Mistress Grange

The Grange, five years ago shy held timber wall stories and muffled cries.  We held our time of Nora mourning in these timber logs and although it had a kitchen and bath, it felt like a sacred burning box.

And now I walked strong head high beside my partner and live sons thrive to the very same space to celebrate the new stage of giving in communities we be living.

I walk back to this grange, five years ago shy, new dew eyed reminiscent of my young path and the smell of old pioneer was anything but pallet make for fast.

Slower, she Grange said in gentle fold to understand the unfold.  She held us as we wept for the Nora daughter so lost and yet so felt.  So lent and yet so intimate and life altering are the days, months, years.  And later as I sit in front of a school community we helped manifest, I know old Mistress Grange still makes plans to sing the flame to what must be fame as some helpful quest.

Not sure what this translates but the wood standing still can vibrate stories truer than what we can do to only stand still.

Listen, breath and be of a worker bee building communities that grow the love of what was lost and what can be found.

........................................

Nora is our daughter.  She was born and passed away five years ago this coming February 28 from Trisomy 18.  Her memorial was held at Lisabuela beach park and Vashon/Maury Island Grange Hall a week later.  A loving community of family and friends circled us as we grieved.  We have never forgotten such loving kindness.  

Klahanie Nursery School was born out of the residuals of such kindness and birthed a new community of joy and celebration, all encompassing the meaning of life shifts.  

Klahanie Nursery School 2011 Winter Party was held at the Vashon Grange in order to solidify the tansformative experience of what it means to be in a community: new, old and growth for more.

Thank you to all who have been active and witness to this transformation and embraced it as such.  What an honor to experience such power of cohesive life intention and be surrounded by people who live inspiring lives.

There is much more to come, no matter the age!

Sincerely,

Emmy

Pregnancy After Death...Yes, It Hurts

Dear Mama,

You hold that new sacred unfold that is going to be your soulful match.  He/She came after your loss/losses and it hurts too much to patch.  But here we are, solid in-utero true that this is what is happening.

It is rich, it is scary and it is what is.  Why not just throw yourself into the fast track of finding some form of happy life match?

What do we do?
Stew, brew for what is not or meant to transpire for our life lesson few?

We all suffer, some extent.  Some is more than others, some is less than a pencil leaves the desk but that is life, the life we human mammals live.  Cycle, feel, bender and life still.

Mama, be free.  Mama be free as you were with the first, even if the first inflicted pain we have to move from and around the pain to see what is real.

YOU determine what is real, you alone.

LIfe is life, death is death, growth is growth.
What do you choose?

My Sons

Farmer boy draw the path that illustrates my zest for your partners to pass some element of understanding of what we were as mama and sons who learned from one another in turns.

They, like I, will see the sacred truth of how a mother embraces the forces of her son's fierce.
It is not like a dynamic any woman can describe nor feel embarrassed for the intimacy that resides.  It is a connection true and force match.  What we mamas do with the ember is to not leave latched.

I love my sons.  My red waved, glory be done sons.  Their life is full and will become fuller with each day.  My job is to be present as they pay for the mighty living each way.  They can say what they will but they will know that they are derived from farmer forager finder feeler healer who listen and say.

The listen and say are what I mama hope to hold for my sons, for my family fabric spirit daughter, for my husband, for my person, for my earth.

Be of listen and say of the self truth that births from the love we cherish in few.

Mama Somalia, Your Feet Are So Raw

Grief is grief.  Walk is walk.
Mama why do your children of Somalia have to bear the burden of the earth dry ache?

The mama's stifle, snuff cries when their babies die one, two, three because the walk is necessary to find a breath while they must retreat.  This is for her family all; to escape the horrors and find some reason to reach tall.

To a camp that possibly can offer some form of safety while
oh mama
oh warrior mama you sound callused souled steps off to a place none of us can imagine through dreams.

Oh queen mama how you cut paths with strength massive on sore heels walking for the light of vaccination
food for your surviving few you have sacrificed for, to escape dehydration in your child's small body.

You teach us by your story.  You step solidly in our learner open eyes.  We will continue to see you so you can teach us to move toward callusing our hands so we may offer helping fans to stir up the air so change may occur for you, for your earth and deceased children.

Memory of what you have paved and memory so generations next can learn to save.

Turn, Turn Me On

Sat with my sistas out on the lawn, under familiar shade that I hadn't met in a long yawn.

She, my life-live with dead sista Elisa who shed my layers to place of newer.  I am seen from my scattered glass how jagged and frayed were my tendril lessons of past.

This will be a manifest turning ground for
me
family
for great world round.

I'm going to be working hard and seek to feel the necessary fleshing of scattered shades to know and find still.

I am to be born yet again.

My skin is tight and my belly aches for this visceral meal; meaty living for the sake.  I'm digesting to grow and grow some more.

