Category Archives: Grief

My Year in an Eddy

For several years, I’ve felt a prompting to write about eddies.

The exact genesis of this thought is fuzzy. I think it came from watching a movie or documentary that showed an eddy in a river. At the time, it caught my attention. I was going through a period of great spinning-around-and-going-nowhere. The cause and results of water eddies seemed a perfect life metaphor. “I should spend some time writing about this,” I thought.

I began by learning more about eddies online. Eddies are the opposite-flowing and often circular water patterns that occur in bodies of moving water. Think river or ocean. They are formed by an obstruction to the flow of a river or the irregularities of the ocean floor.

I started to write numerous times, but the words were labored. As the time between writing attempts widened, I ultimately forgot about eddies and went on with life.

A year or two later, I went for a walk at a local park. Near the beginning of the path, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a yellow fire hydrant.” Strange,” I thought. “Who notices fire hydrants?” Dismissing the feeling, I continued walking. No matter how far or fast I walked, I couldn’t escape the thought that I should go back to take another look. When I could no longer ignore the urge, I walked back for a closer inspection.

Standing before an ordinary yellow fire hydrant, I tried to suppress the thoughts of how strange I must appear when I noticed the quizzical faces of other walkers. “Pay no attention,” I thought as my eyes quickly scanned the object. It wasn’t long before I noticed raised, metal-forged words:

“EDDY Iowa.”

I did a double-take. And remembered about eddies.

Later that day, I learned that EDDY is a model of fire hydrant dating back to 1875. In the early 1970’s Clow Valve Co, located in Iowa, purchased the business of their manufacturing.  It is said that the EDDY model is a top choice for firefighters because of how quickly and easily its valve opens under pressure.

“Opens easily under pressure.” I logged that thought for future reference.

Fast forward several years to today, July 25, 2022. For the past 11 1/2 months, due to a knee replacement infection from four years prior, I’ve been unable to bear weight on my left leg. The infected knee apparatus was removed last August, and an antibiotic-carrying cement spacer was inserted in its place. As the infection slowly resolved, followed by months of waiting for knee revision surgery caused by a huge Covid backlog, the surgery was set for the end of June. With great excitement, that day arrived. But it was not to be. In the pre-op area, less than an hour prior to surgery, I had a significant allergic reaction to the infusion of an antibiotic that I’ve had in the past. The surgery was canceled and rescheduled for the end of July. Another full month of waiting.

Last week, while reflecting on the trials of the past year, the eddy analogy came to mind. I thought about the ways in which the past year had been very much like a metaphorical eddy. Lots of swirling around and feeling as if I was going nowhere.

I pulled from memory the things I had learned from my walk-in-the-park experience about the EDDY valve as well as eddies that form in the water. “Opens easily under pressure,” I remembered. It was the key benefit of an EDDY valve in a fire hydrant. The inability to walk for a long period is a building by how difficult simple tasks had become. Between using a wheelchair or hopping on one leg with a walker or crutches, to say that normal life was disrupted is an understatement.

Last summer, following the initial surgery, I determined to do my best to use this time of difficulty to see the gifts and lessons that could come from it. Well-intentioned as I was, there were many times of tears and deep frustrations at the realities of the inability to walk. There was a pressure of sorts that built and could only be relieved by opening myself to its source. I recalled an excellent book, called “Broken Open,” written by Elizabeth Lesser. In it, she offers tools to help us make the choice we all face in times of challenge: Will we be broken down and defeated, or broken open and transformed? 

I read the book nearly ten years ago, after my darling, beloved husband died by suicide. Someone had given me Lesser’s book, which gave me the courage to open to the depths of my grief and dismay. The process of slow transformation began there, and with the expert assistance of a gifted therapist, pressure relief came slowly. Therapy was an EDDY valve of sorts. A safe place to explore my feelings and gently open to allow the pressure within to dissipate, making transformation possible. In the opening to brokenness, I slowly found a path to joy and a new chapter of life. Thank God for the metaphorical EDDY valves that exist for our benefit when we are willing to break ourselves open in the face of tragedy and obstacles.

Turning to the phenomenon of eddies in nature, I recalled what I had learned about their slower, reverse direction in a river when an obstacle like a boulder changes the flow. The inability to walk was my huge life boulder. I recall saying to several people that my life had turned into something that I did not recognize. In that way, it resembled a swirl flowing opposite to anything I had known.

But river eddies don’t end with just the obstacle.

Eddies create the perfect place for kayakers in turbulent waters to rest. In fact, I learned that experienced paddlers look for eddies along the way when their arms tire and they need a break. Despite its many obstacles, this year provided opportunities to rest from my own efforts in favor of the knowledge of God’s presence and the resulting rest and the deepening of my faith and patience.

