In this place
This short missive is a continuation of at this time, where I shared about my daily morning walk. If you missed it, you may want to read it first, for context.
Out in the woods, I feel reverence for being alive at this time, and I take another breath and inwardly state: in this place as I feel my feet on the earth. 🌏
I stand in the very same place in the woods, day after day and experience a sense of self. A sense of calmness. A visceral sense of being at home settles within me, no matter the degree of anxiety, grief, joy, stress, or complex feelings that have been swirling 💫 through my days. Place anchors me in the best of ways.
This is not a passive place. Every time I stand here, it’s different. I’m different and the environs are constantly changing. I never tire of being here. This patch of land holds me, speaks to me, and I to it. I follow the changing azimuth - the spot on the horizon where the sun rises ☀️ now steadily marching south. Comfort finds me as change becomes familiar.
The memory issues that my 86-year-old mother experiences have progressed into a cognitive shift, causing her to only feel safe in a couple of places. It breaks my heart into a million pieces that my home is not one of her safety zones. Sharing my home with my mom throughout the years has been grounding, I dare say, for both of us. But the 5 hour trek between her place and mine has occurred less and less frequently. When I received a call from my sister in August that mom was experiencing severe anxiety about her upcoming trip to Vermont, my heart broke, 💔 knowing that she may never make it here again.
I’ve carried this grief on many of my morning walks since then and it softens as the rhythm of my swinging arms and legs carry me across the field and through the woods to my spot, my place of pause. 🌲
Typically, when I bring pain or angst to this place, a shift quickly occurs and acceptance grows into peaceful release. But not this grief. I am held captive by an utterly unreasonable grief that seems to grow, rather than ease.
Knowing that my mother is unlikely to return to my home 🏠 evokes a primal, unrelenting and irrational sadness... What can I do? I will continue to carry it to my “prayer” place. I will continue to visit my mom in the safety of her home. Over time, peace will come, I am sure.
Another thing for certain: writing ✍️ about it helps too, which makes me wonder: have you too experienced unrelenting pain and do you too have a special place to bring it to? And would you too benefit from some writing time? Come write with us on Friday mornings.
Please note: despite the holidays, or perhaps because of them, I amholding W2R class the next two Fridays - so there’s a place for you!
Please take good care of yourself at this time… and I’ll do the same - each morning. 🌄
P.S. I look forward to sharing about the last part of my morning ritual - the part that most directly relates to YOU. 😃 Thank you for reading.