Thank you sista Elisa for shedding some snake skin knowing on what is aching me so.

Nora In Our Family: The List Does Not Compare

Nora In Our Family: The List Does Not Compare: "Be left, be dry, be that sign that resonates for lifetimes try. The earth is a singular large fighting for gentle mourning cause Seen is ..."

The List Does Not Compare

Be left, be dry, be that sign that resonates for lifetimes try.

The earth is a singular large fighting for gentle mourning cause
Seen is seen for us of light shine
                                          bring to a place that is understood and semi-keen.

So sorry for the look that does not compute.  Intimidating but know it is not.  Vulnerability is swing shift gift that fluctuates frequently and does not give idle or tint.

Life is life.
Not is not.
Do is do.
Make it for your self and others for knot closet sought.

The house is colored to a shade of night and air.  We are devils bringing giddy spring flare.  But nothing compares to the singular fair of ponies and bunnies and things of cuddly fur.  Life is about living for self and other no matter what the fabric given.

Living is living.  No matter what the spring offers as a given wear.

Summer Fertility

Fairies and glitter do not compare to the tug-pull on ropes massive Northwest summer vain.  We all are ungrounded and scattered in tedious pulse to make this summer the best of late and great.  Yet pregnant yearnings continue to keep us clearer for the needed Autumn hibernation.

She feels it.
Summer mak'n bak'n fun times had because it is what we do best; be the home of growth and massive meditative life taken.

She wombs what I knew before and still know today, that life is for living and jumping off clear paths way.
The climb is the climb and the stumble is for our hearts to learn from but we are of stone worker quest of learning what our grandmas did not know.

Pensive plight, summer fertility, loving of open arms for self and partner when we find ourselves over come with the champagne flavor of August love making.

Babies be coming.
Babies be born.
Babies be percolating what our earth is sorely needing.

Thought, love, intention.

April 20, 2007 "What Normal?"

I feel melancholy.  I miss the old way of feeling--normal.

The normal where I can write a date on the calendar months ahead and follow through with going somewhere. Maybe sitting with a smoke and drink with friends while talking about nothing but doing something.  This new normal has an after taste I cannot seem to ignore nor lessen.

I understand my life has shifted to a point that is unrecognizable right now.  I just wish for familiarity.

Nothing is familiar in this grief.  I write because it keeps somewhat grounded.  I share these thoughts because it hurts to much to bottle them.  I write to share because I believe somewhere I am connecting with someone.

There are times, like this moment, when my heart feel empty.  So empty my heart, soul ache.  I have to push it out in a primal groan.  That is how I feel again.  Feel released and centered again.  I am just so damned tired of cycle.

Wild----

I want to scream a little louder, bend a wee bow.
Be that woman that has been secret in reveal.  She is not clear headed, she is just plain wild.

I hold her so close, she has been biting to be let free and set obligation dependents and fearful mom/pop on their demand plane.
Destination, go slow down to our Jill Scott groove.

Woman wild, Inner mule.
The hee ha loud knee jerk that pummels to the soul of no win.  But win.

I punch and pray that someday there will be less stubborn and a lot more love for....
For you say I.  Telling us to make time to steer clear of quakes that produce a fuse short and for-nada-truth.

Mule-work-mule work for a poke and not a prick.
Mule Mama you be that un-pretty pretty back-bone of farmer hope and dream.

You carry more than 1000 men seen.

Woman be wild.
Me be wild so I can find restful mule-day-off mild.

Globe Goat

We are not the voice that many want to sing out.  We are loud in our delivery and sound in our straight and arrow find or not, chew it and never spit it out.

Mothers be.  Mothers be of foster grow-loose-seek-and-be.  But more important is the feeling that life is the "yes"where we see and deal.  Deal with the "poop shoe incident,"  and the "i'm not hungry," and the "i'm of citizen and cool."

We are guiders of what we see as right.

Right is the first bloom of waiting for life's eternal boom.

We are not of anything more than what is of corners and bound.

Bound be swift bound be solid for the earth's candle we lick.  Lick for purpose, lick for community small.  Lick for one and definitely all.  We are the voice that is nibble and true, we are of our children so soft and warm blooded few.

What we cud chewing mamas have been yearning for is pure kindness and might, even when it provokes a sense of yellow-eyed fright.  

Glory be done.  Glory be of sight and seen and plenty.  This is the guide that is centered and self-true: be of what make and be of what make you.

Permission

Permission to be that parent we yearn to create...
Quiet, calm, accept all.

Yet there are Human Times stronger than "yes" that call to our children:
Please give space so I may make self grounded and not make an earth mess!

Seek the comforts of feeling your you.  You are never alone, even when those sleepless nights creep stronger virus like.

No matter the age of your children live or not, community is key.  For we forge to new oceans broad yet limited on what we individuals can see.

We are parents of live most, some not.  And that is a gift for whatever you choose to knot.

