I'm grateful for ...Connections

Connection is the energy that is created between people when they feel seen, heard and valued; when they can give and receive without judgment; and when they derive sustenance and strength from the relationship.

Brene Brown

I came across the above Brene Brown quote the other day and since then have been thinking about all of the little connections we create throughout our lifetimes that help us make meaning of our days.  I realize how grateful I am for each and every one of the connections that make up my life. Some of them are old with deep roots that have only strengthened as the years have passed by.  Some of them are newer, and with that comes the excitement and anticipation when something new is on the horizon and we realize we have a chance to build something meaningful.  

There's an interesting paradox about connections in practice and how they can occur both sporadically, as well as on a more regular basis. Think about old friends who you don't see for years and years and yet you are able to pick up and start right into a conversation as if no time has passed. You see and are seen.  Or think about the person you meet at a party whom you manage to have a deep and meaningful conversation with all evening. You may never see them again, but somehow during that conversation you saw and were seen, and you carry that connection forward. And then of course, there's your partner or circle of close friends you see on a more day-to-day basis whom you derive regular sustenance and strength from.

After Matthew died, my husband and I were amazed at the outpouring of support we received. We felt held and loved at a time when we had been stripped down to our must vulnerable selves. Friends' love and support was essential to helping us walk through those early days, weeks and months and I see now how healing it was. As alone as we felt in our grief, we felt supported from near and far as we made our way through a dark and unwelcome tunnel.  People from our past and present came forward to let us know that we weren't alone. People who would soon become a part of our future lives stepped forward with arms outspread. It was humbling and oh so appreciated.

The lesson I hope I've passed on to my own children is to create real friendships and connections that will sustain you throughout both the good and the difficult times. Value those people who, like Brene Brown says, really see and hear you (and make sure you see and hear them too). My dearest friends are those people with whom I have a two-way friendship. It's a mutual sharing, a reciprocal back and forth. We all know people who are takers. They have an inability to go beyond themselves. Sometimes they can be interesting (especially in the beginning), but for the long haul they just aren't there for you. And one of the nice things about being over 50 is the realization that I don't need to spend time with them anymore. Life is too short to be in one-sided relationships. 
  
Building relationships that are life affirming and heart-filled are essential to my very existence. I wouldn't be who I am today without all of the amazing people I've connected with and continue to connect with on my journey. These sparks of connection truly help light my path. I'll end with a favorite Marge Piercy poem that was actually one of the readings at Matthew's bar mitzvah. Four close friends read the four different stanzas and I find its words continue to resonate with me.

The Seven of Pentacles

Under a sky the color of pea soup

she is looking at her work growing away there

actively, thickly like grapevines or pole beans

as things grow in the real world, slowly enough.

If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,

if you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,

if the sun shines and you pick off caterpillars,

if the praying mantis comes and the lady bugs and the bees,

then the plants flourish, but at their own internal clock.

Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.

You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.

More than half a tree is spread out in the soil under your feet.

Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.

Fight persistently as the creeper that brings down the tree.

Spread like the squash plant that overruns the garden.

Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make sugar.

Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.

Live a life you can endure:  make love that is loving.

Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,

a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us

interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.

Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen:

reach out, deep reaching out, keep bringing in.

This is how we are going to live for a long time:  not always,

for every gardener knows that after the digging, after the planting,

after the long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.

-Marge Piercy-

Some Days Are Just Hard (Part 2)

The presence of that absence is everywhere.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

For people who have been reading Grief & Gratitude for a while, this post may sound vaguely familiar. Last August, I wrote a post called Some Days Are Just Hard. Recently I was asked to revamp it for the Compassionate Friends National Magazine, and so here it is in its new form. It's twice as long and (I hope) reads less like a blog post and more like an article. For those of you who don't know, Compassionate Friends is a national organization that supports families who have lost a child. I am honored to have my article run in their magazine We Need Not Walk Alone.

I also want to say that although this article deals specifically with my experience of losing a child, I believe its sentiment is applicable to the many different types of losses we experience in a lifetime.  For reasons that are not always apparent, some days are just hard.

So here is the "revamped" Some Days Are Just Hard: 

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Losing a child is indescribably painful. As any bereaved parent will tell you, the death of a child leaves a huge line running through our lives with “before and after” etched forever in our memories. Days that were previously filled with promise and vitality suddenly seem empty and hopeless. Gradually we come to accept that our lives will never return to what they once were and that some days are just hard.


