I love you

I’m an Unitarian Universalist . My decision to fully support the values and vision of the faith have allowed me to explore wisdom from multiple perspectives, sources, beliefs, and experiences that I wouldn’t otherwise have come to comprehend, much less understand.

I found it necessary before I even knew about UU, to excavate my spirit from decades of teachings that told me I was not worthy of love, much less the love of God or a man, or another human for that matter.

Everything I relished or enjoyed was a punch-mark on my ticket to hell. I was convinced because I read a book about the rapture when I was in my early teens that told me exactly where I was headed.

I believed that for every sin I committed (or the heft of the sins committed against me) that I needed to make amends by attending the most churchy church I could find.

I threw myself into the world of a bake sale/ choir singing/ hands raised/ head bowed/ lunch with the pastor and his wife kind of church life.

My hands were busy, but my spirit was abandoned under the stairs. I sang loudest (not well either) but didn’t feel safe asking questions because that meant I doubted my faith, right?

Disillusioned by the God that never answered my prayers. The God who judged me for my father’s sins that never quite washed away during baptism. But instead replaced the S.A. at the hands of my father with the understanding that it was God’s will or that I was somehow was so irresistible that my purpose was solely to please others.

My voice got louder but I remained silent because it was MY job to protect others at all costs, even to my detriment. It was MY job to make daddy feel better after he fought with my mother. It was MY job to protect everyone but myself. I was well groomed and damned by default.

I concluded that there wasn’t a God at all. How could there be? And if there was, why would the horrors I witnessed even exist? Why did I exist? What purpose could that possibly serve?

Finding Unitarian Universalism quietly granted permission to ask big questions. It allowed me to have an eclectic understanding of love in every form throughout the rich history of my faith.

The main draw for me has been Love at the center. I learned to love myself because others showed me how. I learned to be vulnerable, ridiculous, compassionate, generous with time, and kind without ridicule or judgement from others.

My heart felt bursting with joy, love, and a peace that had been fleeting before. I brought my enthusiasm, my passions, my courage, and laughter. I brought welcomed willing hands. I found my people; I’d finally found my soul home.

I felt safe, comfortable, and finally living not just surviving. Sometimes I’d let myself into the sanctuary (perks of leadership in the church) and just sit in the quiet where my soul received comfort. I could feel what I felt but without shame. I felt love/d.

A catastrophic failure of healthy communication skills led to my removal from all positions of leadership which in turn caused my secession from my family and community.

Because of that, the trajectory that I’d been planning for, working towards, sacrificing things I loved for , went POOF! 💨

I am allowing myself space. I granted myself permission to exhibit my emotions when I feel them, not only in private. I’m allowing myself to be compassionate with myself, fiercely loyal to my peace, and to revel in the joy of not knowing everything.

Most importantly, I’m holding my people in my heart because my covenant remains steadfast to the UU values based on the Law of Love. My loyalty is given freely to those I’ve comforted, uplifted, broke bread with, cried with, created with, laughed with, celebrated, connected with and mourned beside. Love is always the answer. Love is always the right choice.

Being a Unitarian Universalist is the heart of my love. It is sacred and unwavering. Nobody has the power to erase me again for I am beloved.

Unexpected Holiness

As a practicing Death Doula, I have the privilege and honor to walk people home. Sometimes the human I am assisting has a goal they want to accomplish before they die or they want specific music playing throughout their stay with hospice. The sky is the limit if I can get it done.


My most recent client, Alden* (not his real name), is one I’ve known for well over a decade. I have been his caregiver for several of those years and his POA for the last few months.

He never married or had kids except for his beloved cats whom he referred to as his kids. Puttyhead and Topper were his world. Puttyhead was 15 and died the day Alden came home from an extended stay at an after hospital rehab facility. Topper is also 15 and lovingly small.

Only a month later, Alden was back in the hospital in critical condition. When he was stable enough to communicate, he expressed a longing to see Topper.
After he returned to a rehab facility, I brought the two together. It was extremely emotional for everyone involved.

Three months later, Alden was again admitted to ICU. This time was far worse than before which prompted end of life discussions. He again, miraculously pulled himself back to stable-ish.

He was given a choice between four options with hospice being three of them in different places. The fourth was terminal reduction of oxygen which was immediately rejected.

Hospice option one had him remaining in ICU but he couldn’t see Topper, but his loved ones could all come visit.

Hospice option number two had him still in the hospital but in a room where he could see his “child”.

The third hospice option was for him to go home to his cat, but the condition was that he couldn’t be on the heavy duty breathing support. He had to be able to be on a cannula. But each attempt at weaning him hadn’t lasted longer than five to six minutes.

I asked him to think about hospice. There was zero pressure to choose. Breaking the hospital/rehab cycle is too personal for me to make the call. I’m there to support them and offer as many feasible options as practical.

I returned the following morning to find him holding steady on a cannula! Three hours at that time with no stat drops. Alden looked pleased with himself and he decided no hospice.
I finished the visit and headed home.

A short while later, I got a call from Nurse Beth explaining that things weren’t working well. Bring the people who love him, which I did.
Within the hour, a small group gathered by Alden’s side. We talked with him, hugged him, shared stories, and then he rallied (It’s rather common for someone to have a surge of energy and seem like their health is improving when death approaches).

The following morning, Alden was awake, alert, and writing down his wishes. He wanted to go home to Topper. We got hospice on board. But Alden wasn’t strong enough for transport.

