prayer

swept up, swept under.

Today…
The sun was nice; the studio was peaceful;
I painted, prayed, and felt at ease.
But when evening came,
so did the tears.
I miss you, Carl, so very, very much that
I can hardly stand it.

{originally published Feb 24, 2015}

f-it-all, let’s pray.

Having a great big cozy f-it-all moment in which I decide not to do what I’m supposed to do and instead give myself over to an evening of blog reading, inspiration seeking, prayer, art journaling and general soul-centered rebellion. Much needed time in the studio, not working. The radiator sings its little songs and grief takes shapes with a million contours. In this space there are powerful blessings, available only when I surrender to them.

{originally published Feb 17, 2015}

the master weaver.

THE PLAN OF THE MASTER WEAVER
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me,
I may not choose the colors,
He knows what they should be;
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the under side

Sometimes He weaveth sorrow,
Which seemeth strange to me;
But I will trust His judgement
And work on faithfully;
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best,
So I shall weave in earnest,
Leaving to Him the rest.

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttle cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why-
The dark threads are needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

I took this photo in Morocco over a year ago. There was the sound of rhythm happening in their work. The thrum of threads, the movement of the shuttle–a sacred sort of sound, all its own. In the dark corner of a towering and beautiful old building of a rug seller’s shop, magic was happening. I do not know the story of these girls. I do not know if they were paid enough for what their talent deserved. I do not know what kind of hardships awaited them at home, if any at all. But what I do know is that, out of emptiness, they were creating something beautiful in both color and sound.

This prayer was given in honor of my grandpa from his union, the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers. It was tied with ribbons in a leather case containing an exquisitely beautiful bible, its pages edged in gold. I clutched it tight in my arms, holding it for my grandma, as the pall bearers carried my grandpa’s casket and placed it in the hearse. I was trying to comprehend the reality at hand, while my mind fiercely, sharply relived the same ritual of Carl’s casket being carried away from me only weeks before. The tears that rolled down my cheeks were huge with pain, my brain and body and heart only able to carry the weight of one loss at a time.

I share this photo in black and white because I have not yet made it to a place of color. I spend a large part of every day praying that the grand design of all this heartache will someday become known to me. And, if not the grand design, then at least some colorful sort of pattern that might light a fire in my belly once again.

I traveled in Morocco as part of an personal and ongoing project of photographing and painting stray dogs. Or, at least, that was my intention. When I got there I found that there were very, very, very few stray dogs. In a difficult economic climate, that didn’t make much sense. Even so, I was hopeful in the idea that perhaps the Moroccans were simply taking good care of their dogs. Unfortunately, I quickly learned that the lack of the stray dog population was due to the fact that they were being round up and shot to death. The cats, however, were another matter. There were cats everywhere. Many of them were in horrible condition. Others, a little more lucky if they found a kindhearted store owner who might put out some milk, food scraps, or even a cardboard box for them. I found myself being pulled down a very unexpected path, deep into the labyrinths of the medinas where, instead of photographing stray dogs, I began to photograph the cats. They were everywhere, at every turn. I was emotionally and mentally unprepared for this change of plans and the heartache I would feel at the end of each day. Even so, to be a witness to such suffering made me feel more alive. My entire life, I have been drawn to these difficult places. The places where others turn their head. Who am I, holding a dying kitten, to think that I might have anything to offer a situation as desperate as this?

Looking through photography files in search of this weaving image made me wish I had the ability to throw myself into travel once again. There are hundreds of more images, many of animals, haggard or in distress. But right now I realize that patience is required. I am in my own desperate place. The weaving that is being done is made up of dark, knotted and confusing threads. I wonder, at times, why my healing path in losing Carl has been so slow and full of seeming failure. And yet…I trust that each time I knock up against pain and disappointment, fears and deep, deep sadness that God is asking for me to reach for Him. To trust Him. We all have a different path to walk, a different purpose. Perhaps my purpose will lead me places that will require a stronger foundation than others might require.

I don’t know.

