Archive of ‘Grief’ category
I’ve written several posts that I left in drafts. I don’t think I will publish them because they were too full of hurt and anger, grief. But it is better now. It always gets better. Just have to stand in the fire for a while.
I feel very blessed living in the place I live. So full of beauty. To go for morning walks and see the light in the trees, in the beautiful gardens, overflowing with flowers. I like to walk by the river especially. There is something about the water that calms me, soothes me. Without it, I feel parched. The other day I watched a small bird dancing on a rock. It was all black with a white chest. It flew into the water, diving, swimming around. I didn’t know it could do that. It seemed so full of joy.
The days have been less hot, and I welcome the cool air, the mist on the mountains, the wild thunderstorms. I hide away when it gets too hot. I’ve been circling by the butcher shop to get raw goat milk, raw butter. It’s amazing to find such things. Treasures really.
I have my desk where I can sit and write, my own little place finally. And I can see the mountains from my window. All blessings.
In the afternoon I curl up on my bed with a good book and my notepad. Sometimes I need a day when I can fill myself to the brim with writing. To step into the world of dreaming and stay for a while because it’s so easy to be shaken out of it.
She is perfume. She is rose sweet. She is love. The most sacred flower in the depth of your heart. Fragile petals opening in darkness. Strength confused as weakness. She is life, beauty. Love.
Sometimes I fall asleep to the scent of roses (or the feeling of that scent.)
I draw closer to her like this. My Divine Mother. I listen more. And I feel her showing me something that I can’t fully grasp because it goes so much against my stern ideas about life and love. But I want to believe what I start to glimpse inside of me. A truth I didn’t dare to believe in.
I feel letting in love takes courage. To be open and vulnerable. And being so loved, so near my Divine Mother makes me feel unworthy, very small, and yet deeply loved. It’s a strange combination, and it’s easy to run away.
I was reading a book about a girl who lost her parents and sister. And I felt myself in her. It made me feel how great my loss really is. How deep it goes. Deeper than I knew. I still think of my family with a pang of longing, that sense of being a tree in a winter forest, just starting to gather leaves. We can not turn away and forget. We have to walk through things, so I write. My main character goes through a great loss, but it’s easier to write about someone else. To look at things from a distance. And make her learn courage, faith, love, all the things I wish for.
The novel I’m working on is me piecing my soul back together, putting words and understand to my grief loss, without feeling too scared or overwhelmed.
Note: Sarah is soon releasing the updated version of her novel as an ebook. Please check it out. Truly it’s wonderful!
She walked among silent white trees, her dress trailing the ground, leaving the hem muddy, her feet bare and cold as she stepped close to water, kneeling, drinking.
This morning I listen to a song I love very much, that inspired the name of this blog, and my book – The Little Flower.
This song is full of quiet hope. It is sad, yes, and I remember crying to it and asking for it to be sung at both my sister and dad’s funeral. It especially reminds me of my sister. It’s a conversation between a flower and the singer, where the flower explains things in trust of God. No, she does not mind being in the dark forest, where there are shadows because God is with her. She doesn’t need to be admired in a garden because she was born to be a forest flower. And when the snow comes, she’ll be asleep until the sun kisses her awake once again.
I had a lovely moment last night when I had lit candles and opened the window to feel the fresh air. An owl was singing outside, and I paused, closed my eyes and smiled. It’s the most magical sound to me, and it’s been such a long time since last I heard it. I feel life returning all around me. I hear birds in the morning, and the light stays longer, seems brighter, as though the sun has regained some of its strength.
I sit by the window now, watching the light on the birch trees, making me feel spring in my bones. The Equinox is coming up. I dream of standing by the water, in a simple white dress, but it will be too cold for that. I will watch the sunrise, probably in my winter coat, and though it’s less poetic, I’m looking forward to it. I hope to be by the coast this time, and see the sun come out of the ocean.
I want to share tender heart songs from the past. Songs that was once my life, that I still carry inside of me, but that I want to let go of, to be carried away by the wind into the open air, finally touched by the sky, the sun. I don’t want to forget, but instead, bring life to old feelings that I hid from the world, to not hurt myself and others. I was afraid to take up space, to speak of what happened. Even glimpses of what I had gone through seemed to release a great wave, a shadow that felt too big, too uncomfortable to share. An elephant in a small room.
