For the past month I’ve been writing and preparing for a live on-line Hay House seminar. It was supposed to air June 11 but was postponed until Wednesday, July 10, 10:30 PDT. This is a free event, and I will be sending out a link later for registering. You will be able to call in with questions and comments, and I certainly encourage you to do so. This event is important to me, as it is my response to what I was given after losing my son 10 years ago. Following is the course description:
Freedom to Fall: A Spiritual Approach to Loss
This course is about loss and the redemptive power of love. It is designed to help people navigate through the loss of a loved one in the best way possible, whether the loss occurred years ago or recently. This live online event will help you come to terms with a loved one’s death, finding the courage to let go while holding onto what is truly important. By making daily shifts away from the past and into the present moment, magic can happen that engenders healing.
My book, Freedom to Fall, is the story about the death of my son in a rock climbing accident and how I was able to keep our love alive, allowing me to redeem my life. This is not a love that clings but a freeing love that is joyful.
We will explore ways of cultivating a sense of a loved one’s presence after they have died as well as ways of letting go. The two go hand in hand! In those two practices you will be promoting a deep spiritual truth: Love is eternal. You never really lose who you love. Once you develop that awareness, it is yours forever—for the giving and receiving every day.
You can begin benefiting from this dynamic approach to loss today. By learning to keep alive the bond with a loved one, you begin a process of recovery. There may always be an element of sadness for losing someone you love. After all, loss is real. But a more profound reality can emerge through practice and faith—a beam of light shining through the loss, awakening invaluable gain.
After my son died, I felt intuitively that he was still with me, would always be with me. But that sense was overshadowed by his absence, the sense of loss. The deeper sense of our enduring bond would take years to develop, through persistence and faith. Chris was there, but in order to sustain that sense from where I stood, I had to become an active partner. I had to cultivate it, to keep coming back to it, to believe in it. Most especially, I had to learn to let him go.
Keeping Chris alive occurred through many and often wondrous ways, which crisscrossed and ultimately formed a cohesive whole. Today there is deep gratitude, knowing that through God’s grace we never lose who we love.
Love Burns Eternal
From the beginning, there were simply ways of experiencing Chris without any thought or effort. He had been a lover of the natural world, and I felt him in the wind, the brilliance of autumn, rainbows, and crimson skies, knowing his spirit could be many things. I spoke to him each day, telling him how much I loved him and how proud I was that he had become one of God’s own. I would look to him for guidance and pour out my feelings. Chris comforted me daily in my sorrow, whispering, Mom, I am with you always.
I recorded memories of Chris, vignettes about growing up, and collected stories from friends, traveling to places where he had lived. Through the hearts of others, Chris came to life in ways I could not have known him otherwise, enriching my own memories. Our collective tales formed a kaleidoscope of perceptions, capturing his essence.
Though it felt wonderful to connect with Chris’s spirit, I could not have sustained it without letting him go as I had known him. I would have kept drifting back to the sense of loss as the dominant, tangible reality. It wasn’t a given that I could let him go—having raised him from infancy. You revel in the aliveness of your child and the miracle of his being. Releasing Chris, accepting his death, came in many guises over many years, in little steps and with frequent backsliding.
Letting Chris go meant the willingness to live again. To dance again, run with the wind, embrace hopes and dreams—when Chris could not. It meant admitting I still belonged to Earth, with more to learn and more to give. It meant risking our bond, for in reclaiming my life, I feared his spirit disappearing, when all would be lost.
For the first anniversary of Chris death, I journeyed to Yosemite, the place that had claimed his life. On the anniversary day, I hiked Half Dome, circling the 4000 foot giant by trail. Standing high up in the elements, in the deep ethereal blue, surrounded by the granite wonders Chris had so loved, I scattered his ashes, releasing him to God.
The ways of keeping Chris’s spirit alive are with me still. I share my visions and the news of the day. He quips clear, humorous one-liners, as he did in life. I see the calm, smiling nature shining through memory. I see him in the serendipitous way of things and in exquisite cloud formations. I feel the joyous giving and receiving of our love. Meanwhile, I keep letting go, stepping back towards life.
God never takes without giving back a hundredfold. Ten years after Chris’s passing, our love burns eternal—a beam of light, becoming ever more golden.