In October 2010, we lost our previously healthy 21-year-old son Matthew to a form of virulent strep. What initially masked itself as a severe case of pneumonia, was in fact a form of strep that attacked his bi-cuspid aortic heart valve, necessitating valve replacement surgery. But when they actually went in, they found the damage was far more extensive than they thought. And while Matthew survived the surgery (mostly due to his youth), he never regained consciousness. He spent the last week of his life in a coma, before he died on October 22.


Before that ill-fated day in October I don’t think I had ever known such sadness and hurt. As anyone who has lost a child will tell you, the pain is simultaneously acute and chronic. It’s so piercing and constant you can hardly breathe; it’s as if a cement block has been permanently placed on your chest. You don’t think it will ever go away. Grieving becomes a way of coping with the tremendous loss that now makes up our lives. And while the jagged edges of my own grief have begun to smooth out a bit, I also know that it will always be with me and forever define my family.


One thing I’ve come to accept over the past two and a half years is that some days are just hard. During the first year, I came to fully expect that every day was hard. Those early days slogged by at a surreal pace. Grief was ever-present and seemed to hold time at bay. As we approached the first anniversary of Matthew's death in 2011, things shifted a bit, time picked up and the acute days of grieving became less frequent, although the chronic grief remains.


Now I notice that there's no anticipating when grief will sneak up and wash over me like a rogue wave. It just happens. It can be a song, a special place, a type of food or just a memory suddenly slides into your subconscious and all you can think about is the tremendous hole that now fills your life. I can be having coffee with a friend and laughing one minute, and find my eyes filling with tears the next. And that’s okay. In fact, it just brings Matthew closer to me for that moment.


I think for bereaved parents our grief lies just below the surface. Even when I'm laughing or absorbed in a conversation, if you were to scratch me just a little bit, my grief would come bubbling up. I've come to view grief not as the enemy, but rather as an emotion that I now can acknowledge and move into. I know eventually she'll go back under and I'll just carry her around with me, hidden from other’s view, but always there.


In the movie Rabbit Hole, there’s a scene between Nicole Kidman (Becca) and her mother Dianne Weist (Nat) that stayed with me long after the closing credits. Becca and Nat are bereaved parents, and while Becca sees their circumstances as completely different (her four-year-old son was killed in an accident, while her brother died of a drug overdose), she and her mother now share the commonality of being bereaved mothers:

Becca: Does it ever go away?

Nat: No, I don't think it does. Not for me, it hasn't, and that's going on eleven years. It changes, though.

Becca: How?

Nat: I don't know... the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and... carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you... you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and - there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be awful - But not all the time. It's kinda... not that you like it exactly, but it's what you have instead of your son, so you don't wanna let go of it either. So you carry it around. And it doesn't go away, which is...

Becca: What?

Nat: Fine... actually.

This exchange sums up for me, how so many of us carry the grief of our beloved children with us. I bring this up to remind people that for those of us who have lost a child, our grief is present, even if you don’t see it. It doesn't go away, even with the passage of time. It doesn't go away even if we seem "better." With time the intense pain subsides, but our grief, like our love, is always there. And that's okay. The beauty of the human spirit is that we have a remarkable ability to continue on, even in the most adverse of conditions. But we will always mourn our children. We don't want them to be forgotten. Ever. Our memories of them are all we have.


Since Matthew died, I’ve learned that you do begin to put your life back together again, bit-by-bit, piece-by-piece. Its form is different, but it is still a life. It continues to have shape and meaning, and part of that new shape is formed by the memory of our loved ones. That memory is present all the time, looking over your shoulder helping you restructure this new construct. Grief is transformational. My grief has changed me in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. I am more mindful of things, big and small, happy and sad. I don’t take anything for granted. I’ve learned to embrace the paradox of unfathomable loss and profound gratitude for living. I continue to feel Matthew’s presence as we all rebuild our lives without his physical body here.


Some days are just hard. Some days grief rises up and reminds me that she’s still there. She reminds me that grieving Matthew will always be a pivotal part of my life.  That’s okay. I also know that I will move through it and feel better soon. I know that life continues on, almost with a renewed sense of purpose. And for that I’m grateful. I’ve come to embrace yet another paradox of life, knowing that our hearts can be both full and broken at the same time.

Some More Book Recommendations

“When we cast our bread upon the waters, we can presume that someone downstream whose face we will never know will benefit from our action, as we who are downstream from another will profit from that grantor's gift.” 