But it’s like walking among trees, thinking of winter in spring. Seeing the frost-touched the ground, that will soon be full of flowers. Noticing that there are shapes in the ice, like roses, that grabs your heart. And you kneel down to touch them, winter flowers among the dead grass.
I feel I’m doing the same inside of me, going through memories, pain and shadow. Gathering moments of beauty among them. I’m looking at the tapestry of my past, seeing the colors, the threads of gold that gleam the brightest, but also the darkness, the gray and red and black. I look at it all, knowing I’ll find stars in the night.
Living with Grief
I understand now that my grief will always be part of me, that I’ll always love and miss my family. Still, what I want is to walk deeper into my pain, and no longer hide from my feelings. Let them make me stronger, help me appreciate life more fully, all the little joys that it brings. I think sorrow can be turned into beauty, into strength.
I never truly digested what happened, all the losses that tore me apart. I put a time limit on my healing, and then stuffed everything away into a tight hard knot inside of me, that swelled and hurt until I could no longer ignore it.
But I also feel that things happened as they were supposed to. I moved away, found love with my husband in California, and when I had grown stronger, and gathered new lessons, new life experiences, the Goddess whispered it was time to return to Norway, and face my past.
Writing has been a huge gift, one that I did not have before. It’s like I’m slowly unraveling old feelings, word by word.
Outside my Window
I see a patch of blue sky, white clouds swirling above dark trees. There is a slight wind today, and softness to the air that makes me step outside my door, taking deep breaths, feeling an ache, a longing for spring. I know the sun, the light will return once more as it always does. For now, I watch the gray, overcast sky, with glimpses of gold in between, drops of snow sometimes falling, the wind coming and going. The birch trees are smiling at me, waving their bare, dark branches, whispering of beauty yet to unfold.
Edouard Bisson (1856-1939) French.
I’m doing Nanowrimo these days, so it’s a little harder to find words for my blog. But here is something I wrote a little while ago, that I at first wasn’t sure I wanted to share. I think I overthink things.
I feel my life is starting over, like I’m being reborn, rewritten. I write this, unsure if I should be posting it because I’m afraid I’m making things up. But is is what I’m feeling right now. It is what it is.
I watch the birds play among the birch tree leaves, in a dazzle of sunlight, the grass silver and white behind them. It’s such a beautiful day, one that can take your breath if you stare into it for long, the sweetness of summer still lingering even in the breath of winter. Fire and ice mixing, the nights dark, a black cloak with white flowers, shining stars in the depth of space.
I love this time. Love the leaves falling like drops of gold, like rain, like fire dying away to darkness, to the cold chill of night.
And I feel myself dying and rising, breaking apart and being put together. I feel my old life dying away, and I want to cut the thread holding me to it, want to let it go and whisper thanks for what it gave me. Sometimes I feel old, like I’ve walked through a deep night, and so many things have happened, even with my life covered in ice, even when I couldn’t bare to look at myself, when I waited for something to happen, for me to remember who I truly was.
I feel old and aged, but it’s a weight I’m carrying, and I want to let it go. But it’s etched into me with fire, pain and ice, and so I face the darkness of this season, feeling some relief, like I can rest and slowly let go, and hopefully be reborn in spring. To feel joy at the return of warmth and light, and be different then, taking my first step onto a new path, one no longer burdened by the past. No longer cracked open, weathered and dry, but new, full of spring grass and colored flowers.
I dream of this. I feel this. And like I said, I’m not sure it’s true. It’s something I whisper to the night, and sense now as I look out the window, at brilliant sunshine and snow white frost. I feel the darkness closing it, stealing the sun. I try to let go of worry as the shadows fall longer, the days growing shorter, knowing it’s what I want now, even as I feel a slight fear, of change, of the unknown. Wondering how I will tackle the long winter when everything is hard and icy, my freedom restricted, the forest paths hidden by snow.
I saw a woman with white hair and kind blue eyes. And I felt I wanted to be her, to be soft and calm, and to sit by the water, sunlight playing among the waves. I want to age into wisdom, into kindness courage and strength.
Gennady Spirin – La petite sirène
Golden leaves over silver grass, silently falling, the morning light inching closer, touching the tree tops. The lake silent and without a ripple, bathed in autumn colors, reflecting a clear blue sky.
I try to take the time to think and breathe, and to look at the moment, at each leaf as it falls. Winter is at my doorstep, and the world lovely, breaking apart and turning more beautiful with each passing day.