On June 11, I will be offering, through Hay House live online events, a free seminar on loss and the redemptive power of love, entitled Freedom to Fall. I’ll provide details on how to register for the event later.
This post, the first in a two-part series, is an exploration of the seminar, not in content but in spirit—a personal canvas upon which I will build the course. I look forward to having you as guests on the show!
Part One: Surrender to Grief
Grieving is healing. By opening your heart to grieving, surrendering to the experience, giving it passage, you embark on journey towards feeling whole again.
In the aftermath of my son’s death, one way that I could face intense spells of grief was by going to the mirror. Standing thus, I could pour my feelings into my own reflection and be in witness of those feelings. It helped me stay with the experience and not run away. The torrent of tears and pain would soon subside, and I could gratefully rest. But there was something else about being before the mirror that truly helped: I could feel God and Chris there with me. I wasn’t alone. As I returned to bed, their compassion remained. From that time on, I always thought of Chris and God in the same breath.
In those early days, I took care of my needs in the best possible way: taking walks, resting, making wholesome meals, keeping a journal. Being in the world was hard with Chris gone, and I allowed myself the grace of small steps. Most importantly, I did not pretend. If the world was incomplete, then I could be a part of the incompleteness, not strong, but fragile. As I wrote in my journal, A mother mourning for her child is a beautiful sight. It is a reflection of the deep love. By stepping into the world openly, I encountered the kindness of strangers and safe passage through crowds—realizing again that I was not alone.
I found purpose in grieving through creative expression. Creativity in grief is cathartic. Chris’s dad made a rock garden on the hillside next to his house, complete with a waterfall. My daughter painted a portrait of Chris. I began writing a memoir. Having a meaningful project at hand gave me a reason to get up in the morning. I also found creative ways to deal with the reminder of Chris at home. For example, I put Chris’s framed pictures into a drawer until such day that I could reasonably view them. But I didn’t want to banish him from sight. He had been a rock climber and had loved the mountains with all his heart. So I collected rocks on my walks in the mountains and laid them artfully about. I also created a shrine, which included a St. Christopher medal, a statue of St. Christopher, Chris’s climbing photo album, fresh flowers, and an urn of his ashes. Months later, I tenderly set his framed photos among the relics.
Grieving the loss of my son was never one long line towards recovery. Through the years I have revisited grieving time and again. But today there is a deeper reality shining through the sadness, bringing joy. The way towards redemption—learning to keep the spirit of Chris alive—will be shared in part two, coming soon.
Excerpt from Freedom to Fall —
Sadness is a necessary part of loss. Grieving must have its day. Do not stop the tears. Allow them to freely flow. Do not turn from pain when it comes. Be with it and honor it. It will pass.
Know that this lament is not suffering, any more than winter suffers the loss of barefoot days through soft green grass. Sun-kissed crystals dangle from trees, and the white earth glistens. Honor winter, and know that spring will come. Flowers will bloom and the heart will heal. We will live and even flourish.
When my son died, I believed in the durability of love. Yet it was never a given that I could overcome loss. I had to release Chris, mustering the courage to embrace our love in the realm of the sheer airborne present.
I had been on a spiritual path for a few years, my teacher, Dawn, having opened my eyes to a higher reality, helping pave the way to receive Chris’s death. In the aftermath of his passing, I had to learn to climb the sky.
Faith and Love
On the spiritual path, climbing is a mirror image of diving. The deeper you go into the inner wellspring of life, the closer you come to God. In the midst of loss, I brought myself time and again, albeit briefly, into the sanctity of pure communion—beyond timed existence, where love never dies.
In the early days, the sense of loss was so overwhelmingly real, spiritual awareness was like sand sifting through my fingers. I tried to keep to the higher road, but couldn’t.
The beautiful thing about faith is that once it takes root, it allows you to keep on. Without faith, I would have tumbled, perhaps forever, into the past, futilely longing to reclaim what couldn’t be.
As months passed and Chris’s life on Earth receded into the distance, I pushed through uncertainty, fearing the day his spirit would also disappear and all would be lost. As months became years, I witnessed the strengthening of our soulful bond. What once was faith became faith’s rendering. God set Chris’s death before me to help me grow, opening me up to things eternal.