-Maya Angelou

I have recently read a number of really thought-provoking, well-written books that I'd like to share. Two of them are fiction, two are non-fiction. All of them opened up new worlds to me and left me in a better place than I was before I read them. Books are one of my great pleasures and I can't imagine a time where I'm not in the midst of at least a couple. So here are some of my most recent finds:

Mink River by Brian Doyle. 

Wow, this book grabbed me, swept me up and left me wanting more. It takes place in a fictional Oregon coastline town filled with quirky, wonderful characters. There's a mixture of Native American and Irish cultures, and you quickly become involved in the lives of the people of Neawanaka. There's a sense of community and shared history amongst the inhabitants that makes one yearn for a slower life filled with deep connections. Everyone's stories are intertwined. There's also a wise crow named Moses and a bear that reads the New York Times. But what made Mink River so magical for me was the amazing language that spilled forth on the page. It's lyrical and poetic, and caused me to re-read more than a few passages. Here's an example. It's a passage that takes place between the man who only has 6 days left to live and the young boy Daniel (this is only part of a very long, delicious paragraph): 

These things matter to me, son. The way hawks huddle their shoulders angrily against hissing snow. Wrens whirring in the bare bones of bushes in winter. The way swallows and swifts veer and whirl and swim and slice and carve and curve and swerve. The way that frozen dew outlines every blade of grass. Salmonberries thimbleberries cloudberries snowberries elderberries salalberries gooseberries. My children learning to read. My wife’s voice velvet in my ear at night in the dark under the covers...

Treat yourself to Mink River; you won't regret it.

The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey

This is a first novel by an Alaskan woman whom I think we will be hearing more from. The Snow Child takes place in Alaska in the 1920's and focuses on a homesteading couple-Jack and Mabel.  Jack and Mabel are slowly drifting apart by a shared loss in their past, and the realities of living in Alaska. Their lives seem bleak and isolated.  One day, they glimpse a mystical little girl who seems to have arisen from the snow girl they built the day before. She brings hope and love back into their lives. Like Mink River, The Snow Child's language drew me in to a special place; it was such a perfect read for me on those dark January nights. I wouldn't say it's a summer read, but definitely put it on your list for next winter when you can settle in with it and a cup of hot tea. 

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness by Michelle Alexander

This book should be mandatory reading for everyone in the United States. That may sound glib and overreaching, but it had a profound impact on me. To say it is eye opening is an understatement. It's a damning critique on the War on Drugs and shows how we have systematically targeted black men, incarcerating them for drug-related offenses, while whites have (for the most part) avoided this same fate. The results on communities of color are simply devastating.   The New Jim Crow will both educate and enrage you. We need to have open conversations about the War on Drugs (which is a failure) and the resulting criminal-justice policies. I learned things that were incredibly dismaying about how our system continues to perpetuate racism. Would it have been easier to have not read this book? Absolutely. But I much prefer having my eyes opened to this injustice that continuing on "colorblind."

The Still Point of the Turning World by Emily Rapp

"Grief, we understood, would now hijack a part of our day for the rest of our lives, sneaking in, making the world momentarily stop, every day, forever." 

I just finished The Still Point of the Turning World this afternoon and feel like I've spent time with a kindred spirit. Emily Rapp is a writer whose world was turned upside down with the diagnosis of Tay Sachs in her baby boy, Ronan. Tay Sachs is a rare, terminal disease that strikes babies and they don't survive past the age of three. In this book, Emily manages to write while dealing with the diagnosis. She finishes the book before her dear Ronan dies, although he died this past February. 

You might wonder if this is a book for bereaved parents only, and I would argue no. Rapp chronicles Ronan's life while also trying to understand and seek the overall meaning of life. She reminds us that we are all mortal, that we all will die eventually. She reminds us to live in the present:

"Planners, I decided, are about planning to be immortal, and we'll all assume that we'll get another day, another week, another year. It's part of how we pretend we won't die. But when you have lived with and cared for and loved a child who is actively dying (or at least dying more quickly than the rest of us are), you learn to live in the present moment."

I understand so much of what she writes. It is her struggle to make sense of Ronan's life, of her life and ultimately of all of our lives. It is raw and emotional, and reminded me of Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. Rapp challenges us to find beauty in even the most difficult and painful of circumstances, and to appreciate life's fragility while living in it as boldly as possible. She doesn't want our pity, but instead dares us to live with more awareness and open hearts.