It’s strange how the wheel turns, how quickly time seems to pass. I love each season, especially when they are new or old, turning into something else, death and rebirth.
I read somewhere that our body holds onto emotions in different body parts, and I was surprised that it was scientific. It something I feel in myself. Like I’m holding onto something old, tears and anger that won’t let go.
I remember being a student and walking to my university, through the city and feeling as though my chest was heavy, as though something was pressing on it. I worried and went to the doctor, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with me.
So I tried to ignore it, leave it be, and eventually it went away, but tightened in a painful knot in my stomach, in my solar plexus.
I wonder if losing my dad, my mom and sister caused this heaviness to fall on me. There were just too many emotions to deal with, so I tucked them all away, without knowing I was doing it. In my family, we weren’t taught to show emotions, especially the negative ones, and I felt I had to move on, not feel so much and dwell on things, to not be a burden but continue with my life, be strong.
I watch the leaves fall, wondering if I can do the same, flutter to the ground and lie there, in the frost and sleep, relax, and let the world move as it will. Give up control and the need to be something special. Just let go and see what happens.
I realize now that I welcome the darkness. I want to rest. I want to sit inside and write, and walk the forest among naked, dark trees. I want to be calm and silent within myself. Right now the world is so brilliant and lovely that it almost frightens me. I feel this is something I need to learn also, to breathe in the moment, even if it’s like fire, even if it’s cold like winter frost, or as lovely as the wings of a butterfly. To be here, steady and strong, and silent, watching the world go by, loving it, admiring it, but without needing to hold on or control it.
So I look at the trees, the beauty of leaves falling, like golden drops to the ground, the pines trees breathing in light, the first of the sun on this slow, October morning. I see a few cars drive by, but mostly it’s quiet, still, the field frozen.
I feel melted inside, swollen and strange, like I’m crying and letting go, but all on the inside, like a slight tremble that might grow into something more. A wave tearing through, washing away old debris, making room for something new.
It’s funny how I say I have nothing to write, and then the words suddenly spill out of me.
I feel the greatest wound left in me came after my dad died. It was just him and me for a time. My mom and sister had passed away, and my two much older brothers lived elsewhere. So it was just him and me, and it was nice. I’ve always felt really close to my dad, as though we shared a special spirit bond, and I loved to spend time with him. We had many talks just the two of us, about God, about death, about life.
But then he got sick. Some strange darkness came over him and I could not make him smile. He would lie in his chair and stare into space, and sometimes he would look at me, and I could almost read the thoughts passing through his mind, the guilt and shame he felt about many things. I would tell him it did not matter, but nothing could reach him.
He was put in a mental hospital and I lived alone for a time, in that big house, leaving the lights on at night because I was afraid. But I got used to it, buying food and making easy dinners, going to school.
I remember him showing up one day as I was resting after school, and I looked up to see him standing in my doorway. I was so happy to see him, but he seemed so dark, so cold, like there was no life in him. Whenever I hugged him he barely hugged back, and I’d look at him and ask him to smile, and he would, but it never reached his eyes.
It was heartbreaking to see him fall away from me, and that I could do nothing to catch him, to make it better.
I remember sitting on the floor, rubbing his feet because they were always freezing cold. I rubbed them warm, but they got cold again right away. He had come home to pick up some things, before they drove him back to the hospital.
I remember watching the Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers and wishing the spell over my dad could be broken, the way it was for Theoden of Rohan. I fell in love with Eowyn, and felt with her as she held her uncle’s hand, speaking to him, and yet he did not hear her, being all withered, aged and grey from a dark spell put on him. But then it was broken, and he turned young again, was once more himself. He remembered who she was. I yearned for that so much.
I loved Eowyn. Watching her journey gave me a sense of strength, of purpose. I wanted to be strong and brave and to ride through my own darkness, break through it. She is still my favorite character of all time.
My very last memory of him was as I was getting in the car one evening, and turning around to see him looking back at me from the ferry that was taking him back to the hospital. He was drifting away and we looked at each other, and that’s the last thing I remember of him, how he slowly drifted away from me.
I got a phone call from my brother a while after, saying my dad had taken his own life at the hospital. I remember sitting down, my whole world crumbling.
I feel like crying as I write this, but no tears come. They never seem to come anymore, but instead they are stuck inside, like my insides are made up of tears. I miss him so much. I miss my family and the warmth we had between us.