Excerpt from Freedom to Fall
With the coming of spring, bleak days were followed by blessed days,such divine sweetness,when the light of Heaven streamed through, and I would see with fresh eyes that Chris’s death had been purposeful….
When all of life is glad again and bursting with exuberance, the tender buds of healing can peek through. Wondrously, in the midst of tumult came a steadying sense of closeness with Chris in my heart. I could be with friends without being overwhelmed with sadness. Most significantly, for the first time, I was taking a few of Chris’s framed pictures out of the drawer where I had placed them and setting the out. Amid the pangs and birthing of spring, I created a shrine, which included pictures, a St. Christopher stature, Chris’s climbing photo album, and an urn of his ashes.
After my son died while rock climbing in Yosemite National Park, May 2003, I ventured into his world. I wanted to understand why climbing had been the heart of his life. Why would he have done something so risky that it could take him from us forever, especially since he knew I loved him so?
I learned that climbing for Chris had been an impassioned expression of a spiritual path. High up in the elements, moving across stone, Chris had felt a deep abiding connection. As his best friend, Greg, told me, “Chris climbed for the pure joy of the act itself. He was acutely aware of the ‘spirit of the mountains,’ an intuition that was obvious in his art form—that of dancing on rock.”
Entering the Rock Climbing World
In January 2004, for Chris’s birthday, Greg, his girlfriend Sarah, and I traveled to the climbing site of Joshua Tree National Park in Southern California. The scene was stark: granite monoliths rising out of a sandy plain studded with the twisted, spiked Joshua trees, resembling shrunken palms. The days were an immersion in sun, wind, and rock, as I watched Greg and Sarah climb, the nights fiercely cold. As we sat around the camp fire, Greg talked about his climbing partnership with Chris. They had come of age exploring the South Platte River Basin in Colorado. “Back in those remote mountains, Chris would often say, ‘I feel at home here.’ It was quality rock, a lot of adventure, and just that sense of solitude, when you’re the only one for miles and miles….”
The loss of my son caused a fundamental shift in my approach to life. If what was most precious could be taken away, then what was life for? Why was I here? It seemed as though God was holding a vision for awakening to a truer life.
We create our lives in partnership with God. For Chris’s sake, I wanted to see what was possible to make the best of his passing. And if this experience was potentially life-changing, I wanted to step to the plate.
Losing Chris taught me what is important in life. I gave up trying to prove myself, to garner accolades or recognition. I stopped seeking life or trying to reap benefit or advantage. I settled down into the person I am, the life I have, and the little gifts that abound. I became more giving of myself. I opened up to a life founded in love.
In finding a more authentic life, I was able to keep my bond with Chris alive. The love that shone brightly for Chris also allowed me to heal. It allowed me to eventually step beyond the borders of grief to connect more deeply to life in the surroundings, to awaken to my humanity.
Losing Chris helped simplify my life. It revealed how fragile life is: hopes and dreams can shatter in an instant. It showed me what can never break. It is not God’s desire that we continue to suffer. God wants us to discover the truth about life—the gem at the center that allows us to thrive.
I once thought it would be impossible to survive the loss of a child. So after my son died, it seemed a wonderment that not only could I endure, I could learn to let him go.
There is no one who brings joy the way your own child does. You revel in the aliveness of your own child and the miracle of his being. You take pleasure in his pleasure and feel hurt when he is hurt. To lose a child is one of the most profound experiences of human life. — Freedom to Fall
A Mother’s Perspective
I have always believed that one of the highest expressions of love is letting go. I had approached motherhood that way—releasing my children a little at a time, encouraging them along the pathways of their own callings. But I couldn’t face the finality of releasing Chris to God, at least not alone. Through God’s mercy, a golden cord was forged between us stretching from Heaven to Earth, which could never be broken.
Looking back on the time of grieving the loss of my son, I feel gratitude for the experience. There will always be times of sadness, but the gains are immeasurable.
On the first day of knowing my son was gone forever, when I took to my bed with a broken heart, certain truths rose from within: Only good can come from love. Chris will be with me always. There is meaning and purpose behind his death. In the months that followed, I held onto the insights of that first day. They became my guide, my faith, my eventual resurrection.
