Relinquish in 2023

The healing we are ready for doesn’t come from changing anything. It comes from the ability to see and be with what is.
- Mary O’Malley

As I reflect upon the past year, I recognize how grateful I am for the Life I have. Grateful for the love of family, both two and four legged, for my dear friends, for my health, and for the beautiful foothills community where I live. 

I am grateful for the clients who trusted me to partner with them on their journeys. For the privilege of guiding and witnessing their discoveries, their healing and celebrating their growth.

I am grateful for the new teachers and opportunities that filled my Life this past year. Appreciative and humbled, I am grateful for their inspiration, the new skills I learned from them, and for their generous support and kindness.

I’m grateful for the challenges and lessons I experienced that continue to help me grow. To expand my view of the world. Of myself. Of my commitment to practice compassion and acceptance with myself and others…

In reflecting, this past year was also one of personal loss and grief.

In late March, my father-in-law died. He was in his ninety’s and the last two years of his Life seemed a cruel wind down for such a vibrant jovial soul. We shared our birthdays, were both left handed, and enjoyed a wonderful relationship of mutual appreciation, humor, and love for almost 40 years. 

I think of him often and find connection in the funny stories his sons retell over and over. It’s as if he were still directing the conversation, laughing the loudest, amused at his own antics, sitting at our kitchen table. 

Although he is clearly alive in my memory, my heart felt a little ping as we moved into 2023 without him. I think of my mother-in-law who will for the 1st time in over 70 years, celebrate their anniversary…alone.

Recently I learned a new term to identify the many experiences of transition and loss that can trigger profound grief, without actually encompassing the death of a loved one.

Living Losses - are those losses we all experience everyday but generally don’t allow ourselves to acknowledge. The losses for which we rarely give ourselves grace or permission to mourn. The losses our culture refuses to identify as such, and therefore, deems unworthy of our grief.

Divorce, loss of job, abandonment by a parent,
a relationship that ends, a friends deception.
The loss of a dream, an ideal, a belief.
The loss of security, an injury, an illness, foreclosure,
a lost promotion, infertility, addiction. 
The limitless facets of loss inherent in the Covid 19 pandemic,
the loss of personal identity, loneliness,
becoming an empty nester and on and on…..

In early May, our daughter and her husband called us to excitedly share their plans for a new chapter in their lives. They’d made the decision to leave Colorado and to move their family across country to a small community in northern Maine.

With the enthusiasm of a new adventure, they focused on relating all the new opportunities and experiences they hoped their new Life would bring.

By mid summer, along with our young grandson, 2 horses, 2 goats, their dog and two cats - they were gone. 

The shock and grief that followed for me revealed a new level of what mourning a living loss can look like.

The fourth “remembrance of Buddhism”
All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them. 

I am learning to accept the nature of Life. I recognize it is my resistance to change, rather than the change itself, that causes my suffering. 

Another lesson from Buddha…

That doesn’t mean denying my feelings. To the contrary. It means actively allowing my emotions to surface and then to be expressed. This is an act of mourning.

Mourning is the outward expression of our internal grief. I consciously free the grief that builds up in my heart. I release the emotional energy that if denied, can take up residency in my body. 

I’ve learned through my own experience- stuffed emotions, specifically grief, continue to simmer and then explode without warning! 

Suppressed grief, pain, and fears can emerge as anger, depression, physical illness, addiction, and other uncontrolled behaviors. 

Author Karol K. Truman reminds us of this in the title of her book,
Feelings Buried Alive, Never Die…

When I practice mourning my grief, I am gradually lifted up to walk again in the “sunlight of the spirit”. I begin to see opportunities and ways for me to heal and grow.

Is it easy? No.
Is it worth it? Am I worth it? Absolutely.
I just have to allow it to be so….

Grief does not take us to where we were before the loss,
it takes us to where we need to be afterward.
- Rev Dr Jim Lockard

At the beginning of each new year, I embrace one word to guide and direct my intentions. For 2023, my word Relinquish came as a download from one of my Angel Guides. 

