Category Archives: Personal

Four years

A funeral is a condensed soup of stories

a testament to how they moved through the world

honoring the human they are no longer

wish flowers blown free by a child’s breath

The absence of their laughter, wisdom, joy

is a sullen void of yearning

Haunting the rooms where they lived

with a sharp recognition of the hollowness

The mortality displayed on our own faces

The recognition of our fleeting contribution

Our role in the stone soup of life

Our own responsibility to love so loudly

that we echo through our children,

leak into the community with emboldened abandon

Cherish each gift of spent intimacy

whether it came neatly wrapped in shiny paper

or a hurried wrapping in Sunday comics

Who we are is a reflection of everyone we know

who we become is the distillation of their best parts

Miss Mabel, June 13, 2025

Desiderate

I feel an animosity towards time

It proceeds without caution,

barreling through individual’s lives

destruction and creation embodied

A shallow dagger tattooing memories

in a word.

I swallow in lusty gulps the mana

that ever and again poisons me

with child-like misplaced trust

of the perpetuation of consistency

bathed in my blissful ignorance

in a word.

It’s not enough to hold resentment

towards the testament of our days,

nor is it a hobby to be taken frivolously

It is neither good nor evil,

but yet it commonly holds the dichotomy

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”

Or so the story goes

in a word.

When it’s Gray

Music is an original piece called “October Moons” by Alicia Menninga. She wrote it for me.

You can get it here:

Dreamscapes Album: October Moons

Or the entire album can be found here:

Dreamscapes: Volume One

Absent

I have been absent for quite a while. I’ve set down some of my volunteer work. I’ve spent a lot of time being. Sometimes busy, sometimes not, but primarily I’ve been focusing on building the life I want to live; the one I enjoy and relish so dearly.

In the next month or so, I’ll be picking up my roots that are over five years deep and moving down the road a spell to take care of a human who, at this point, requires stupidvision with a dash of management. It’s scary to think I won’t have my safe haven anymore, but it’s thrilling to explore the world from different perspectives.

This is a big deal in my life, but not in the world. Most people probably won’t even notice my change of address. I will. Most people won’t even think twice about my new living situation. I will. I’ve determined that the risk is worth the outcome. I will do this. It will be good. I’m already happy.

Transition from one phase to another is a challenge, but change is as sure as death and taxes. I’m embracing this new direction with the fervor of devotion to myself.

Thank you for your patience.

Giving up grief

I’ve given up on grief.

It’s too small of a word

To contain the absence I feel 

To cover the sorrow that blooms 

Unexpectedly 

When I make coffee in the morning 

Or taste a muffin

Like you used to make

I’ve given up grief

It’s too small of a space

To hold all that was you

The way you laughed

The scent of your body

Fresh out of the shower

Or sweaty with work

I’ve given up grief

It’s too shallow for a feeling 

That is deeper than I thought

Although I suspected,

Your love holds me buoyant 

In the ocean of our commitment 

Yes, I’ve given up grief

Because the world requires 

The gift of who you were

Through my eyes. 

I can’t hold that when it,

Like you,

Were born to shine even now

Hands of a Creator

“I don’t have the personality to be God.” I stated to nobody in particular. “I just can’t bring myself to allow others to worship their perception of me.”

I have found myself on the top of a pedestal. I’m not really certain when that happened, but when I’ve heard others talk about me, whether to my face or behind my back, I found myself precariously perched on top.

I consider myself a good human, not a good person. A good person isn’t allowed to make mistakes, trash relationships that no longer work, or draw boundaries around what is good for them. A human, on the other hand, is perfektly within their rights to do any, all, or none of those.

I’m embarrassed when people call me an angel. I know how often I roll my eyes or mutter under my breath while I’m doing something for another human who probably can’t do what I can as well. I feel negativity, but I allow it to pass unless it’s harming me or someone I love. I’m emotionally fly by the seat of my pants. I give because I enjoy the feeling I get when I do. But, in spite of that, it’s harder for me to feel joy when doing something for myself (at this time.)

