I just came in from sitting outside a bit ago…
I was sitting on the bench out front where my dad and I used to sit on summer afternoons, watching the sprinklers come on.
(If you’ve known me for very long you probably know the story behind this. If not, you can read it here:
He walks out the front door every afternoon. His body is dignified in the way he moves. His dark, close set eyes are focused with determination, as he carefully makes each step down from the front door. He grips the black, cast iron railing, the way he used to hold his tennis racquet in preparation for a powerful serve.
Before the strike of terminal illness, my dad didn’t sit – he could do everything faster and with more coordination than anyone else: running, biking, shooting hoops, and playing catch. Gradually that changed. He was forced to slow down and each step in itself became a challenge. As a recent college graduate, I had moved to Portland to spend time with my family. I admire the courage he showed in the face of great difficulty.
I follow along behind him, just the two of us, making our way past the railings that anchor our journey. The sun is at its brightest, directly overhead. We sit on the smooth, ceramic bench, with the coral cushion beneath us. The bench feels sturdy and strong. We are grounded and safe, side by side. There is silence before the small, tube-like sprinklers with edges of corrugated plastic rise in unison, evenly spaced throughout the yard. We made it just in time. With a rush, water bursts forth from the tiny hole atop each sprinkler and forms a strong mist that fans out in all directions. On a timer, the sprinklers were consistent. The routine brought comfort and familiarity.
A smile of delight appears on his face as he motions with a steady hand towards the radiance born when water and sunlight collide. Side by side, we watch the moments of our lives, held in water droplets, as they dance through the air. Each one flies up in firework fashion, and then falls gracefully to the grass to make room for the next. A Quaking Aspen stands tall in the background with leaves fluttering in the breeze against a brilliant blue sky.
I watched as he appreciated this moment as if it were his first and his last all at the same time. He was captivated by the wonder of something so simple that, under other circumstances, we would not consider stopping to observe. Today sunlight hitting water is a reminder that life is as extraordinary as we allow it to be.
Sitting on the bench today, it was as if I could watch, and feel, the moments playing out again in my mind, in my living memory — my mind’s eye. And as I sat there, marveling at how special this felt, I was reminded of how powerful this is, writing about loved ones we have lost.
It creates a sacred and special bond. It is a way for the memory to live on more fully than ever…more so than if we leave it to just hopefully stay and flourish within our hearts.
The love is already there. But the story is the magic that holds in together, that helps us to FEEL it and remember it once again.
The love lives within you. The story redirects you home.
To that special and sacred space within you where that bond of what you and your loved one shared lives forever.
And it would be my honor and my privilege to share this program with you.
My heart feels a call to share. And I trust it.
I know I am meant to share this because it feels so strong and gentle in my bones.
So, join me. Whether you join a group or decide to work with me one-on-one, I can promise it will be an adventure you will never forget.
And that you will come away with something that will always lead you back home.
Prices are all introductory, of course, right now since I’m just getting started so I’d love to have you play with me. I’d love to have you say yes to this idea and stirring inside of you that you may be feeling now.
If you feel it, then please, sign up, reach out, do whatever you need to do…but do not let this sacred moment pass you by.
What might be available for me, how might it feel to reach out and spend some time writing about my loved one?
How would it feel to write something to capture a moment or memory we shared?
How would it feel to create a physical and tangible reminder of my loved one and all that they mean to me?
How would it feel to capture some of my authentic experience and have something to help me find meaning and comfort…a light throughout this time?
Your answers to these questions will help give you some insight as to whether or not this program might be a beautiful blessing of support for you right now.
Just as I said, this sacred moment right now is yours, just like those moments with my dad and me watching the water droplets.
You get to decide what you do with your moments, your memories, let’s take them and create something that truly honors your loved one, together.
Much love to you, now and always,