The Road to Recovery
Grief, in those first unbearable months would come in waves. In moments of relief, I could feel Chris’s loving presence. He didn’t exist in our time anymore, but as a spirit in eternal time. Though I didn’t know if that sense could last, it was a revelation—the saving grace. I learned that my two states of awareness, that of Chris’s absence and his presence, could not exist side by side, but only in succession. Surrendering wholeheartedly to the pain of loss, allowing it passage, opened a door into God’s realm.
Though I’ve kept up this blog for a while now, I feel led to bring you all into me – into my life and my story. I’ve recently published a book titled Freedom to Fall, which chronicles my journey to healing after losing my son Chris. This is me.
I am beginning work to publicize the book and share my story with whomever will find it. Here’s to new beginnings.
Taking a Step Back – My Story
Born and raised in Louisiana, I followed my heart to Colorado, where I attended the University of Colorado and pursued a career in Special Education. After marrying and moving to the mountains to raise a family, I discovered a calling as a storyteller, performing original stories as well as myths and legend from world cultures. Ultimately, I divorced, and after my two children left home, I made my way down the mountains, landing in Denver around the turn of the century. Then in 2003, something happened that changed my life.
In May of that year my daughter, Kate, who was in college, had come home for the summer. Chris was rock climbing in Yosemite National Park. On June 1 we were awakened in the night with the news that Chris had been in climbing accident and was dead.
The devastation and shock of that summer was soothed by the presence of my daughter and by an abiding faith. I knew intuitively that Chris was still with me and always would be. I felt there was meaning behind his passing. I wrote every day about the raw emotion of grief coupled with whatever insights came. Those journal notes became the basis for Freedom to Fall, which I began that autumn.
The book chronicles my journey through the first two years of grieving, along with a portrayal of my son in a way that captures his spirit. Just as all people have special qualities and gifts, I felt that Chris, for his 25 years of living, had much to offer in the way he loved life.
The hard times of those first two years were also times of hope and redemption. I discovered the healing power of love. I did not think that my life was over. I knew that I would fully live again, and through that belief, found my way.
Writing the book was cathartic, and the blessing was in realizing that the book could be an inspiration and comfort to others. Today, ten years after Chris’s death, I am standing on solid ground. Of course I miss my son, but we have a relationship that endures. He is my angel in Heaven.
I choose to write a blog to communicate with like-minded people. In these times when families are often spread out and neighbors may be strangers, I can’t think of a more uplifting way to establish community than through the simply act of sharing stories and ideas through writing. I write first thing every morning; it is the mainstay of my life, and I look forward to making connections.
The moments of being fully alive become treasured keepsakes for the years. Though the circumstances vary, the experience is the same—a joyful sense of immediacy and awareness—occasions when life rings true. But we do not have to wait for such precious times; the true life can be for all times.
The conditions of life change for better or worse. But the true life is an unconditional quality of being, steady and faithful. It is when we connect with that source that we are truly ourselves—when life is most deeply felt. As Jesus said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
The true life is a place of ageless intimacy—an inner matrix of receiving God’s gift and giving thanks—dynamically interactive and devotional. When we live as if life were somewhere else, we lose the only true anchor we have.
The true life enables every heartbeat and expression. When it is my chosen path because I value that space above all else, sooner or later it spills over into the transience of daily affairs. It becomes the transcendent spark in every situation, the keepsake I take to bed each night and to the morrow, if God permits.
Each sunrise presents a glimmer of new awareness, a tiny rung of truth in an ever-ascending partnership with God.
Today God tells me to be content with what I have; to be carried forth in faith, not to reach for what is denied or not yet manifest. Otherwise, I may follow the fate of the fallen angel, who perpetually plummets and scrambles back up.
It seems that awareness is always coming into being, and what I knew yesterday may not be enough—that learning is continual, requiring attention. If I am wise, I’ll be with the dawning. I’ll stay with the emergence—life in the making, still uncertain. When a new rung appears, I’ll step up to the offering.
From where I stand today, I hear: Go with whatever uplifts your spirit and makes you happy, regardless of what goes on. Share your gifts with those who can receive them and have something to give back—like a smile. Don’t worry about what happens here on Earth—disappointments and twists of fate. Go forward steadfastly.
Sometimes the truths I glean are uncomfortable—such as insubstantial aspects of life I’ve held onto. Other times they bring comfort or joy, as missing pieces I’ve needed for some time. If I receive God’s offerings, without grasping for what remains veiled, life will be more than I imagine. In partnership—at God’s pace—there will be treasure at each rung to carry to Heaven.