With a lot of logistics and a stand-off with the administration about bringing in Topper, we figured it out.

Topper arrived and spent two and a half hours sharing time together. These two “old men” said everything they needed to say to each other. Topper crawled up onto Alden’s chest and fell asleep while his dad stroked his fur. The room was filled with so much love and beauty it was heartbreakingly holy.
Alden was tired. He asked me to bring Topper home.

I returned to the hospital and saw symptoms of end of life occurring. (Changes in coloration of fingers, eyes glassy and unable to blink for example). We pulled in a sleeper for me but I stayed with him until he died early morning.
The silence. The absence. The intensity of ancestral grief honoring the life that was and the life that is. The punctuation mark ripped from the book of the living, transferred to the book of the dead was complete.

Paperwork finished, I looked out the window to see the pre-sunrise colors warming the purple sky. I thought, “This is the first sunset my friend can’t see. Another day for me but not for him.” (For clarity, the contrast between the sunrise I was seeing and his sunset shortly before).

I watched the purple change to pink then orange as the sun granted light on the dark day. I felt the love we shared as friends grant me strength and purpose to walk my people home.

The Weight of Hours

Time drips like water through cupped hands,

each second a small death

we cannot hold.

The clock face stares with hollow eyes,

counting down what we pretend

is infinite—

this borrowed breath,

this temporary warmth

beneath our skin.

In hospital corridors,

fluorescent lights hum lullabies

for the sleepless,

while somewhere a heart

forgets its rhythm,

stops mid-beat

like a song

cut short.

We are all walking

toward the same door,

carrying our small griefs

like stones in our pockets,

heavy with the knowledge

that morning

may not come

for everyone.

The earth keeps turning,

indifferent to our names,

our dreams scattered

like autumn leaves—

beautiful in their falling,

brief in their glory

Beyond the Veil

Beneath the willow’s weeping bough we stand,
Where shadows lengthen in the dying light,
Your memory carved deep within this land,
A beacon burning through eternal night.

Though death has claimed your mortal frame from me,
My heart remains forever bound to yours,
Like ancient oak roots drinking from the sea,
Our bond transcends these temporary shores.

The seasons turn, yet still I keep the flame
Of promises we whispered long ago,
No grave can hold the power of your name,
No winter wind can make my devotion slow.

In dreams you walk beside me through the years,
My loyalty flows deeper than these tears

Beastie in Disguise

My guts hurt from laughing at myself.

Cockle-doodle-dooooo!
Mx Porter threw the very best 55th birthday party for me and arrived wearing this costume. I’ve been “borrowing” this for so long but I know they always hold rights to it.

They hurt even more after watching Beastie conquer the rodeo rooster 🐓

Beastie and me!

Celebrate

The griefs are many

but find value in truth that:

Each breath

Each heartbeat 

Each moment celebrating

Each of those

Is a courtship of death.

By embracing 

THIS breath

THIS heartbeat 

THIS moment of joy

Is a nod of recognition 

To infinite mystery

Blazing celebration

Our age is known

By the buried bones

Of our bloodline

Reflected in chosen heritage

And the legacy of their love.

Survival Safety

It is safe to play with the darkness again.

To coax it out from underneath the basement stairs.

To enthrall the dust from the bone filled closet.

To embrace the shadow that lurks beneath pallet.

The darkness loves to cuddle with the little self

reassuring the little, that learning deep truth

creates a Tower, crumbling accommodated fears

Darkness births wisdom from soul insults and betrayal.

The little’s shadow begs grief for the heart song abducted

Begs sorrow for the wounds caused by caustic demolition

caused by atrocities witnessed, experienced, coerced

The Darkness beseeches with terrified shrieks

anxiously imploring for tenderness and compassion

among the surplus of debris once cherished

Sermon of lies

On the knees of submission 

Hard on the floor

The sin of omission 

A morality score

Prayer hands clasped tightly

Like folding chair pews

Hymns resound violently

Long-sleeved black and blue

Submit to your husband

Follow his lead

Open your thighs

to embrace his seed

If life springs forth

from your virgin womb

raised the red, white, and blue

over a gifted soldier’s tomb

If your life becomes sacrifice

respond to what you allow

remember your promise,

remember your vow

Obey all the rules

follow the commands

Do as your told

Do not give demands

You’re less than a fetus

but more than you should be

tone down your laments

while living hypocrisy

Notes I write myself

I used to write down affirmations I’d find

encouraging words for a desperate receptionist

I creep on the cusp between late middle age and becoming a senior

Inadvertently, I’ve added to my counsil a ticker-tape parade

A collection of curated constellations of firefly stars.

When I felt like I was broken, a commodity to trade,

I used to write down affirmations I’d find.

They called out to other spirits in the abyss

where depth of character is most typically defined

by diagnosis

by trauma

by abuse

by neglect

By unasked questions that create black holes in conversations.

But, I realize now, that the affirmations were crutches for me

a way to organize the parts (corruption tried to kill) into pretty piles

I know now, that the people I’ve met were not, by me, to be saved.

I had no tools of my own. I couldn’t and can’t fix someone else.

Despite the advertisements of affirmations I forced myself to witness,

I felt safe among the wounded and the broken

as if acknowledging their suffering, I could heal my own.

By hand and earth, I lit my beacon, my lantern, and held it aloft.

I’m not a map, but I can point you the way out of the inky depths

I used to write down affirmations, but now, I hold the moment

learn from it, accept it, savor the flavor, come what may