I am delighted at being given the exact word I need.

The definition of relinquish:  to voluntarily cease to keep or claim, to give up, let go, release  Here is the acrostic poem I created in focusing on my word for 2023.

Relinquish
Rest in the moment
Eliminate strife
Lose expectations
Implement my values
Nudge out stress
Quietly accept peace
Unlock my forgiveness
Ignite my loving heart
Silence my judgment
Have reverence for what is….

Ponder This:

How have you grown through your own journey with grief?

Grief's Sacred Passage

Grief's Sacred Passage

“Remember, love never dies and spirit knows no loss.”

— Louise Hay

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Without Warning

As I struggled to lift myself out of the tub, I thought of my mother. My mother loved a good bath. I immediately flashed back to June 27, 2011 — my mother’s last birthday. 

She’d driven up to my house and then we went to a charming, little bed-and-breakfast nearby for lunch. I remember sensing a distance, a lack of her usual engagement. Several times I felt the urge to reach over and touch her hand to ask her if she was okay — but I didn’t.

Afterward, we headed to the barn to see Peanut Butter, my horse, to feed her a carrot and pet her nose. As Mother moved around Peanut’s stall, I detected a frailty about the woman who’d always been my strength and support. It was uncharacteristic, foreign actually, despite her 83 years.  

She was missing her usual spunk and I thought about how my father’s fall in December, his subsequent shoulder surgery, and his slow recovery over the past six months, had really drained her. 

When she headed home in her little red Mercedes, I said a prayer for her safe arrival just 30 minutes away. I was feeling bad that I’d asked her to drive up to my place to celebrate her birthday. It seemed like I’d asked a lot of her, even though she would never have said so.

Several weeks later, my father made the difficult decision to undergo a second surgery on his shoulder. It had not healed properly and needed to be rebuilt. The surgery was risky for someone of his age and condition; and we all prayed that he’d survive it. 

Mom insisted we get the family together for photos before Dad’s surgery. She’d gotten her hair done for the pictures and was disappointed with how light the rinse had turned out. We all teased her about “going blonde,” and agreed that it certainly looked different. 

 After the photos were taken, my two sisters and I gathered with Mom and Dad on their back patio to discuss their estate. My mother talked about how someday they’d both be gone and how they hoped we girls would remain friends and continue to love each other. I felt uncomfortable hearing her talk about death, especially with my father’s impending surgery.

My father survived with steady vitals. We girls waited and played mahjong as we’d done all the other times when Dad was in the hospital. After the doctors emerged to announce their success, we walked to a nearby restaurant for a much needed, late lunch. 

We were all very relieved. And tired. But there was something off about my mother, something very strange. It felt like she wasn’t really there. She seemed almost transparent. There was no weight to her energy, her hair was very pale and her skin looked fragile, like parchment. 

I felt my heart move into my throat. I sensed for just a moment that my mother was fading away. Immediately, I stuffed down my fear and shook off my observations. 

We brought my father home a couple of days later. We made him comfortable in his favorite chair and then he dozed to the sound of us girls once again playing mahjong. I experienced such a sense of relief and peace, as the love and laughter of our family prevailed.  

Eventually, I told the others to continue the game without me. I had a meeting that I felt obligated to keep even though I had to force myself to leave. 

As I reluctantly drove away, I was aware of my intuitive voice pleading with me to relinquish “my responsibility” and return to my family’s house — but I ignored it.

Early the next morning on the way home from my workout class, I felt a sudden and desperate urge to talk to my mother. When I called the house, my older sister answered. I asked to speak to Mom, my urgency now in my throat. For some reason, my heart was beating rapidly and I was having difficulty breathing. 

The tone of her voice made me panic when she told me Mom couldn’t come to the phone. She said Mother had awakened earlier that morning with an ache in her back. She refused to go to the hospital but agreed to have our younger sister take her to the family doctor.