With first light, I rein in this errant mind to engage the “here and now.” In the remembering of that exquisite place, I float down, down, down—to receive God’s offering.
There is nothing so redeeming as the moment at hand. Wistfully, I wonder if I can be within its protective fold forever. Perhaps it can accompany me into every corner of life. Ultimately it may be all that counts, when all else falls away.
I don’t need to “make life happen” so much as replenish reserves, to be refreshed in the “fountain of youth,” an immutable source where time dissolves into an ever-flowing grace. From that position, I gather the means to be present for the unfolding.
By taking the time to be with myself this way, little by little it becomes the Way. The Way becomes my life, taking precedence over content—the events of the day, where I’ve been, and where I’m going. It relieves me of preoccupation and gives life back. To awaken onto this moment is to receive God’s gift—in the rendering of joy, love, peace on Earth prior to Heaven’s calling.
I step out for a walk, longing to share my love. Around the corner a stranger crosses my path where, through smiles of recognition, our love intersects, uplifting our spirits.
When we tap the wellspring, we come to life—blossoming with the love that has been there all along. This earthly journey is nothing if not a chance to express in the physical what is genuinely ours. In this way, we gather friends and family, including those encountered serendipitously, the light of which burns on.
Love is most gloriously fulfilled in closeness with God. God whispers what I need to know, while I withhold nothing. When I can’t seem to endure, God shows me how. God knows my strength and teaches me to use it. Through daily communion, I learn self-love.
I feel, God, you know what it means to be human, that you are not impassive, but walk this path with us—as Jesus taught. Through your Presence we become balanced, open-hearted, grounded in faith. In truth, we are comprised of thy substance.
In the midst of tenuous life, when we tap the wellspring we fulfill our humanity, before returning from whence we came.
To learn about my book, Freedom To Fall, click on “Morning Song Books” above—a true story about healing through love, after my son dies in a rock climbing accident.
Today I hear: Don’t make too much of circumstance. Allow it to be what it is without attaching importance. In that way I can access the eternal—the flow of experience connecting me with God.
I want to make the best of this time to cultivate a life that allows movement with grace. I want to fill life in many ways—not making life about any one way. I’d like to enter the stream, where experience serves a purpose.
Each day I can attend to a myriad of happenings, while acknowledging this very soul—an equalizer where all moments count, the giver of life, throwing out before me a daily course. Living this way takes the impetus off of what is going on and puts it where it belongs—on the gift itself, a shimmering passage inviting exploration.
There comes a time when you stop working on problems and simply follow, receiving life for the blessings and the lessons. The day comes when circumstance no longer dominates but is a contributor to the eternal aspect of our character in this brief encounter with Earth.
To read about my book, Freedom To Fall, the story of a young man who achieved the sense of the eternal through rock climbing, click on “Morning Song Books” above.
It is possible to live in the clutches of the past. It is also possible to step away to view from a distance what once played a role. By the cool, impartial grace of Witness, I close one door and open another to a life on the brink of unfolding.
It would be possible to live the whole of life in places already visited, never realizing another design. But within this same space of inner life sits a farseeing essence—steadfast, serene, light-filled—ready to surround prior times with love, honoring them as building blocks to the present, and to move on.
Fetters of the past circle my field, and I pull away in witness, freeing myself from olden dreams. The path through yonder hills gleams in the sun. Not knowing where it leads, I am willing to follow.
When you have outgrown certain ways but can’t readily overcome, it is like being stuck on an incline, too wearied to step away, the next step out of reach.
All through life patterns that served earlier simply no longer serve. At times God puts unforeseen events in our paths to encourage a change of direction. Other times we simply ask for help. Or we decide to learn a skill or discipline, such as a craft, sport, or meditation—which calms the mind, bringing refreshment and clarity.
We are each handpicked for a mission that will allow the soul to grow. God waits patiently, nudging us forward, to take the steps that will free us from bondage. When I know what I want but lack resources or confidence, faint words come: Keep the faith.
The spiritual climb means returning time and again to the path towards fulfillment. Having a vision is an achievement, but the work remains. There is no worthier task, especially where the road is steep, uneven, uncertain—the places where we falter. With faith as an anchor, we become willing to take the risks that render new perspective and help turn life around.