But what I feel is that this time is sacred. As difficult as it is and as much as I want to untangle myself from it…something is being woven. And in all these dark days and difficult nights, THIS is the thing that gives me hope.

I love you, Carl. I know with my whole heart that your life and death and my love for you is leading me someplace where most people don’t go.

{originally published Jan 17, 2015}

song, a prayer.

As this baby girl wakes up, mama sings for her. Such beautiful magic. It brings tears to my eyes this morning. I cry for the baby girl that Carl and I didn’t get to have together, but I pray that he’ll help me find a way to her, in whatever form that might take. Song…it is so much like prayer. I breathe into this life so that I might remain open to where ever it is that God wants to bring me.

{originally published Dec 12, 2014}

my sentinel.

Yesterday I filled the water trough for the horses, a simple job requiring Herculean efforts, a laborious blessing. My two horses, Colorado and Dakota, have a way of dragging me out of the house in a way that nothing else can. The water is on the other side of this 30-some acre property and so that means I need to drag my tired sad self down the horse trail between my cabin to the water spigot and trough near the barn. This, of course, makes the dogs happy. Especially Louie and Ella who are used to going with me and saying hi to all the neighbor dogs in the process. Henry, he has fun, too…but he stays closer to me than he would have in the past. I’ve somehow been adopted by him in ways that I would have never expected. We’ve become each other’s safe zone. Henry, although small, is bit of a renegade, Carl’s perfect match. But despite his toughness, I also see the vulnerability that’s emerged through this experience. He snuggles in tight. He listens to me better than he ever listened to Carl. We keep an eye on each other. We both understand, all too well, the hugeness of what we’ve both lost.

We get to the gate near the barn and are met by 3 of the neighbor dogs, 2 yellow labs and a big strong mutt. Henry jumps into my arms until he’s decided that he’s big enough to outnumber them all. 6 dogs total. Enough to start a gang. They play for awhile, but then I take them back home and return to filling water for the horses. The trough is full. I am empty.

I walk back down the trail through a forest of pines and am a little bit awed by the flatness of everything. Since being in a relationship with Carl, the trail between the barn and cabin had taken on a new life. It had started to SPARKLE. With possibility. With love. With partnership. I’ve never owned horses before. When I took on their care, I really had no clue what I was doing. All I knew is that I loved them and that I needed them as much as they needed me. I’ve been figuring it out along the way, little by little by little, and still am.

But then came Carl and suddenly there was someone in my life who the horses loved as much as me and who loved them as much as I do. Colorado and Dakota fell in love with Carl instantly. They trusted him completely. The realization that I had found the perfect companion in life was, well…astonishing. There was nothing we loved more than schlepping hay bales together. Carl and I spent many a morning, afternoon or evening brushing, loving, feeding, and working with the horses. He was good at it and, together, we were really a good team. It was Carl that finally made the first step to ride Dakota for the first time and then helped me to do the same. She hadn’t been ridden in over 4 years and she responded beautifully. Colorado let us blanket him. We planned on working up to the saddle later. My big, skittish gelding. It was a beautiful accomplishment and he was so pleased with himself, too.

In all that time of our relationship there was an almost other-wordly glow to these woods. I imagined a long life together. I imagined a love-filled, work-filled, outdoors-filled, animal and family-filled life…together. I imagined us, side by side, making even the hardest of physical labor seem like something fun and enjoyable. That’s the kind of person Carl was…and he brought that out in me, too.

But yesterday and, really, every day since Carl’s been gone, these woods haven’t held the same luster. I’m still glad I’m here. These woods, even in their flatness, are still holding me in exactly the way I need to be held. After filling the trough, I walked back home and simply started to weep for the enormity of all these lost daydreams, for the loss of light, for the loss of having someone so capable by my side. Honestly, there are days that I don’t know how I’ll do this on my own. I am walking a precarious trail of faith.