Eddies also occur in the ocean and are sometimes more than 100 miles in diameter. Eddies and small currents can be viewed from space. They indicate the presence of phytoplankton blooms, caused by the swirling motion that brings nutrients, found only in colder, deeper waters to come to the surface, bringing nourishing elements for sea creatures that live there. In the past year, it was necessary to plumb the depths of my faith and spirituality so that the benefits residing there reached the surface challenges of living a smaller, more limited life.

Significant eddies in the ocean are assigned names like hurricanes. The names follow chronologically along with the alphabet. In this spirit, I’ve decided to name my year-long eddy, “DOROTHY;” a Greek name from Doron (gift) and Theos (God).

Understanding the benefits of eddies has been God’s gift of presence and transformation for me this year, in the challenge of living through an obstacle that seemed insurmountable.

The Red Bridge

In the early days after my husband, Randy, died, I found myself checking a status box on a form, to indicate my marital status. There, for the first time since it happened, I saw the dreaded word: Widow. 

My reaction to the word was swift and visceral. It jarred me to my core. I felt the stab of the pointy “W’s” on either end, and the huge expanse of emptiness in its gaping holes in the “d” and the “o” in the middle. Widow? My head was spinning. What?! I am now a widow??

Today, I was going through the journal I’ve been keeping with some of my notes and scribblings that will someday be a book about my loss and journey in grief. At the end of the page with my most recent notes was the word, “Widow,” followed by the word, “Window.” I honestly don’t even remember writing this.

And I saw that all that differentiates these words from each other is the letter “n.”

As I considered this, an image of a red bridge immediately came to mind. Last week, when a dear friend who lives in another city came to visit, we went to a Japanese garden that is near my home. In the many years I’ve lived here, for one reason or another, I have never been there, but have always wanted to see it. The garden did not disappoint; resplendent in its early-spring bloomings; offering a place of beauty and tranquility in the middle of a not-so-safe neighborhood.

As in many Japanese (and Chinese) gardens, there were lovely ponds; two of which with arching red bridges carrying us from one side to the other. The first of the bridges was quite short, but also quite curved — so much so that, on the rainy day of our visit, I held on to its railings as I crossed it, so as not to slip on the steep arch.

The red bridge was shaped as an arch — like the one in the letter, “n.”

Widow. Window. The “n” smack-dab in the middle.

A red bridge in a Japanese garden is called a Guzei and is laden with symbolism. Bridges, in Japanese gardens, represent a crossing from the physical to the spiritual, and offer a way of transformation toward a place of wisdom.

The color red also represents a notion of the sacred, as well as wisdom and transformation.

A red bridge, then, offers a double-dose of these concepts; entwined with the Zen concept of preserving the life force, rejecting attachment to the physical and coming to a place of true discernment. A double-dose of positive growth and spiritual transformation.

In my journey as a widow, I realized, I’ve crossed many metaphorical red bridges; offering a window, an opening, into something far beyond the small borders of the box I checked on that form, indicating my new marital status.

A new identity, yes. And maybe in the process of crossing, I had to hang on for dear life. But in that often-steep and foreboding transformation, what I have ever-so-slowly discovered, is an opening to more of the garden that was, and is, my life. And, there is beauty on the other side.

I marvel at how God moves and works in our lives. It is no coincidence that we crossed that red, “n-shaped” bridge just days before I revisited my journal notes about the word, Widow.

Oh! The kind and gentle way that God safely carries us to the next beautiful vista of our own life when we can, even in pain and uncertainty, trust the process of transformation.

Even Far Is Near

We’ve all heard the phrase, “You can run but you cannot hide.” I have found this to be true in my own experience when it comes to God’s presence. Regardless of my physical location, state of heart or circumstance, if I can awaken myself to it, I have always found that there is a Divine Presence that never leaves me. No matter what.

This Presence is not a menacing, watching-my-every-move presence that is there to catch me red-handed. Rather, when I can enter stillness, even in my darkest, most despairing moments, the Presence that I have experienced is as gentle as my next breath; as reassuring as my own heartbeat.

Today’s Lenten reflection word is: NEAR.

On the morning after my beloved husband died by suicide in our home, I found myself alone in the house after my sister had gone home for a few minutes to get a clean change of clothes. I was still in a complete state of shock; my body sensing a kind of buzzing feeling that I imagined someone might experience after being hit by lightening. My mind was simultaneously racing with thoughts and completely numb. I was as lost as lost could be. And God seemed as far away from me as the closest neighbor in the house pictured in this blog post. Never had I felt utterly and completely Alone.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and heard an unexpected sound. At first it was very faint, and I strained to hear it; almost as though I was turning the dial of radio to find bring to clarity the faint, scratching sound I heard. After a few moments, I recognized the sound. Crazy as it may sound (and I know that this DOES sound crazy!), I realized that it was the sound of purring, and it was coming from the walls of the room I was in. I looked to see if one of my cats was nearby. Nope. I tuned in to hear the hum of the refrigerator. No, this was a different sound than that. I closed my eyes and let the purring sound resonate in my ears; so much so that I could almost feel its vibration.

