On this day of this month

two years ago.

The last day with him.

One month + one day from now

two years ago.

The first day without him.

I've got a story for you. One that offers undeniable proof, to this heart & soul of mine, that those no longer in this physical realm are not lost to us. That if we open, we can connect to them, reach across the threshold of life and death and speak with them. So pull up a chair and roll up a sleeve - I want you to see the goosebumps prickle along your forearm.

That night I was once again sitting under my tree and, once again, I found myself looking at my dad's ashes. I picked up the small bag and held it to my chest. As soon as I did I felt a wave of energy course through the room and I burst into tears - the kind of tears that are accompanied by deep wrenching sobs and far too much snot. The messy kind of tears. I cried in anger, in sorrow, and in love & grief.

When reeling from a wave of grief, it's hard to pinpoint what type of support we need and well-intentioned loved ones may not know either. I didn't know but through sharing my struggle, I received exactly what I needed. It starts with the basics.

I watched Osprey navigate this dance between gentle soaring and focused hovering. Then the hovering changed.

I felt it in my body before I saw it with my eyes. The moment had come. Osprey's wings folded as they rocketed down into the clear water, breaking through the space between. Almost in the same moment as Osprey dove, they emerged with a juicy fish clutched in sharp talons.

My mission within tending my father's rite of passage is to let myself fall even deeper in love with him. Instead of a lifetime ahead, there is a lifetime behind. And yet, this rite of passage stretches time in such a way that moments can carry months. So in each moment I show up with love.

Sometimes it's hard to know what to say to your dying father, and so we just sit together. In a moment of such silence, as his wife was inside preparing for a house showing, I noticed my dad gazing off into space with a far-away look. With an inhale, he picked up his marker and wrote a few words on the white board: “I hope I am still here when the tomatoes ripen”

I hear my mind shrieking yes, but

the shrieking is coming from the shield.

I turn to my beautiful shimming gossamer

shield of whiteness and

despite the shrieks, I begin to take it apart.

Slowly, intentionally, carefully, deliberately

I rip it into shreds.

Piece by piece.

What if, instead of being angry or hardening or hiding, or avoiding... what if we wrap our soft hands around the other end of the unbreakable thread and yank with all our might?

Thunderstorms were rare where I grew up and I always viewed them with equal parts fear and awe. Now I feel enlivened by them, particularly in this moment, in this emotional landscape I have been exploring. The thunder matches the bellowing frustrations and grief in my heart. The lightning mirrors the speed with which change can be forced upon you. And yet - they pass. They come and go - washed away by the downpour, blown away by the wind.

My shell finally cracked today. It cracked and crumbled as I surrendered to comfort from a friend. As I allowed myself to be tended to. I began to tell them about the conversation, and suddenly I was speechless. Words caught in my throat, blocked by a dense tangle of unexpressed emotion.