wings
I have grown accustomed to witnessing wings of feather land throughout the day, feasting upon cages of seed and suet. Our yard has become a dependable place for nourishment, especially when food sources are the most scarce.
There was a time when few birds bridged the threshold between air and our land. Patience and consistency were required to create a sanctuary that would entice birds to develop a steady flight pattern to our feeders. This wasn't rocket science, simply provide an ample supply of food and the hungry will arrive.
I have only recently stumbled upon the realization that long before this daily migration, these birds had always been present, simply hidden from my sight, feeding in someone else's yard.
After living in Oregon for over thirty years, we have traversed the Columbia River Gorge countless times. The majority of these trips were to visit family in Pullman, Washington, the city of my birth. It has taken me many years to drive this stretch of highway without fear of disaster. Despite its beautiful vistas, there is a sense of reckless abandon when tethered to cruise control, the asphalt seems to disappear and the focal points are fir trees and choppy water dotted with windsurfers. However, the treks over the last several months have proven to draw my mind and eyes away from the terrain.
Last week, we traveled those relentlessly winding roads again, through fog and patches of sun. It was our first time returning to my hometown since saying goodbye to my father. I knew it would bring depth to the reality of his absence. I had braced myself for feelings of sadness and grief once I entered my parents' home and looked into my mother’s face etched with beauty and loss. But I found a captive audience is easier prey as we hadn't traveled more than an hour before the fluttering of emotions landed.
I think grief is a bit like the birds of my yard. They weren't always there but now they are. Perhaps there was only the hint or whisper of outstretched wings overhead. Then one day a source becomes visible enough for them to flock and partake.
The interesting thing about grief is when it seems to hides, loosening its grip, its presence remains. I am grateful when grief yields a sliver to give access to laughter. When grief arrives, from a song, a familiar winding road, a calendar date, or any manner of memories descending from the sky, I summon the courage to allow it to access my heart.
I think it is impossible to live in this world, especially last year’s closed-door world, and not be familiar with grief. It doesn’t have to be the loss of a loved one for it to land in the branches of your life. It could stem from a dream deferred, a handful of regrets, hardships, the finality of a relationship or job, disappointments, or any number of reasons.
We need one another as grief is either landing on our own branches or nestling in someone else’s yard.
If you find yourself in a place of grief or perhaps the stay-at-home time has revealed hidden places of sorrow that need examination, I have some suggestions, not the cure but ways to gently bolster your soul as grief inhabits your life. Many of these bullet points may feel repetitive to what I have shared previously, they are, I believe they deserve repeating.
Be gentle with yourself.Reach your arms in front of your frame and draw them back to embrace grace and allow it to encircle you. Repeat throughout the day.
Drink water first.Before coffee or tea. Before the other drinks. Drink less of those other drinks.
Get fresh air. Don’t tell my mother, but one morning last week when the snow fell softly, I abandoned my tasks, pulled open the sliding door of the dining room, and simply stood, watching the snowflake art and inhaled the freshness of good ol’ oxygen. Yes, I allowed some house heat to escape but my breathing felt restored.
Take a five-minute walk. The fresh air will lead, follow and surround you. It is my solemn promise, it will.
Track your sleep patterns, by being your own expert. We all know we need more sleep. Don’t stop with this eternal lament. Currently, I am wondering whether to adopt my new pattern of waking much earlier than my set alarm (read: I don’t want to get up yet) and simply turn back the comforter and rise. How can I tinker with my sleep hours? Do I need a different evening rhythm? How many hours of sleep feels best for me and not according to the “experts”?
Speak your grief to a trusted person or express it by writing upon journal pages. This process is not meant to be done alone or without reflection. Even scribbling a few bullet points listing your thoughts or feelings can be helpful. Use them to write sentences later or put the list before you when you chat with a friend over Zoom, it could be an assist and anchor for the pesky and eternal question of “How are you?”.
Place yourself in the presence of beauty.Read a poem, gaze at art, look for shooting stars, listen to the musical score of your favorite movie or soothe your eyes with the brilliance of fireplace flames. Make it an intention to be on the lookout for beauty especially when what before your eyes seems the opposite.
Do not be afraid to embrace and partake in what you miss.My Dad loved Red Hots. Is it any wonder I have been drinking a tea with red hots among the ingredients? Or have been sucking on cinnamon candies and eschewing my normal wintergreen?
Do not neglect what makes you uniquely you. There’s a sadness I carry in a multitude of ways but my life is still a container of gifts, hopes, and dreams. These are to be offered, harnessed, and pursued. This mindset is counter to my nature or default. Slowly I am learning how I can respect and honor loss and myself within it.
On Sunday, we woke to a snow-covered car and Carl took the wheel, driving us through slush and the tiny promise of sunshine.
I felt braver and without hesitation accepted the challenge of driving the final stretch through the Gorge. Caleb pointed out a rainbow as we neared Hood River. I kept driving despite a fierce wind that shifted all sizes of vehicles beyond their assigned lanes.
At one point, my eyes glanced from my steering wheel up towards the sand-colored rock formations to my left. Suddenly my fingers were rapidly snapping to alert those who were stoppered by earbuds. A herd of bighorn sheep, appearing carved into the stone stood motionless in regal beauty as we made our way onward. How could we not linger our gazes as long as they were in our line of sight?
Within the flight patterns and landings of grief, some days come bearing the gift of beauty to behold, a turn or a lift of the head, along the road with all its many twists and turns.
When grief lands on the branches of your life, may you feel the weight but not be broken.
May the reverberation experienced when grief takes flight deposit beauty and grace in its place.