I immediately turned my car around and headed to my folk’s house. I had to keep reminding myself to breathe and focus on my driving. When I pulled into their driveway, I was filled with dread and struggled to compose myself before I went in. 

My older sister met me at the door and held me as she told me the news. Less than two months after we’d celebrated her birthday, our precious mother was gone. With our younger sister holding her hand, our mother slipped away at the doctor’s office, without fight or fanfare. Her heart had simply given out.

My mother’s light, her beautiful, radiant light … just switched off.

Questioning My Sanity

“Sometimes others turn from my pain. I hear them offering to help, but I see them slipping away in another direction, afraid to stand by me in such a terrifying place. It is then that I must preciously guard my own process, and find my way, not based on another’s estimation, but chosen for my own comfort’s sake.”

~ Molly Fumia

The shock of my mother leaving so unexpectedly left me feeling lost and unsafe. 

Where was my confidant? Who would I turn to when I felt afraid or upset? Who would listen to me now without judgement? How could it be, that she was no longer here to hug me and remind me of how very much I am loved?

I felt incapable of comprehending this new reality. I didn’t understand how the world could keep on ticking, keep on pushing around me, as if no one or nothing had changed. It was as if the grief that consumed me was somehow not obvious, that the implosion of my heart could not be seen, and my loss of all that was familiar was insignificant to everyone, but me.

Just yesterday someone I hadn’t seen for a while greeted me warmly and asked, “So are you better now?” 

I admit I was taken aback and not quite sure how to respond. It had only been a couple of months since my life had turned inside out without Mother. Had I made progress on my journey with grief? Was I accepting of what I felt now? Was it necessary for me to assess my grief? Was there something here to be measured?

This evening, I shoveled snow. The air was clean, clear, and crisp. I quietly acknowledged the cleared rows of my accomplishment and recognized how quickly new flakes diminished my success. 

Tears, thoughts of Mother, and a memory: I pictured her shoveling the front walk of our childhood home. The navy and gold, wool scarf she’d had since she was a kid was swaddled around her head covering her mouth. I recognized the familiar flowing rhythm of her shoveling; and it made me smile.

And then the veil dropped. My heart and head were flooded with sadness; and the aching reminder of her passing, returned.

The snow continues.

Time continues. 

I continue, forward … without her.

My New Companion

My grief came (and still comes) in waves — sometimes I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, or run, or hide. Then, for little glimmers of time, I experienced acceptance and even surrendered to its embrace. Grief, my new companion, created a space for my forgiveness and conquered my regrets.

Prayer, permission to weep, and journaling my thoughts and feelings, seemed to give me some solace. Being in nature helped, too. Whether walking, or being still with Mother Earth and her living creatures; I felt a spiritual connection to my mother.  

My father had his own angry grief. My sisters, too, struggled to find their way. We clung to each other in our desperation to preserve some semblance of Mother’s presence and loving heart.

My sisters and I took turns caring for our ailing father until his death less than two years later. Though his shoulder healed, he struggled with his ongoing melanoma, and his broken heart. There was such a focus on managing his care and balancing my life that grieving Mother seemed, at times, to be something I’d have to get to later. 

I began to feel my connection with her slipping away, much like her life did, although so abruptly at the end. I felt a growing gnawing at the back of my throat. It was like a yearning for a fresh memory to help me remember her. Then one night, my unspoken prayer was answered:

Ten months after your death, Mother, you came to me. My precious daughter Hannah and I were at a transformational seminar and we had experienced an emotionally challenging day. We spent the evening in our hotel room talking and attempting to soothe each other. 

Exhausted, I settled into bed; though my adrenaline was still pumping. My breath came intermittently. I had to continuously remind myself to just keep breathing. Finally I let go and fell into a fitful sleep. My last conscious thought was that of my deep, familiar ache for you, Mother. 

