Trains pass this house many times a day and sound their horns at the crossings. They blend into the soundscape of birds, wind moving through pines, settling walls. My boy and I have new rhythms and new favorites, new jobs and new home offices. He learns to drive on a cherry red Ford pickup. We spend time with sisters, cousins, and uncles. Our voices echo through empty rooms with bare floors and walls. ...
Friday morning. Quiet, soul-enriching playlist on Spotify and my hands in the dirt, propagating life in the only way available to me now.
I saw your ghost standing at the top of the steps last night. (your dark hair reflected the beams of that hunter’s moon) You looked down, head tilted, smiling. You walked a few slow paces, stopped. I watched you move from the corner of my eye but did not turn to face you. My ears filled with the roar of my own heart’s blood and I heard nothing else. ...
Surgery would never be my first choice to treat any dysfunction. But sometimes our bodies need raw, physical intervention to function properly, and are opened, and our insides are rearranged by skilled doctors with the best of intentions. As I write this, a loved one of mine is snuggled up in his bed, recovering from his second surgery in three months. Nothing life-threatening, but surgery nonetheless. His recovery will include several days spent in bed, followed by several weeks of crutches and physical therapy. I’m by no means an expert on natural healing (really I have so much to learn) but I believe in the power of preventative care, am learning more and more about nutrition as medicine, and am wide open to ancient and naturopathic healing wisdom. I thought it might be worth sharing about how I prepare our home for convalescence, and the natural remedies I use to encourage rest and healing. ...
Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. — William Morris We are moving in two months, so I am taking William Morris’ words to heart. I am making choices, selling off, giving away. I feel stripped down to a ribbon inside. I move from room to room, pulling items out of corners and closets. I hold each thing in my hand, feel its weight, and I whisper to myself: And this? Does this matter to you? Will its loss tear through you, leave you broken and wanting? ...
I work with my hands to heal: A pencil roll for my sweet artist. New cotton coasters to protect wood. A Minecraft t-shirt repurposed into a journal for a birthday gift to a friend. Pages of pen and ink mandalas, to quiet my mind.
Taken while going a little stir-crazy during my recovery.
“…and being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” ~ Luke 22:44 I clear the dinner plates from the table, pile them into the sink and begin to rinse them off when the crushing weight of remembering hits me again, making my heart thump heavy. In three days my mind will know nothing. The night before, I lay curled on our bed, weeping, terrible fear smothering reason. I asked John what happens to our souls when we are under anesthesia. He pulled wet ribbons of hair off of my cheeks and said our souls sleep, honey, we just go to sleep so we don’t feel pain. ...