I walked that trail all the way back to my cabin where the horses stood waiting for me. There was nothing left to do but just give up for a moment. I sat down next to Colorado, my back leaning against the tree nearest him. Colorado is the one that rescued me before Carl even came into my life. Surely, he can do it again? And, yes, he does. Every single day. Dakota, too.

I sat and cried into a lackluster forest with Colorado holding vigilance as I did so. He munched on hay and watched me with peacefully attentive eyes, occasionally looking up to take in the world around us. I felt like I could have sat there forever and the horses would not have left my side.

My guardians. They know. They care. They work their magic on me in a way that only sentient creatures know how to do.

Whenever I was having a bad day, Carl always used to tell me to go outside and hang out with the horses. It worked every time. Always. Their saving grace was and is almost annoyingly dependable. The horses don’t necessarily take my pain away, but for now their presence keeps me alive and breathing and moving, sometimes in seemingly exaggerated ways. I had so many crystal clear visions of a life with horses and Carl. I don’t know how to do it without him, but I pray, I pray, I pray that trail of faith I’ve been walking will, someday, become a little less precarious and a whole lot more beautiful.

In the meantime, I have this beauty. Colorado. Standing right in front of me. Catching my tears, letting me lean into the warmth of his strong body, always watching and waiting for me. Until the light someday returns.

I love you, Carl Bratlien. Be with me.

{originally published Nov 29, 2014}

miracles that dwell in the invisible

Last night I dreamed of Carl. We were at the airport waiting for the boarding of our flight to be called. There were a lot of people buzzing and bumbling around us, a particularly busy terminal. And at one point, Carl and I sat down together, looking at each other with radiant smiles out the corners of our eyes as we reached for each other’s hand. We felt bright and excited to be going somewhere new together, silly with the sensation of love, anticipation and fun. We were on our way to Florida–for my birthday.

It has been a morning of tears. Because, you see…
This was really supposed to happen.

We had been tossing ideas around for a few months. Carl’s birthday was exactly one month before his funeral. It was our first birthday “together.” Things got busy out west and we weren’t able to celebrate his birthday side by side. I was so bummed about that, but we made the best of it. Carl sent me a video of him playing music on his porch. He went for a nice hike. He called me a dozen times. Throughout the day, we took turns keeping each other from feeling sad about the miles between us. He told me we’d make up for it on MY birthday. Over the course of the next few weeks, he musta said to me more than a dozen times: “There’s a lot of things I don’t know, but one thing I know for sure is that I WILL be with you on your birthday.”

You see, Carl didn’t make commitments he couldn’t keep. Ever. If there was one thing that drove me crazy, it was his inability to commit to a plan. I always thought I was the spontaneous one in the crowd. Ha! Carl had me beat by a million miles. It was also, in some wild way, something I loved about him. He could go with the flow like nobody’s business.

For a long time, I’ve been feeling like my 40th birthday would be a hard one. I don’t have a problem with my age or even aging for that matter. I never have. But this year needed to be special. It would be the thing that would carry me forward with a sense of hope and inspiration to make this life what I want it to be. Carl and babies, my art and adventure and building a life together were a part of that dream. It was the totality of the dream, really. We had big, BIG dreams together and, the thing is, we were the type of people that would actually make them come true.

Last night, I got a text from Carl’s brother, Andrew, saying that it had been a particularly hard day for him. It was for me, too. He said that he had told his wife, Tiara, that there are so many days in the past year that he’s wished he could will his heart to stop, but can’t. He said that there’s some purpose for us here and that sometimes he feels like the only thing pulling him forward is this curiosity to see where it goes. He couldn’t have said it more perfectly.

There is this impulse to curl up in a ball under a mountain of Carl’s blankets and never move again. And, yes, each afternoon I have been laying down with Carl’s favorite raggedy old quilt. In these moments, Henry (Carl’s dog), snuggles in next to me especially tight, the weight and smell of Carl’s blanket instantly causing him to relax and sleep. I breathe it in, deeply. My other two dogs curl themselves around my legs and, often, it is during this time that I feel Carl close to me, talking to me, telling me things I need to hear. Telling me that I can do this, that he loves me, that he’s with me. He tells me things that I can’t even remember. And, eventually, something causes me to get up. Maybe it’s Carl, pulling me by my hands out of bed. It is not a place to stay. There is still life to be lived, even if that feels mostly impossible right now.