I hope you will feel free to share some books with me. And if you are buying books, please try and buy from your local independent bookstore! 

Hope

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all - 

Emily Dickinson

Sunrise over Seattle last week.

Last week, I found myself in a few conversations that kept circling around and ultimately landing on the theme of hope. I always find it interesting when "themes" like this emerge in different contexts and with different people. It makes me take note and pay attention. Anyway, it got me thinking about hope and the role it plays in my life (and perhaps yours).

All of us have experienced feelings of hopefulness and conversely, hopelessness. Hopelessness can come about because of small annoyances such as a flat tire on the way to an important meeting, or missing a flight because you've misread the departure time or dropping and breaking a favorite heirloom bowl of your grandmother's. When these types of things happen we feel dismayed and a bit hopeless, even as we recognize how trivial they may be. Life takes a wrong turn and momentarily sets us off course.

But what about those big moments where hope seems to disappear altogether? For me, this happened when the ICU doctor brought us into a private room and, with tears silently falling down his face, told us that the care Matthew was receiving was "futile care." In that moment, hope flew out the window and stayed away for a long time. For others, it might be hearing the words "it's cancer," or "our marriage is over," or "you're fired." It might be a knock on the door late at night only to find a police officer on your porch. It might be a depression that has settled over you, unwelcome and unyielding. Most likely, all of us at some point will experience moments when life as you know it ceases to exist and you find yourself on a new path that seems dark, foreboding and hopeless. 

As anyone who has experienced these moments knows, it affects your ability to see beyond yourself and see a future. The hopes and dreams you once had are buried and it's enough to just get out of bed each day and face a world that has been undeniably changed. 

But one of the remarkable things about humans is that hope does reappear. It may not be for months or even years, but slowly something begins to emerge. It can be triggered by something as "ordinary" as a spectacular sunrise that takes your breath away. It can emerge by witnessing an especially poignant exchange between two people. It can surface by hearing the uncontained laughter of children or the cries of a newborn. Or it can just be that your broken heart feels lighter. Whatever it is, all of a sudden you find that the dark path you've been on begins to have a bit of light shed for you to find your way again. The days that used to stretch out interminably before you now seem shorter and more manageable. Tomorrow seems possible and today seems doable. You have hope again.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I felt the hopelessness begin to lift and I began to feel hopeful again. It was probably towards the end of that first year. But I did begin to feel my hopes rise again despite the deep loss our family had experienced. Old dreams gave way to new ones, and the path is becoming clearer. There may be setbacks and detours along the way, but at least hope helps me continue on the journey.

God put rainbows in the clouds so that each of us-in the dreariest and most dreaded moments-can see a possibility of hope.

Maya Angelou

Things I'm grateful for this Spring

As long as the Earth can make a spring every year, I can. As long as the Earth can flower and produce nurturing fruit, I can, because I'm the Earth. I won't give up until the Earth gives up.

-Alice Walker

For the past few days I've been mulling over different ideas for a blog post and coming up a bit short. I have lots of thoughts swirling around, but nothing I feel like really fleshing out into a long post. So today's writing will be more of a rambling series of things I feel grateful for (in no particular order).

I'm Grateful for...

Spring 

For me, each season ushers in hope and new possibilities. While winter is never the easiest season (mostly due to the darkness than anything else), I know that only by experiencing the dark can I truly appreciate the light. Just as I know that only by layering on clothes through the winter months, can I really savor the warmth of the sun on my skin in the summer. So when I see those crocuses popping their little heads up in the damp soil, or hear the chickadees singing their songs in the early morning, or hear the croaking of frogs at dusk, I know that we've made it through another winter. Spring has arrived and I find I am in a more hopeful place, and being in a more hopeful place makes my steps lighter on the journey.

Passover

The coinciding of Passover and Western Washington University's Spring break made it so that both my kids were able to come home for the Seder. For the first time since Matthew died, I felt ready to host a Seder, and thirteen of us gathered around our table to tell the age-old story. There is nothing like longtime friends sitting together with the ease that comes from years of friendship. As my friend Kellan said "The story and experience of Passover always reminds me how deep joy and sadness coexist, how we can't know one without the other, and I seem to relearn that same lesson anew every year, in a new and different way." This is so very true. As I looked across the table at the capable, young adults seated there-aged 19 to 25-I was struck by how quickly life passes by. Wasn't it just yesterday that we gathered for Seders where the kids could barely sit still long enough to get through the first cup of wine (or grape juice)? Now they are in college and beyond, setting out on their own journeys, no longer tied to ours. How did that happen? Where did the time go?