In the very early morning, I awakened. I was lying on my back and could hear Hannah’s soft breathing from the next bed. And then I felt you, Mother! 

Your soft downy essence was of no measurable weight, yet you had an identifiable warmth and sweet scent. You caressed my face, easing my stress and struggle. My forehead and jaw relaxed; my skin felt soft, youthful. 

Your energetic warmth continued down my body until you had cloaked me like a cocoon. I felt safe in your unwavering strength Mom, and deliciously happy and content. 

I know I was smiling, Mother. You suspended me tenderly within your presence. I felt your comforting peace and immense love. As I marveled and allowed myself to soak in “all that is you,” I drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Thank you, Mother, for coming to me. Thank you for your love and comfort. Thank you for showing me that you are still  here …

A New Norm

“I’ve learned that grief can be a slow ache that never seems to stop rising, yet as we grieve, those we love mysteriously become more and more a part of who we are. In this way, grief is yet another song the heart must sing to open the gate for all there is.”

~ Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

Coming up on the 5th anniversary of my mother’s death, I recognize how my relationship with both my grief, and my mother, has changed. Although I still ache for her physical touch, and dream about her warm, contagious smile; I hear her voice and laughter everywhere. 

She speaks to me though music and the rustle of the wind. I see her love and beauty in each colorful flower and billowy cloud. She catches my attention by laying feathers in my path, or pennies at my feet. 

My mother lives on in me, within my heart and memories. Through grief’s sacred passage, I celebrate with my mother — a spiritual bond and an everlasting love. 

I love you, Smiley. 

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“Grief keeps the heart fluid and soft, which helps make compassion possible.” - Francis Ward Weller

I’ve learned our relationship with grief opens us up to knowing a deeper sense of self, of our true heart. Allowing ourselves to honor this relationship is a meaningful journey in itself. 

If you’d like a partner to help you be kind and loving with yourself along the way, Click here to schedule a 30 min consultation to see how I might support you with that.
Or email me~ chooseforwardmovement@gmail.com 

Honoring My Sassy Mare Companion

Honoring My Sassy Mare Companion

A horse owner’s nightmare...

It was a Monday morning when my daughter Hannah called to tell me that Peanut Butter was having trouble. Hannah had been walking her – dragging her, actually – around the paddock for twenty minutes, but my horse of fourteen years just wanted to lay down and roll.

I held my voice steady as I asked Hannah questions, then told her I would call the vet and head out to the ranch, which was thirty minutes away.

I took a quick shower, jumped into my barn clothes, and carefully backed out the driveway. It was a beautiful sunny Colorado morning. As I drove down the highway, I had to remind myself to breathe. I repeatedly expressed gratitude to my Angels and God for carrying us all, for giving us strength and courage, for holding us in the light, and for dispelling our fear.

I took over for Hannah when I got there, walking Peanut Butter, keeping her from going down. When the vet arrived we brought Peanut Butter into her stall so she could be examined and given fluids. After delivering the devastating diagnosis – colic – the vet intravenously administered Banamine, a drug that would help alleviate her pain and stress.

Colic is an insidious condition in horses. It can cause great pain and discomfort while affecting the integrity of their gastrointestinal tract. The anatomy of a horse is really not conducive to effective digestion. Digested food leaving the stomach enters the intestine which makes a loop folding back in the opposite direction before continuing on with its coil of sixty feet.

Colic forces the horses’ digestive system to back up; food becomes impacted, the impacted intestine restricts and begins to twist. The blood supply to the intestine becomes cut off, causing that section, or sections, of the intestine to die.

Most common causes of colic are an abrupt change in food, moldy or tainted food, ingesting sand, not enough water consumption, stress or a drastic shift in weather.

Some of the signs of colic are pawing, rolling, bloating, stress, uneasiness, absence of gut sounds, and the loss of interest in food and water.

When colic is caught early there are treatments that can usually relieve the discomfort and support the impaction to move through and pass. Some horses are candidates for colic surgery, though it is invasive, very expensive, and requires lengthy stall recovery. For many horses, however, colic progresses so rapidly that the damage is too great for them to recover.