In the dream, just as we were about to board the flight, I realized that Carl was nowhere to be found. He was most likely meandering, curiously taking in the world and talking on his phone. I was starting to panic. All the moms in my life showed up and began looking for him, having him paged on the airport’s intercom system, spelling out his name, touching the arms of strangers. Everyone was looking for him and, meanwhile, in my mind’s eye I could see him, happy as a lark, drifting in the wrong direction–away from me. He wandered slowly by the airport bookstore, touching the covers as he talked on the phone. He was smiling and enjoying himself. Meanwhile, the pilot was trying to get me to try on different shoes. Some of them were Carl’s shoes and, somehow, Carl was tricking them onto my feet without even being there.

For a long time, I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do for my birthday. I kept asking Carl, “What do YOU think we should do??” Every time he responded by telling me that we should do whatever it was I wanted to do. He would take me anywhere in the world. It would be his gift to me. We were going to make it fit into my impossibly busy pre-exhibition schedule and so I decided we shouldn’t waste too much time on flights and getting over jet-lag. We considered Puerto Rico, the southwest and a million places in between. We’d save a motorcycle trip across Australia or Chile for March, when my show would be complete and Carl would have more time, too. Then my dear friend, Kristine, found out that a gallery would be representing her artwork at Art Basel in Miami Beach, FL. It is a dream come true for her, and (as artists) for both of us, really. Art Basel is a crème de la crème of success in the world of Fine Art. Carl and I decided we would go there–to celebrate Kristine’s success, and also sneak away to celebrate my birthday and each other. On Friday morning, Carl told me he was going to purchase the plane tickets the following Monday.

Monday never happened. On Monday I was helping put a cross by the side of the road where Carl was killed.

So many dreams–vanished–in a puff of cold air. I am lost; I am sometimes floundering; I’m not sure how to proceed. I have enough tears inside of me to fill an eighth ocean.

I took this photo while sitting by Carl’s side on the shore of Lake Superior this past summer. It was one of the happiest moments in my life. I must have told him I loved him a million times that day. We were talking about babies and adventures and all the goodness that we couldn’t wait to step into together. It was ridiculous how good I felt, Carl holding my hand that whole entire day.

I know that miracles dwell in the invisible. The prayer is that I will make myself available to them.

My life continues. I love you, Carl.

{originally published Nov. 22, 2014}

silence.

This morning, I am suspended in silence. The sky is grey and it is snowing. The horses are purring as they eat their hay. It took them a moment to give into their current contentment because I forgot to go to the farm supply store to buy more sweet feed yesterday. These small, but seemingly impossible tasks, they seem to add up. Even so, the horses are forgiving. As I brush snow off their backs and rub their muscles, they bend their giant, gentle necks so that their head can rest against mine. Their eyes are soft. They’ve been particularly sensitive towards me since all of this happened. Sometimes I think they’ve transmuted into elephants, the profundity of their sentience has grown so large.

Horses. They’ve become my healers for the past several years, in significant ways. I reached out to wild horses and started to build a life around them. It didn’t take long and then these two horses, Colorado and Dakota, unexpectedly walked into my life. Again, I reached out to them; I fed and watered and brushed them and, in exchange, they breathed some newfound life into me. Their trails started carving out new paths in my life. The most significant trail led to Carl. If it weren’t for these horses, I’m pretty sure our paths might have missed each other. Or rather, these horses were brought into my life because this was going to happen all along. I feel like this story was written long before either of us could have ever known–our marriage of spirits and Carl’s death and whatever is to come. There is a word that has whispered itself to me often since falling in love with Carl. The word is “Maktub,” an ancient word that means “it is written.” Our relationship has felt this way, to both of us, since the very beginning. We trusted in it completely.