I can’t tell you the last time I laid one of my beloved paintbrushes to a canvas to create. Yes, I’ve been writing which is cathartic in getting my thoughts out, but painting is coloring in the emotions that are overwhelming. It focuses them in a different way than words can. It allows me to express emotions without self-criticism or judgement which I tend to do in words.

When I write, everything has to be in order. Everything has to make sense to myself and for others. Every idea that pops into my head is best written down so I remember what is important to me, what my goals are, and how I’m going to do what makes me happy.

Art, in any of it’s forms, is a way for me to run around emotionally naked. It encourages me to let go of the control I think I need in the written word. With colors, forms, shapes, patterns, etc., I can bring the darkest, the most joyous, the mundane to a life that is visible. It allows me to fight my demons in public without holding onto them any longer. I miss that.

Yet, here I sit typing away as if this is the only way I can be “seen”, when at the beginning of this writing, I talked about the pedestal I’m perched upon. I want to jump off of that pedestal and spread my emotional wings again. The euphoria I feel when I do that is worth it. I’m making time as we speak to allow space for something so crucial to my well being.

I don’t have the personality to be God, but I have the hands of a creator that are longing to spring anew.

Complicated

I am a shepherd without any sheep
I am a reaper who does not reap
I am a mute, your secrets I keep
I am the lullaby to sing you to sleep
I am the shadow that does not creep
I am a leviathan up from the deep
I am the mountain with a rocky face steep
I am the vessel your burdens to heap
I am the tears that no longer weep
I am the life who causes no grief
I am the toddler who grants you no peace
I am the medicine that brings you relief
I am the bearer of your disbelief

Gail 1948-2025

How long will you linger on the pillow where last you lay your head?

What rose will remind me of the scent of your life that has evolved into dead?

What chime will ring out over the earth

That may likely forget your value; your worth?

Will the blushing dawn sing of the mourning you gave

Will the fiery sunset trumpet over your grave?

Will the willows tell your legend for eons to come

Whispering your legend in branches like drums?

Hats of many colors

I wear a lot of hats in my work life. Three of them are braided together for maximum service. I am a non-medical caregiver/companion. I am a commissioned lay chaplain. I am a Death Doula.

During the course of my relationship with my clients, I learn their quirks, their wants, needs, and their humor. I get to witness their family dynamics working and sometimes dysfunctional. I see them at their most vulnerable. I bathe them, change soiled clothing, help them maintain mobility, and because of and despite the messiness of aging, I fall in love with them and their lives.

As a lay chaplain, I feel comfortable and confident speaking to them about difficult topics such as death, dying, and how they want/need things to go as the reason for hiring me becomes more intrusive on their physical and therefore spiritual journey. I help them articulate what’s most important to and in their lives. To me, it feels holy.

As a Death Doula, I work in tandem with hospice. I help the families and my clients to understand what is happening, what is likely to happen, and insure the end of life is as smooth and comfortable as possible. I sing to my people. I read to my people. I hold vigil and space in silence. This feels sacred to me.

When my person dies, my love does not. Although I make myself available, families often go the way of the winds after my purpose with their loved ones has been fulfilled. The anchor has been lost and they drift away into their new normal. It’s not my favorite part of what I do, but I understand that vulnerability is not comfortable and I’ve witnessed them being so.

This past week I’ve lost two people I loved, cherished, and cared for. I’m currently serving a third. It’s hard. It hurts. It’s living and loving grief in a complex respect and surrender. I don’t have all the answers but I’m good at what I do.

As an accused angel in a meat suit, I will continue to serve, adapt, grow, learn, and embrace my own inevitable death because that breathes life into my soul. This is my happiness and my calling. It is my honor to walk my people home.

Hurricane Gale

I honestly feel like I am the eye of the hurricane 🌀.

No matter what happens around me, it’s going to be how it is.

I have control, such as it is, over my reactions even with big emotions.

I feel centered and balanced.

I’m shifting with the currents, adjusting my sails, allowing the journey to reveal itself as it comes.

I am calm.

This is my peace.