Each day I return to the drawing board. There is always something to discern, some inkling of how to proceed, fostered by the settling down that comes with practice. Usually it means allowing life to unfold as it will so that I can remain true to the mission.
There comes a point when evolution has nowhere to go but up. God reclaims each of us—one at a time. The truth is the closer we come to God the closer God comes—as a door opening to let in light. Sooner or later there is no choice. The old way has become too frayed or painful. We learn to keep the faith and climb.
To learn about my book, Freedom To Fall, the story of my son’s spiritual journey through rock climbing and my struggle to survive his death, click on “Morning Song Books” above.
With the New Year and the heart of winter upon us, thoughts turn towards home.
A couple years ago, I set out from my Denver home with the goal of learning to be at home, wherever my journey may take me. With the spirit of a vagabond, I traveled to towns in Colorado and other states, interspersed with short stays with friends and relatives, finally landing for a long interim at my mom’s in Louisiana. During those months with Mom, we renewed our relationship and took it to a new level.
This fall, when the trees were turning gold and birds gathering, I returned to Colorado. Gingerly, I stepped through the threshold into the old dwelling place and set up camp. Little by little I made it my home again, culminating in the festive, magically lit, hushed days before Christmas.
There is no more special place on Earth than home, where joy, love, and the spirit of creativity reign. And though we may create surroundings that reflect who we are, truly, home is within. Each morning I ask God to help me set all concern aside to tap that inner space, for the comfort that it brings.
Home provides a context for the winnowing of experience. It allows us to release what is lost or no longer serves, to be with life as we find it, and to move on. It encourages us to surrender through the sense of being grounded. It is a place of communion where faith is born.
The cultivation of this sanctum comes through self-love, in the way that God loves—unconditionally, with recognition and attendance. Ways of attending are as varied as there are people, but the object remains the same—the nurturance of that which belongs to us and cannot be taken away—a cozy refuge when we need it and an encourager of change. It is an essential aspect of survival for a lifetime of experience. When all is said and done, it alone remains—our home, a treasure—for the journey to Heaven.
May your home be a source of joy and renewal in the New Year and beyond.
This Christmas morn, in the hour before dawn when all is hushed and candles burn brightly, I pause to give thanks.
I am grateful for having a day to celebrate the birth of Jesus. I am thankful for those who wrote the gospels so that we have a remembrance, if not quite historical, at least essential. I marvel that Jesus could have lived among us and that his Presence glows as brightly today as it did then. Like millions, I wish I could have known him personally.
In Mark’s gospel, when Jesus begins his ministry, he calls to the fisherman who would become the first disciples, “Come after me,” and they come, leaving their prior lives behind.
Today I am thankful for my children, one in Heaven and one asleep in her cozy home. I am grateful for Jesus—the calling to a higher purpose—reminding us of our origins and of the gift of life.
Today I feel the stirring of Christmas—a time of rebirth, when I ponder the meaning behind being a loyal follower.
According to the gospel of Luke, Jesus once denied a rich man discipleship because he clung to wealth, even though he freely followed in every other way. Truly, following means the willingness to begin anew, to go wherever and however you are called. The miracle of Jesus’s life is that he was sent not only as the messenger of good news, but as the Way into God’s ever abiding presence and love.
How many times have I lain in snow looking up at stars, wondering? Could I give up things and aspects of life most precious to me? Could I listen to the one true voice, day in and day out, and reverse course whenever God asks? How can I even know when God is speaking? Through devotion, I learn to discern.
Being a follower suggests taking active steps. Through action, something new may be ascertained, something more—as a seed awakening. You step outside the usual bounds, sensing that you are being led.
Christmas is near, stirring into wakefulness deep gratitude and celebration. Dusk descends early, casting a surreal hue over the landscape. Sacredness pervades the still winter air, as Jesus comes among us.
Sunday is my favorite day, when I feel closest to God. After yesterday’s faltering, I hear: All you have to do is settle down into the moment. From this place of stillness and serenity, life can unfold. You can’t plan ahead because stillness only has relevance in the moment. Each moment holds the promise of rebirth.