I still trust this. But I’m not yet up to the task of healing. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, staving off this horrible feeling of anxiety that continuously keeps creeping in around the edges. Even so, the horses keep reaching for me. Their reach is so soft and unassuming that the near-imperception is powerful beyond measure. This reaching–from friends and family, strangers and animals–causes moments of lightness and lets the peace sneak back in. Sometimes I even feel Carl wrap his arms around me. He lets me lean backward into his spirit and says: “I love you, baby.” He repeats this as many times as I need to hear it. He tells me to follow my heart. He tells me that I’ll know what to do. But I can’t always feel him and, when I can’t, that’s when the anxiety comes. I plead, “Please God, please God…help me.” And, somehow, maybe these and everyone else’s prayers are working, even when I’m not sure of it at the time. The depth of my grief causes me to clench every muscle, every thought, every movement. But eventually, a softness occurs…my body isn’t built to stay frozen forever.

Even so,
This silence…if it doesn’t already exist, sometimes I create it.

Carl and my life together was always alive and connected with phone conversations and texts and sharing music. It was constant. In the most painful moments, I attempt to hit the mute button, a survival technique that doesn’t help at all. Eventually, the music will want back in. I can’t yet listen to it. Carl filled my life with music, our life together was built of it. For now, for today, I’ll just try to listen to the directions of a friend and attempt to enjoy the snow. I’m grateful for her suggestion. It allows me a way to be at peace with this silence. I love snow. These snowflakes, they are gentle, like Carl.

**the photo of Carl playing mandolin in my studio while i painted. i loved it when our creative spirits found a place to be together.

{originally published Nov 19, 2014}

Carl’s World

Yesterday afternoon I left the protective bubble of Carl’s world. Tending to the details of his life out west, I was comforted by his surroundings and all the intensely wonderful people who filled it. Carl shared everything with me. I feel so blessed that he did that. He cared so much about everyone and I can’t even begin to describe what a gift it’s been to connect with so many of the people that Carl talked about.

I dreaded coming back home. But here I am. I’ve been thinking about this photo all day, a view Carl saw every day. The membrane of that gentle space grew thinner and thinner with each mile that I traveled and this morning I woke up to the raw reality of surroundings. Each breath felt like walking on water–miraculous. I felt dragged down as though filled with jars of dirty coins. This photo did not mean the same to me as it does now. As the day progressed it began to be filled with the goodness of hope and connection. I can feel Carl in all of it–profoundly–and I am reminded that death is a veil, but not an end.

While the body dies, the spirit does not. Let me not forget that those whom I have loved but lost to death are not lost at all. Rather, they dwell in the placid realm beyond time and space. They are not lost to me and I am not lost to them. May a golden cord entwine my heart to those I love who have passed beyond the veil. May my inner eye be opened, that I might see the reality of eternal life. May death not tempt me to forget that what and whom God creates is created forever. Dear God, I place in your hands my sorrow and grief over anyone’s death. May my mind be healed of the delusions of the world, that I might truly see that life goes on forever. May my heart be opened to the higher truth of life unending and so it is…amen…

{originally published Nov 13, 2014}

the proposal

Carl Bratlien, my beautiful, beautiful man. This cannot be real. Please, please, please I want to wake from this horrible dream. I remember the day I took this photo of you. It’s too perfect to be candid and yet it is so very, very real. I was swallowed whole by love and gratitude. It made you so happy to see me happy. You would do anything to help me to feel that way. You were like that for everyone. Oh, but how lucky I am to be the one at the center of your heart, and you in mine. I miss you…a million times a day you said my very most favorite words: “I love you, baby.” Please God, help me to keep hearing those words. Help to keep feeling those big strong arms around me. Help me to keep breathing. Help to transform this loss into something worth more than the pain I feel right now. This man and I, we had big, big plans to make this world just a little bit better place. Please breathe life back into me. Please make the path back to this light clear to me. Please, God, I refuse to let all of this be for nothing. Please, please, please help me find my way.

{originally published Nov 10th, 2014}