There was a Nearness in that sound that felt like coming home, and I knew that it was God; there to bring me the sound that had always been so comforting. It was exactly what I needed to carry me in one piece until my sister returned to be with me. And somehow, I sensed that my husband, Randy, was near too. There was Beauty and Light in a moment of the ashes of despair.

I don’t have a scientific explanation for how this happened. That’s not at all important to me. God was near and that was all that mattered.

While the walls in that room have never purred to me since, I often think of that moment, and of the words of the psalmist, David, who had also seen his share of tragedy:

“God, investigate my life;
    get all the facts firsthand.
I’m an open book to you;
    even from a distance, you know what I’m thinking.
You know when I leave and when I get back;
    I’m never out of your sight.
You know everything I’m going to say
    before I start the first sentence.
I look behind me and you’re there,
    then up ahead and you’re there, too—
    your reassuring presence, coming and going.
This is too much, too wonderful—
    I can’t take it all in!

Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?
    to be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
    If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on morning’s wings
    to the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute—
    you’re already there waiting!”

~ Psalm 139:1 – 12 (The Message)

Maybe not always in purring walls, but I know from firsthand experience that God is always near.

The Gift of the Morning Moon

Yesterday morning was a bright, sparkly blue-skied gift. As I showered, I was filled with anticipation for my drive to Cannon Beach, Oregon and for a few days at the beach. And, while most of my anticipation held the feeling of excitement, I also knew that this trip was also a time to be in a healing place as I marked the day two years ago when my husband passed. Like so many things in life, there was a mixture of feelings– a blending of happiness and difficulty; the yin and the yang. I have learned that things in life are rarely one thing or another. They are almost always one thing and another, at the same time.

Back to my shower. Rinsing my hair, I looked up through the skylight in my bathroom and saw the moon; still visible even in the bright morning light. In that moment, I became aware of the gift of the morning moon. It reminded me of the night that was, as well as the night that would come again – and of the presence of light, even in darkness.

Two years ago, almost at this very moment, I kissed my husband good-morning. How could I have known that it would have been the last kiss? As I re-visit that day today, I sense the gift of the morning moon. I have come through the night. And while the night of that loss will always be with me, it can be a reminder to me of the light I experienced that day in the shining-moon presence of God as expressed through the family and friends who surrounded me. Healing has come, yet sometimes the wound is as raw and gaping as that first day. Those days are becoming fewer.

When the barista handed me my morning coffee today, there, in the foam was a lovely heart. Randy is here with me. That last kiss — seen at the top of my cup. Here in this heaven-on-earth spot where surf meets rock and sand, I experience the morning-moon gifts of presence, love and light.

A dear friend reminded me today of this Grief blessing, by John O’Donohue:

“Gradually, you will learn acquaintance

With the invisible form of your departed,

And when the grief work is done,

The wound of your loss will heal

And you will have learned

To wean your eyes

From the gap in the air

And to enter the hearth

In your soul where your loved one

Has awaited your return

All the time.”

Morning moon, indeed.

Living in Our Newest Chamber

You may be wondering why I used a chambered nautilus as the banner photo on my blog site. This sea creature, with its spiral shell holds deep meaning for me, and a lesson in living from which we can all benefit. As the nautilus grows, its body moves forward, and in so doing, produces a wall that seals off the older chambers of its shell. This process not only ensures that the nautilus always lives in the newest and largest of its chambers, it also helps to keep the nautilus buoyant.

I came to understand the rich lesson of the chambered nautilus in a daily devotional reading from The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo. Not coincidentally, the date of this reading was September 16 — the day of my husband’s death — read exactly one year after it happened. Mark Nepo’s words helped me to see the point at which, by moving forward, we resolve and honor our past. An excerpt:

“Can we, in this way, build strong chambers for our traumas: not living there, but breaking our past down till it is fluid enough to lose most of its weight? Can we internalize where we’ve been enough to know that we are no longer living there? When we can, life will seem lighter.” — Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

This reading, so timely in my grieving process, brought healing, hope and, quite literally, a sense of lightness. Such a wise lesson in living — whether or not your past holds traumatic events — that only by integrating the whole of our life can we dwell the fresh expanse of its newest chamber.

Could it be that, in the creation of this magnificent sea creature, God encourages us not to ‘stuff’ our past, but to honor and draw from its lessons so fully that its very edges can no longer hold us? In this, we become fully present to what is before us — here and now. With gratitude, I embrace and aspire to the message of the chambered nautilus; to enlarge my capacity to love deeply and to live completely.