It took me over an hour to locate someone available with a horse trailer to transport Peanut Butter down the hill to Littleton Equine Medical Center. Though drugged and uncomfortable, my sweet mare willingly followed as I slowly led her to the back of the trailer. After just a hint of hesitation she stepped in. As I closed the trailer door I was consumed with a wretched heaviness.

I knew this was to be Peanut Butter’s last ride. I sensed too, she had already said goodbye to Blondie, our other horse, and to the ranch that she loved.

Celebrating my 50th…

Looking back, I realize that not only were Peanut Butter and I destined to meet but that she came into my Life at exactly the right time. It was the months leading up to my fiftieth birthday and I was reflecting, as I do each year, upon my Life to that point. I realized that this milestone actually felt quite significant, so I looked within to see how I wanted to celebrate me. I clearly received a message to gift myself with a new horse partner.

Wow, what a bold idea! Being a horse owner is a huge, long-term commitment, both in terms of time and the money it takes to finance their care, training and shelter/board. This is no deterrent, however, for one who knows that there is nothing more sacred, gratifying, and fun than traveling in relationship with a horse.

It was so fitting that my mother accompanied me on my equine search. Mom was raised on an Illinois farm and had always loved horses. She’d also convinced my dad to let me get my first horse, Ginger, when I was twelve. Preliminary online research had led us to videos of some horses, then to the ranch south of Denver where they lived. As Mom and I headed to the ranch, we were both filled with excitement at the prospect of meeting these horses, with their unique movements and personalities, and hopefully to meet the horse meant just for me.

Mom set up camp on the porch of one of the ranch outbuildings. She sat in a rough chair and had her book to keep her company as I paraded back and forth on the various horses I was “trying out.”

The two geldings I rode were nice enough, but I was looking for a horse with a fiery yet gentle spirit, a horse who was feisty, fast and ready for adventure, a horse who could make my heart soar!

“What about Peanut Butter?” Mom asked, and something inside me quickened.

Peanut Butter was a five-year-old mare, registered half-Arabian, half-Quarter horse. She was a beautiful chestnut with a gorgeous Arab head and large expressive eyes. I was enchanted by her energy and grace, yet I also felt a bit threatened and small in the shadow of her presence. Mom was convinced she could be the one I was searching for.

I ran my hand down the side of Peanut Butter’s leg to ask for her foot so I could pick her hoof. She gave me her foot and at the same time turned her head around to assess me. I worked quietly as I introduced myself, picking her feet, brushing her hair, and combing her mane.

Several times she and I connected, both of us conveying curiosity as well as caution.

The first time I mounted her and sat in the saddle I noticed how slender her barrel was between my legs. I felt her electrified energy pulsing in anticipation underneath me.
I felt absolutely exhilarated. She made me feel alive!

 Flanked by two horses ridden by ranch hands, Peanut Butter and I rode out over the bridge. As we rounded the ditch bend, I saw the dirt road in front of us rise up to the top of a bluff.

As the three horses trotted in unison at the base of the hill, I suddenly sensed Peanut Butter’s anxious impulse to break free and run. I felt a flash of panic, then something incredible happened – I let go! Like a bullet she exploded forward, moving with such grace, power, and speed. Focusing on my breath, I released my resistance. We moved up the hill like a flash leaving the other two riders stunned and their horses in a cloud of dust.

Out in front I relaxed, giving Peanut Butter her head and relinquishing any control I might have had. We moved rhythmically in sync, scaling the top of the bluff with ease.

Somehow, I came back to earth to skillfully rein her in, having her make circles and finally come to a stop. Alone on top of the bluff, Peanut Butter and I stood as one, heaving breaths and snorting.

Eventually she allowed me to move her back down the hill at a pace at which I could recover.