In stillness, you can be the witness, allowing thoughts and emotions to flow through untouched. As Witness, you bring balance to your life. I tell God that I want to keep the witness alive as the day unfolds. And God has answered, saying that it means slowing down to the point of being in tune with breath. To convey stillness from one moment to the next, while attending to the day’s agenda, is the beauty of being alive.
I tell God that I want to shift into that reality now; God says: You can; it’s right here. I want, God, for the true ordering of importance to manifest. God says: You can make it happen. It’s a simple matter of settling….
It is Sunday, a day for honoring Thee. It’s so comforting to know that it’s all right here. You only need to be still—to settle, as leaves falling to the ground.
I hear that you can drop everything, as though you have died, and live from that perspective. It is possible and you can do it. It means leaving this world while you are in it and living from that other place. That is what I want—to take flight. God says: You can come Home any time. You can retain stillness—the spiritual life.
I dedicate this piece to the memory of Dawn, my teacher of many years, who opened my eyes to the living reality of Presence.
Today I sense God, not as someone who demands and judges, but as a loving Presence allowing free choice.
How can we best fulfill ourselves as purposeful human beings? When I look in the mirror, what do I see—a product of habituated patterns of thought and action or a life present for the unfolding?
When it comes to the daily task of living, I realize that it really is up to me. God gave us this gift, without strings. But when I act in ways that free me from bondage, God does take notice because I access a door into His light.
At our core lies a sacred space which houses the soul—a vital presence that witnesses life from beginning to end—the eternal flame which returns to God, hopefully more illumined for the journey. For the love of God, it behooves one to live in the best way possible. The true path is without compromise.
When old, unbending patterns cling, the soul remains an unspoken potential. But it is possible to walk straight through those stories—as though your life is about something else and you’ve decided to go there—which alas, encourages new growth and perspective, allowing this inner-presence to find a way towards light to become a true voice and guide—in partnership with God.
The soul is not some lone quality but exists by God’s grace—is God—God’s seed and love—patiently waiting its day in the sun, while we live.
To read about my book, Freedom To Fall, click on “Morning Song Books” above.
I begin each day speaking with God about whatever is uppermost in my mind. What ensues is daily communion, within this sacred space.
Today I am interested in the notion of detachment. To nurture a sense of the eternal, by way of Earthly detachment, is not aloofness. Rather it is a zeal for living, accepting with grace the happenings along the way, with the awareness that there is more.
Living with detachment is an experience of peace and stillness within a whirlwind of activity. It is the nurturance of the preciousness within, the work of a lifetime—the pursuit of freedom, a process of “letting go.”
I feel as though I’m trying to know something, and I’m very close, as if freedom is mine for the taking. There is a sense that this day can be a clearing up of a dilemma; I know not what. I feel the stirring of antiquity—as fresh as a winter breeze—as though the answer lies there.
This morning I hear: To dwell in the land of freedom, you don’t have to go anywhere or plan anything. All that is needed is this place of intimacy, with God’s abiding Presence. When God is present, you yourself gain presence; life is imbued with light. It simply doesn’t matter what you are up to or the problems that prevail. You can live with detachment. Your life can be an expression of gratitude—for the gift of time.
When God is with you, you can go about the tasks of the day with a sense of fun and simplicity. You can toss life away as you live it. What remains is the spark of creative Grace, engendering a sense of the eternal.
Click on “Morning Song Books” above to learn about my book, Freedom To Fall.
Today I want to celebrate Silence—an interior place of love and guidance, beneath the vicissitudes of existence. It is a place where one can cultivate ascendance over the mundane, while moving towards the sublime.
Silence encourages “receiving,” all receptors alive. This morning I am listening to a whisper: Life is the creative act of God, so be humble and quiet. In that way, you can keep going; you are taken.
Silence is the antidote to a temperamental mind, with a clarifying effect. It takes devotion to rise above the tenuous plane of emotion, where lives often play out. Through the practice of silence, it becomes possible to keep love flourishing, allowing all else to fall away. Through silence there comes a rectifying of the raw data of experience in harmony with the movement of the soul.
There is no need to search for meaning or to scramble for advantage. Dreams may be dashed, but a burgeoning inner silence fosters true spirit—a dream come true—the saving grace and wellspring of faith.
Click on “Morning Song Books” to read about my book, Freedom to Fall—an inspirational story about my son, who died rock climbing, and my journey towards healing.