The "Kids"

The Meditation Challenge

The Deepak Chopra 21-Day Meditation Challenge was over on Sunday and it, as I had hoped, provided the necessary framework and "kick start" I needed to incorporate a daily practice of meditation into my life. From day one, I was hooked and found I looked forward to starting each day with a guided meditation from Deepak. Now, two days on my own, I find that I continue to want to begin my day this way so that I can start it refreshed and more balanced. It helps remind me to be grateful for what I do have and choose to live with an open-heart awareness. I hope I can keep it up.

A New Writing Group

I'm very excited to once again be a part of a writing group. This one is especially poignant in that it is made up of bereaved mothers, most of whom I have met since I have been on this journey. While we are all at different stages, we all feel like we have a story to tell. I so look forward to meeting with this amazing group of women twice a month (thank you Reba, Karen, Teri and Stefanie for being a part of my life). 

Co-facilitating a Grief Support Group

A couple of months ago, I began co-facilitating a grief support group that meets twice a month. I am not an expert by any means, but see myself as a companion to others who have experienced deep loss in their lives. I am so grateful to the participants who come together and I always walk away in awe of the courage and sheer moxie it takes to continue on in even the most difficult of circumstances. I feel I will learn much from everyone.

A Good Television Show

Okay, now for something more trivial. I admit that my husband and I love to have a good show going. Right now we are almost finished with the first (and only) season of Netflix's series House of Cards. It stars Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright and is totally diabolical, dark and addicting ;-). Before this, we watched and loved Downton Abbey. In the late fall we viewed the two seasons of Homeland (loved the first season, disappointed in the second), and in October watched (and loved!) all five seasons of The Wire (truly one of the best shows I have ever watched). If you have suggestions for our next show, please send them my way! We're going to need something new very soon.

Pets

For those of you who are on Facebook with me, you'll know that last week we lost our almost 16-year-old dog Edgar. He'd been with our family since he was eight weeks old, and was dearly beloved. Both Edgar and our other dog Sierra (who died last year) are the dogs of Matthew, Jordan and Aviva's childhoods, and they have many happy memories of them. I've noticed that many of my friends are now losing the pets they had when their children were young. It's that darn passage of time that can't be stopped.  However, lest you think our house is completely animal-free, you'll be interested to know that last August we picked up two kittens-Tikka and Mazzie. They are adorable, full of energy and the best of friends. I'm grateful for the cat energy that now fills our house these days.

Tikka and Mazzie in a rare moment of stillness

Baseball
I've written before how I feel about baseball. So all I want to say right now is how hopeful I feel right now (one day into the season) as the Mariners stand at 1 and 0. That's all.
 
So these are a few of the things that have been rumbling around my brain. Quite honestly I could go on and on, but think that brevity is my friend in this case. I will write another blog post about some books I've been reading, as I love to pass along good reads. In the meantime, I hope that spring has made its way to your part of the world, if not the actual season then the sentiment. Namaste.

Grief & Gratitude-The First Anniversary

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Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom.

-Rumi

Today marks the first anniversary of Grief & Gratitude. I started G & G because I knew how much writing helped me work through my grief the first year after my son Matthew died. I didn’t share my writing from that first year with anyone; it was just too personal and too difficult. But somewhere around the fifteenth month, I realized that I was ready to write in a more public forum. I sensed that my words were no longer just being hurled down from a mountaintop of despair, but were actually beginning to have a restorative effect on my soul. The jagged edges of my grief were beginning to smooth out a bit, and I felt I might have something to share from my ongoing journey. I had previously written a blog reviewing children’s books (The Book Nosher) so I was comfortable with that forum. Seventeen months after Matthew died, I started Grief & Gratitude.

I don’t think I really knew how the blog would unfold or who would be reading it. One year later it’s still a work in progress, and there are weeks I’m not really sure what to write.  I went back and looked at what I said in my first post and saw that I ended with this:

“…writing is an outlet for me and I hope through writing about the little things that help keep me afloat, I will show the immense transformational power of grief and loss.” I hope I’ve done that.

