic
That knows you to your roots,
Always awaiting your deeper befriending
To take you beyond the threshold of want,
Where all your diverse strainings
Can come to a wholesome ease.”
~excerpted from “For the Unknown Self” :: To Bless the Space Between Us :: by John O’Donohue

This? This hollow start is where a new year begins? The big page of plans remains blank. I am empty.

Maybe empty is a good place to start. One thing I know is that my spirit wasn’t built for this much sadness. Or maybe it is. Maybe experiencing love to such extremes is exactly the point. It’s impossible to love this much without the risk of loss.

I am full of flatness and doubt this morning. I reach for God. I ask him to show me what I should do. I close my eyes and get a vision of bringing my upcoming solo exhibition to completion and then a sense of what is to follow. It’s just a glimpse, a feeling. The back of my head goes cold. The quality of light shifts behind my closed eyes. I know I’ve received my answer. Now it’s just up to me to trust it. I feel like fighting. I feel resentful today. I’ve been going through Carl’s clothes the past couple of days and the progress has been excruciating. His sweet smell fills my studio where I’ve gone to do the work. There isn’t enough room for his things in this little cabin. I progress at a snail’s pace. It takes more energy than I could have ever imagined. But I need to do this as a way of finding my way back to the easel. I feel like I’ve been hurtled backwards to that very first week of grief. I do not know how to change the glacial-like pace that this process seems to require. Logic and to-do lists do not seem to work in the precarious space I find myself in. A fragile eco-system, this current world of mine.

Yet I realize: it is only my own thinking that flattens the world around me. If Carl were here, he’d say, “You can do it; I know you can. I love you, baby.” Simple as that. A simple recipe of optimism and love. This was the basic premise of all our conversations. Constantly, we were lifting each other up, making space for hope, carving out possibilities. I stop to remind myself this. I do my best to recreate his voice in my head and heart.

Admittedly, I create an elaborate map each year. They are impressive. They are filled with goals, broken down into action steps, led by over-arching core emotional desires. It is colorful and organized, complete with images of the things I’m reaching for. This yearly habit has traveled me around the world several times. It’s built my business and strengthened my spirit. It brought horses and depth and love into my life. In other words, it has worked. Exquisitely.

But let’s be real. I wasn’t expecting anything elaborate from myself this year. Just something. Something to keep my eyes on the road ahead and my heart above water.

And so…on all this blank paper I would like to put three images and three words. I tried last night. I really, really did. But with all that trying, I found myself caught in a wave of exhaustion, in bed and asleep by 7:30pm on New Year’s Eve.

In the two hours that it’s taken me to sift words out of this inability to embrace a new year, a blue sky has begun to loosen itself from the clouds. I like the clouds. They seem safer. And yet…

I know this blank page is asking more of me than the safety of cloud cover. There is a mountain inside me. It’s been there for a long, long time. It should not surprise me that, all along, it was something only I could navigate. I’ve trekked the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas and know from old experience that, at certain airless heights, there is only one way and that is simply, the surrendered rhythm of one foot in front of the other….
one
holy
step
at
a
time.

I love you, Carl. You, who have brought me to this most meaningful, important and profound mountain.

{originally published Jan 1, 2015}

through.

Some days are worse than others. These days, it seems that all days land on the scale of worse. But I continue to reach for a habit of gratitude and so, in this moment, I am grateful for…

purring horses munching on hay that warms their bodies on this cold, cold winter day.
the pull of my journal and conversations with God while snuggled in a semi-circle of sleeping dogs.
plans to go sit in a hot tub this afternoon with a good friend to relax my body and mind while in good company.

This is enough. For now, it will get me through. And, in truth, that is always all we ever need.

I love you, Carl. You will always be enough. Even being gone, you have given me enough love to last a lifetime.

{originally published Dec 30, 2014}

Returning home after.

Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world. ~ Sarah Ban Breathnach

The floor boards of this little cabin are cold. The door latch is frozen, requiring me to use the dead bolt to keep it closed. The whole world has shifted into a creak, popping into sharp rearrangement. It is Monday. As though that means something, I enter the day like a new stage of grief. I’ll call this stage “Returning Home After.” It is another day of navigating life without Carl. It is after Christmas. After my grandpa’s funeral. After spending the better part of a week with my grandma, not just as her granddaughter, but also as two women who have lost the men we’ve given our hearts and lives to. There are not enough tears in the entire universe for this. I’m still dogged by the edges of this migraine that seems to have become my constant companion. A toothache has angled its way in, too. I’m chilled all the way to my center, not from sickness, but from the lack of warmth that crawls from my slippered feet and into my bones. My eyeballs feel like they’ve shrunk, become smaller from too many weeks of crying and trying to see what I’m supposed to do next. My grief habit of rubbing my brow has shifted to rubbing my eyes. The structure of mortality has taken on a physicality that I’m not entirely comfortable with. I am made up of tendons, skin and two eyeballs. Somewhere inside, yet beyond my precarious placement of bones and breathing is my spirit. My spirit gets curious, feels hope, gets out of bed to let out the dogs and feed the horses. I am acutely aware of the way my body is put together and, even in all its weakness, I feel like I will live to be a very, very old woman. This thought does not bring me comfort. However, in suspended moments, I see a glimpse of my future self. The woman I see is much older than me now. She is a bit timeless, grey-haired, her body and face have taken on new contours. Mostly, what I notice is her smile–a sense of contentment and satisfaction–that illuminates from the inside out. It’s a smile held in her eyes and her whole body. Anchoring her being is a vast aquifer–her life experiences–the depth and breadth of an entire ocean. It is as though she could hold out her arms and embrace a whole life of love, care, and meaning. There are a lot of young people in this image…as though her strong arms might gather in a whole world of children whom I love.

This image comes to me at random times. It’s always brief. Just a glimpse. Last night she visited me as I read a book in the bathtub. Another time when I was driving. Once, while in the tea aisle at the grocery store. She has been weaving herself into me all along, but I notice her more lately. She’s cute and I like her. She knows I need her. She makes me smile even when I don’t think I want to. She pokes my ribs and is equally willing to wrap her arms around me. I know I’ll meet her someday, because I’ll be her. I already am her, partially. I just don’t recognize myself yet.

I am rubbed raw from missing Carl. Saying I miss him doesn’t convey the actual experience. He hasn’t truly left me. Like today. Today I feel him near. Even so, it is not always easy wearing one’s spirit so close to the skin.

I looked out the window this morning, watching the horses walk through the woods. Colorado comes to the fence first. I am mesmerized by how much I’ve loved that horse all along. I told Carl that I’d always want Colorado to be a little bit more “my” horse, even if he is the bigger, more skittish, less trained of the two. I wanted Carl to ride Dakota, despite him being twice my size and her being the smaller of the two horses. With more brazenness than I actually possessed, I announced that I would ride Colorado even tho the truth is that I was too scared to (and still am). Carl said he’d be happy no matter which horse he rode. I loved that about him because he meant it. He just loved the horses. And he loved me. My silly ideas were nonsense all along. It’s taken me a long time to truly bond with Dakota, but shortly before Carl died, I realized that it was happening. The deepening began to occur. It is still occurring. She has soft, worrisome eyes. And, lately, I find myself worrying about her, too. My heart is drawn to her. My heart is drawn to both of them. We are all like snowflakes. Even the horses.

Today, this cold makes me feel cleaved open. Smooth, like frozen stone, old parts of who I was have completely worn away. There’s somehow room in this for something new. I move the milk house heater closer to my feet. I wrap Carl’s raggedy old quilt around me. I cry. I write myself back to life.

I feed the horses at sunrise, their eyelashes and muzzles covered in frost. Dakota lifts her front hoof up high in gratitude (her daily habit of thanks). Colorado eats up his sweet feed, tosses some hay around and then attempts to stick his big nose into my cup of coffee. I laugh at him and let him smell the warm brew, telling him “yeah…you’re my horse.” Colorado in front of me, Dakota behind me, Carl all around me. Slowly, I warm to the possibility of things I do not yet know.

I love you, Carl. I love you for showing me the woman I want to grow to be.

{originally published Dec 29, 2014}