But by writing this I feel something letting go, something releasing and I pray for it to be carried away and healed, because deep down I feel things are ok now. I feel he is ok, that he is happy. I feel we will meet again, that we’re still connected.
As the years passed it became harder to remember his face in detail, but I could always recall the feeling of his hand in mine, how callused it was from all the work he did outdoors. I remember slipping my hand in his as we walked up the dirt path to our house, talking, laughing about something.
Eowyn. I love her spirit.
The Madonna of the Lakes, 1917 by Sir John Lavery
This is something I wrote in the beginning of last month. Sometimes I don’t share my words because I’m a little afraid to them.
I want is a life dedicated to the Goddess, to grow a rose inside, to let it open and bloom. To walk in quiet peace because I’m with her, even when the winds turn icy cold.
I want to be with her in everything, look for her, like a glimmering light between the trees.
I don’t want to be cold and alone, but filled up with beauty, love, and know I’ll never be abandoned.
I read somewhere about painful things happening for us, not to us. At some deep level I feel this is true, that the loss I’ve been through has some use, some beauty. That it’s opening me up, teaching me, preparing me for something.
Maybe the divine loves us even as they bring us pain, and maybe there are angels of light that never leave our side in our darkness.
I reflect on these things as I try to understand, try to heal, to let go of my anger. An old anger, from when I thought they didn’t care, thought I was abandoned by God. But as as soon as I asked for help everything changed.
I feel suffering makes us beautiful, if we transform it into light.
This is a post that was lost for a while, because when I wanted to share it I couldn’t find it. But then it showed up again, and here it is. I still worry when I write about these things, and yet I want to share it. Maybe there’s something about wanting to be seen, and heard.
I woke this morning with glimpses from a dream still on my mind and heart. I lied still for a moment, trying to hold onto the feeling of what it was telling me, what I had been shown. I love the language of dreams, because it goes straight to the heart. I have so many ideas, even about what the divine thinks of me, expects of me, but in dreams the message goes straight to the core, and everything crumbles, and I don’t feel judged, only loved.
I walked in the rain, in the silence, in the green world of early June. No one was outside, not when it rains, so was alone, walking under my umbrella, listening to the music of the world around me.
I moved along that silent dark road, and thought of things, things I’ve learned today, about how others are hurting. And I listen to this song, about being small, so small, but wanting to do something.
(There are subtitles if you click them)
I’ve been tip toing around writing all day, but when the evening comes it’s a little easier.
I saw a swallow today, sitting just outside my window, its black feathers glistening, and I was happy because I rarely see them up close. Yesterday they swooped by me, dancing in the last of the sunlight as I went for an evening walk, picking purple flowers by the road side. I’ve always loved swallows, there’s something poetic about them. I remember playing with my sister and a friend, pretending to be birds, and I wanted to be the swallow.
I wanted to write more, about my sister, about my mother, my dad, memories.
I remember my mom sitting on the couch between my sister and me, smiling, while we put pretty things in her hair. I can’t have been more than five, but the memory is very clear in my mind, exactly what she looked like, and how much we loved her.
There is a song that reminds me of my sister, that we sung in her funeral. It inspired the name of this blog, little forest flower.
That song always moves me, especially because of the poem, about a small flower in the forest, trusting in God, even when winter comes, even knowing she will die.
My sister was older than me by three years, and in many ways she became my protector. We played a lot together, shared many things. She was braver than me in so many ways. When she struggled I struggled also, and I tried to listen, to help, wishing I knew what to do.
I’m writing more these days, putting it all onto paper, letting the energy finally move, flow, allowing myself to feel again.
I’m trying to understand what happened, why I’m still not completely healed after all this time. Maybe time isn’t enough, especially when we bottle things inside. Writing seems to be my best medicine, but for a long time I just couldn’t put down the words, they didn’t come, and I was too tired.
What comes to me now is a house of four walls, one by one crumbling until one is left standing alone. And I felt a cold wind reaching me, that I before had been sheltered from. I remember seeing my friends with their families, and feeling a warmth there that I wasn’t part of, that I longed to feel again.
The strange thing is that at some level I feel I knew this would happen. I was terrified when my parents left for an evening out alone, thinking they wouldn’t return. I stood by the window, feeling as though a great wave was moving towards me, from beyond the mountains, and would soon swallow me. I could do nothing to stop it, and I became very fearful. At some level I think I knew I would lose my family.