I leaned forward with my hands on her neck and spoke quietly when I asked her if she wanted to come home with me. She clearly responded in a way I could hear. Not only had I chosen Peanut Butter as my new partner, she had chosen me as well.

Lessons from the heart…

As I said earlier, Peanut Butter came into my Life exactly when I needed her. In addition to it being the advent of my fiftieth birthday, it was also the summer before Hannah started eighth grade and an especially tumultuous period as she negotiated her adolescent identity. Though our relationship was still challenging, we found we connected over our love of horses.

 Peanut Butter came to teach me important Life lessons about boundaries, myself and relationships. She reflected in her behavior my attitudes and emotions. I often had to shift my perspective to see what I was offering that Peanut Butter was acting out. Many times she reminded me that I was pushing and controlling in asking for what I wanted.

She also emulated my daughter’s obstinate creative spirit. Like Hannah, Peanut Butter was so darn smart and clearly independent in choosing how and when to cooperate. She’d argue my decision to cross an old suspended bridge when the ground below was easily traversed. And when it came to crossing water, she’d cleverly maneuver around it or jump it every time.

Peanut Butter’s acute hearing and smell were always the first to alert us of something on the trail. Given her head, she could pick through any footing, leading the other horses on the safest route.

Over the years I spent hours grooming Peanut Butter. It was one of our favorite times of sharing.

I would groom every inch of her body, stroking, brushing, detangling her mane and tail. This process somehow smoothed out the messiness of Life and soothed my own needy energy to rush.

In her focused singleness of purpose, I learned to allow myself to just be, soak in the gifts of the present moment, and savor the knowledge of being enough…

I spent several hours this early evening out at the barn with Peanut Butter. There is something so calming, so grounding about grooming her, allowing her to graze on the new spring grass and watching her just be a horse, content, present, massive yet gentle.

This evening was especially reflective for me. Our daughter, Hannah, graduated from college this morning. Her father and I, her Aunt Lynnie, and boyfriend Shaun all joined her to witness and celebrate this great achievement. Both my sister and I cried, missing Mom and Dad, knowing how proud they would have been.

As I finished combing out Peanut Butter’s tail and scraping the dried mud off her back legs, I stood upright and leaned into her, placing my arm over the top of her back, feeling her body.

I spoke with my Angels and asked for clarity and creativity; to be accepting and at ease with myself and the rhythm of my Life. Slowly I positioned Peanut Butter along the inside rails of the round pen. Then with the flexibility I’ve had since I was a kid, I slid my leg over her back and hopped on bareback.

We rode along together for about twenty minutes, leg yielding, spiraling inward one direction, then the other. Together we glided quietly around the pen as deer picked their way through the pasture below and her herd, stood quietly in the early evening dusk.

This is heaven, I thought.

And I heard my mother say, “Yes, it is Jani. It is heaven on Earth.”

Life cycles forward...

We moved Peanut Butter and Blondie to our ranch three years ago last August. For Hannah and me, it was the realization of a shared dream of being able to care for our horses at home. Hannah immediately took responsibility for the morning feed, which she did before work, including in winter when she had to brave subzero weather and use a flashlight to navigate the darkness.

Peanut Butter and Blondie settled into their new home and routine, and the four of us were thrilled to be able to ride in the neighborhood and around our property. We made big plans for all the rides we were going to take. And all the while I denied my growing awareness that Peanut Butter was slowing down. It wasn’t until that awful Monday morning that I was forced to face the truth.

It’s been almost eighteen months since my precious Peanut Butter left this world for a higher path. And though I accept that her physical Life is over I am still able to travel with her in so many ways. Even so, I felt it was important to have a piece of her here in the physical world.

Her ashes rest in a beautiful cherry wood box at home under her saddle stand in the tack room.

Peanut Butter, you have been – and continue to be – my sassy mare companion and my sweet spirited, sensitive friend. I will love you always…

💜 Today marks 3 years since my Peanut Butter transitioned to greater pastures.