I continue to be in awe of how transformational grief can be. It is certainly a paradox that from our great losses we can find the simplest of truths. Being grateful for what is before us right now sounds so ordinary, but in fact it's really quite extraordinary. I know it's not always the easiest concept to tap into.  But when I sit still with my own grief this is what I always come back to: the present is the only guarantee we really have.

I find myself drawn to working with other bereaved people and have started co-facilitating a grief support group in my community.  I will also soon start making grief support check-in calls through hospice. I certainly don’t see myself as some sort of expert, but I do know I am able sit with people when they are in that difficult place and hear their stories. I can be present with them. I know I can’t fix their situation but am willing to be a companion with them on their grief journey.

When I began Grief & Gratitude, I wasn’t really sure who would be interested in reading my words. I thought that perhaps other bereaved parents would find something in them that they could relate to. And I am so grateful to all of the bereaved parents who have contacted me; I know what courage it takes to just put one foot in front of the other after the loss of a child. But now I realize that we all experience different types of losses throughout our lives—big and small. It can sometimes help to be reminded of the small things in life that can make us remember what it is to be human. So as I embark on the second year of this blog, I hope to continue writing about grief  and loss, as well as some of those daily moments of gratitude, which certainly have proven to be a fellow traveler with me on this journey. Thank you all for taking the time out of your busy lives to read this blog. I am truly honored and grateful that you’ve stopped by.  

The Challenge of Meditation

To make the right choices in life, you have to get in touch with your soul. To do this, you need to experience solitude, which most people are afraid of, because in the silence you hear the truth and know the solutions.

Deepak Chopra

It seems like wherever you turn you hear about the benefits of meditation and mindfulness.  Articles abound. And while I tend to be leery of things when there's so much hype, I think it's pretty hard to ignore the fact that meditation has been around for thousands of years and will continue on for thousands more (with or without all of the hoopla). Studies have shown that a regular practice of meditation can aid in lowering blood pressure, improve our immune systems and brain functions, and minimize pain sensitivity. A regular practice of meditation can be extremely beneficial to our overall well being.

After Matthew died, both my husband and I took a mindfulness meditation series. We were looking for something that would help us learn to calm our minds, and possibly ease the pain of grief we were feeling. The fragility and impermanence of life had been thrust upon us and we needed something to help us find meaning in it all. We both found mindfulness meditation to be incredibly helpful. And while my husband has continued on with a regular meditation routine, I have been spotty in my own practice. Yet I know when I meditate first thing in the morning, I feel better all day long. So last Sunday evening, I happened upon an article by Deepak Chopra called the 7 Myths of Meditation. It had a lot of good points and it re-inspired me to try again. At the end of the article they had a 21-Day Meditation Challenge, which I immediately signed up for. It all seemed quite fortuitous as the challenge was to begin the following day (Monday, March 11), and I was ready. For me, "challenges" work really well as they help me set up a routine that can otherwise elude me.

So far I'm four days into the challenge, and I have managed to meditate every day. Each morning I receive an e-mail  with a "Centering Thought" for the day. The thought for today was "I trust the wisdom of my body." Deepak Chopra does a nice introduction for each thought (he has a very soothing voice), and then you have the meditation. It's been a lovely, centering way to start my day. Two of the mornings I've meditated in the quiet room on the ferry and found the gentle rocking to be a really nice companion to the meditation. If you are interested in participating in the Challenge, their website says that it's not too late to join. 

For me, I find it far too easy to get distracted by things on the internet, my phone and all of the "conveniences" that seem to be a part of life in 2013. I have found that by living more mindfully, the ubiquitous chatter and clutter begin to fall away. It's amazing that by sitting quietly for just fifteen minutes a day, one can start to achieve a calm and quiet mind. With practice, the ability to be more mindful and live more in the moment is attainable.

Finally, while I'm on the subject of mindfulness I do want to share one of the  grief books that I turned to a lot during that first year. It's called "Grieving Mindfully" by Sameet Kumar. If you have the need for a grief book, or know someone who might benefit from one, I highly recommend this one. His words resonated with me at the time (and still do).  I'll end with a quote:  

Mindfulness helps you develop a sense of patience with and acceptance of the ups and downs of grief. As you continue on your grief journey, your practice of mindfulness meditation and mindfulness activities also deepens. This is in part because grief heightens your awareness of life in general, as does mindfulness. Each moment develops a delicate, precious potential that is far beyond our tendency to take "small" things for granted and live in anticipation of future tasks and events. (p.144).