I began thinking that God did not love me. But bad things happen, even in love, and they can be turned into something beautiful.
I’m writing this because it helps, and maybe it will help someone else too. Maybe someone feel what I feel, and I wish I had found something like this when I was younger, going through the shelves at the local library, looking for something, books, words that could help.
Rumi — ‘The wound is the place where the Light enters you
This is something that I wrote over a week ago, that I didn’t post right away because every time I thought about it I got a knot in my stomach. I put it off, even though I wanted to see it out there, in the world.
I feel a need to share more, more memories, things that I’ve kept to myself, that are now surfacing and asking to be seen, to be felt.
I find healing in writing these things, that hurts a bit, but that come back to me with beauty, and warmth, and love.
May 17, Norway’s constitution day. I’m not sure what to say about it, other than I like that it’s in spring, when everything feels fresh and new, full of hope. It’s a big day and people celebrate it waving flags, singing, eating ice cream.
I’m not sure why I feel pain now, as I look out the window at the sun in the birch trees. My family is on my mind, in my heart as I remember us spending this day together, and how special it was. The last time we were all gathered my mom visited from the hospital, being very ill with cancer. She died only a few months later.
I remember sitting on the living room carpet, seeing her so ill, not sure if I should be happy or sad. My mom was strong, she never complained about her suffering, but went through it quietly, though she must have felt a lot of pain. Or maybe it’s just part of that side of my family, to not show weakness or hurt, to not be a burden in any way.
I feel I’m being asked to let go, but I’m not sure how. As I looked out on the lake one day I felt my dad. I felt I needed to say good bye to him, to my past, that my time here was coming to an end, yet I didn’t know how to move on.
I felt he was close to me, a guardian of sorts, watching over me. Of all of them, he seems to the one who stays with me, expensive, wise, as big and beautiful as the night sky.
I eat a sweet breakfast, dandelion coffee and chocolate banana bread. I just want to relax and rest, and feel the pain, not shut it out anymore. Life is for us to live it, all the pain and joy, all of it. Sometimes though, the blow we’re dealt is so devestating that we can only open up little by little, the soul having shut the pain out in self defense.
There might be thunder later, which I’d love. I could watch it roll closer, dark clouds above the mountains, see flashes of light, hear that distant rumbling, and feel the rain come down.
I walk to the other window and see how grey the lake is, how the rain has just started falling, very lightly, so you could walk in it and only get a little wet.
Everything is pretty quiet. Most people are away celebrating. I feel cracked open today, without knowing why. Maybe it was the warm banana bread straight out of the oven.
What is it about small comforts that break down barriers?
I thought of my mother, and her warm kitchen, of beautiful fragrances, sweet rolls and bread that I remember eating with brown cheese and butter. She would make jam, too, which was the most wonderful scent of all.
One time I watched her make meatballs, large ones. It was just me and her at home that day, I don’t remember why, or where everyone else was, but I smile as I see myself watching Pippi in the living room, and then running into the kitchen to grab a meat ball.
One day we went mushroom picking, and then never again. But I loved that one day in the forest with her, carrying our basket. At the time I didn’t like mushrooms (now I love them) so when she fried them up I didn’t want any, but I felt happy and wild from our time in nature. It is another special moment tucked away in my heart.
All these things, bleeding out. I thought perhaps I shouldn’t think or speak of them, or at least not tell anyone, because it makes people sad, but it helps me to write it all out. It helps me to look at my memories, see what happened, and not hide them away, asking them to be gone, when they can’t be, never will be, – they’re part of me, and I need to embrace them.
I know I’m blessed, so blessed to have had a happy childhood, even though there were dark clouds drifting in. I felt so much love growing up, and looking back I see myself walking through a beautiful summer, before the coming of autumn, and a long winter.
It is love that hurts, and I thought I could shield myself from the pain by creating a block of ice inside of me, and pushing it all behind it, though I didn’t do it consciously. And yet it is love that sets me free, slowly, drip by drip, as the ice melts. I feel my Divine Mother is showing me the way.
The sky has cleared now, the sun has come out. Light and shadows and yellow dandelion.
I updated the cover of my book, The Little Flower. I wanted something that felt like light, like magic.
I’m still writing, and I hope to share more of what’s coming through me. I’m practicing sharing instead of holding back. I’m so good at silencing myself, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I feel I’m on a journey to finding my own voice.
Thanks for reading. Please check out my book if you feel called to.
Love and Light.