Hey grief. I haven’t had much time for you today and you’ve been pissed, I can tell, so I thought a conversation might do us good.

I’m not angry, I’m simply present and you already know that ignoring me doesn’t work.

I know. I’ve had a hard time juggling today with Steve coming home, Ada, my needs, what was on the calendar…

So what did you put first?

Ummm…the calendar, Ada…not me.

Exactly. You put yourself last and as a result, no one was happy.

I know. My heart hurts. When will my heart stop hurting?

When it’s time. And then it will hurt again. That is the human experience.

Why this? Why now? Why me?

Let’s take those one at a time.

Why this? Because you needed grief as a  teacher. Because this is simply how it worked best. You have big lessons to learn and though you were heading slowly in the right direction, it was time to really move into them. Benjamin was the way.

Why now? You’ve been preparing for this for many years. You have all the tools you need to grow into yourself if you choose to use them. There is something for you to learn here and it is, simply, the right time.

Why me? Because you’ve realized the difference between special and unique. Because you have accepted – have begun to accept – ordinary. And in the ordinariness of being the only you among billions of only them’s, you are gaining the freedom to live the vision you don’t even know you have yet.

I guess that’s my biggest question. Well, two are coming to mind. What’s next and what’s the end result?

Yes. It is human to want to know that. In the same way you were given the message “All is well” even though the baby you were carrying would die, I can give you what you need to hear now. Which is simply to keep finding your voice. Dig deeper. Give me the space I need. Ada will be fine. Steve will be fine. You will shine. Trust. Trust. Trust. As for the end result, like every single person who is born into this experience you have many gifts. How you choose to polish them, use them, and share them is up to you. I am here because you need me. I am here because I too am love. You and I are one. Oneness is what you are moving toward. The teachers will appear when you need them as I have done. Honor us. Listen to us. Move through us. All is well. Remember that. Deepen, deepen, into your heart. Soften, it is cracking open, let it go.  Allow the pieces to fall into place, take the step that feels right, and walk in trust.

Sitting on the floor, hugging a pillow, crying.

So much to say.

Nothing to say.

This just is.

Struggling with epic exhaustion and frustration tonight, I stepped away from convincing my very dirty, strong willed 3 year old that a bath was a good idea and wandered to the book shelf in search of direction. Heading toward Conversations with God and hoping for divine intervention, my eyes were pulled to a name a few books over. Mary Oliver’s Why I Wake Early. Hmm…curious.

I had no idea I owned any Mary Oliver poetry and had made a mental note yesterday? today? that I needed some. The book’s thickness felt wrong in my hands and I opened it to find a card tucked inside the front cover. The date was April 2004. It must have been a gift from my wedding shower in Omaha, from one of my lovely mother-in-law’s lovely friends, somehow lost in the shuffle of china and flatware, frying pans and crystal. Six and a half years this book had waited for me to hold it, appreciate it, love it.

Here are the words that changed the tenor of my evening. Thank you, Ms. Oliver, for helping me let go of expectations and find even more room for love. (My apologies – the formatting is off and I’m too tired to figure out  how to make it right).

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?

There are things you can’t reach. But

you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,

out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing

from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around

as though with  your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some

shining coil of wind,

or a few leaves from any old tree–

they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.

Everything in the world

comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish: the unlooping snake.

Like goldfinches, little dolls of gold

fluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.

I am sensing a subtle shift in the way the world works, and the way I exist within it. I could use the word manifesting. I’ve probably overused the word as though uttering it would speed the process. Now that I am in the midst of it, this feels less like it has anything to do with effort, with making something happen, and more like connecting to what is already there and oh so simply, receiving.

I have a thought, let it go and days, or moments, later an answer appears – an email, a potential new home, an inspiration. The people I need are appearing in my life like magic. When I get out of my own way, when I connect to the deepest part of my heart, the path seems clear.

Then my head gets involved and clouds roll in like the marine layer over my beach-front home. I get lost in old  habits, old thought patterns, old fears. Grief plays an interesting role in all of this. When I allow myself to stay present with it, when I stop fighting, it opens me up and hands me beauty alongside the tears. When I dig my heels in, disallow trust, or look the other way, the clouds thicken and I crave chocolate, red wine, escape.

Something deep inside me started to move today. A violation that has lived in my body for over three decades began to surface in a new, visceral way. I went from a place of pure love, to great fear, to deepening understanding. While my daughter is the teacher, perhaps the healer, I know that my son paved the way. The ravages of grief have stripped me of layers and years of protection so that my core is being touched. My innocence was twisted, darkened, abused. The innocence I see in my daughter, the beauty and purity of her being is pulling monsters to the surface in a way that no therapy can do.

What is dying to be born? is a question that was asked by Danielle LaPorte in a post this past March. Her words turned up in a random email search I did yesterday, unread all those months ago, waiting patiently for the moment I could ask it myself.

What is dying to be born?

So much. Deep breath. So much.

While the specifics begin to take shape the big picture is clear. Benjamin died so that I could be reborn. I will honor that gift until my last breath.