The gift is giving.  What we can in silly anecdotes, eye welled contact or just a gentle lend of how our grandma did her dare.  It is all there.  Solid and fair.

We are parents.
Permission to be humbled by the new.
Offering gratitude to our amazingly serious. sassy, spirited few.

Dear Ms SistaMama Badu

You guide
You have felt that ice cube freeze form.  When hurt hurts too but bad.  Too but bad.

I have felt your voice since first heard Billy Holiday channel battle boo.

I am Mama too of Three.

Two Red-Headed craze/run/crawl/fall/be what of Tall Man cool.

One Red Spirit Surround Us All.
She our Nora Born
too soon for our tender hearts
born of what a story should be told.

Ours is what?
What?
Something that feels different than what our friends live.
Different.  But.  Not Different.  NOT Different because grief is grief, no matter what we loose.  Loose is Loose.  Loose is Loose.  Loss is Loss.  Loss is Loss.

But Nora Teach us of blood life, spirit choose life.

I native/prairie roots in a voice not yet understood.

I feel you sista.
I feel you good.
My vibration of life force seems equal in the mirrored hood.

Write me.

I am here.
Constant and legit, I am no fuss or make
Just sista soul touch.

I am just, just.  That Mama we Make.

Ms Lily Lioness

Hear our Sista/Mama Guide

E. Badu.

She is that voice you hear at night mixed with those spirit babes.

Real Sista.

Come visit me.  Come visit me This spring when our tears blend with the night Ellisport air.
Shed, write, sing,
will Guide.  Will guide.  Will Guide.

Sista do.
Sista do.
Sista do in grief grow, we hold responsibility of those tears not yet understood.

We do.
She Do.
We Do.
WE DO, YOU KNOW--YOU KNOW soul aching know.

Stride

Do I walk silent or do I run loud?
Do I feel the pull of human make long and sound?

The inner answers are arduous and swift, listening with patience only makes the senses motion sick.

But we do--
We listen and somehow learn to grow for that pain understanding that manifests to strides we do not yet know.

Sing it Lady...
Hard and Fast.

Sing it Gentle-Man...
For your parents to feel life's pass.

We are our stories.
We are the stride of make-break-it-all.

Be that Eddy Vedder singing truth on an acoustic guitar,
reaching that Soft Soul who needs a power diaphragm channeler
Sacred and make howler.

We all sing it.
We all stride it.
We all be not afraid of the loud fear vibration of nightly news.

We digest our daily dose of whats, wheres, how, why
And then...
Heel-to-Toe the message of understand and try.

Try to be that embrace of learning where not to go
but
how to be.

This is our human labyrinth to seek what is unknown and...
Oh
So
Beautifully fly without stride.

Bad Ass Mama Mew

Mama Mew purr for us all.

Say your Mama name proud and balls-to-the-wall.

You cradle Self so feline demure but under the velvety cloak coat, you bring it For Sure

Loud and sometimes for
Fear.

Mama Mew how daringly soothe you sing.
To ease your babes til their rest remains.

But don't be quick in thinking She is done
with her
Blood Boil quest making the world play a note that can make us undone.

With glory, with pride stand for the tide and current know
we
all
bling bling the glitter of self soothe gleam.

She is Bad Ass Mama Mew broad casting message of uterine pulse vibrating message for
Her
You
I
Think.

Lonely

I feel insecure.

I know there are things that are meant to transpire yet where do I feel connected?  Where do I feel complete?  Is it a baby?  Is it that some something that strangers' symbol offer or is it that nothing nothing that feels like something but ends up,

nothing?

The nothing is something.  Dr. Seuss was right of rhythms.  The world is polar and synergy.  We who live, are full to the rim with sayings and praying for the answers that come consistently infrequently.

Lonely is this infrequency.  The energy is not put forth and in the end not received.
Where are all the bees man?  Where are all the bees?

NO pollination is happening and the cold is so cold.  Where are all the bees?  Sleeping and being dormant for the storm of earth lecture basin to yell what she feels is not being heard.

Be us of sound direction round.  And find that gravity weight for something magically great learning what we collectively need to do to create that something something mate.

There are no sapphire answers but the quest to find is magnificent in all minds.  Living is, living is...

Lonely or not.

Babe In Bath

Babe in bath.
Babe in bed's arms.
Babe be singing for gentle life's farms.

Farms full of fruitful glory bring life orchards of gust and glory.
We need to understand our place and role with our earth, mother and soul.

She sings and keens truth of whatever life's quandary.
We sing song of earth.
We sing song of many-- learning to understand her language that is complex and withstand.
We have a lot to learn in our linguistic demands.

Listen.
Listen.
Watch.
Learn.
Listen.
Watch.
Learn.
Listen.
Watch.
Learn.
What next....

Be the path that is for the other growth benefit; That is good.
You feel it.
We breath it.
Vashon sing it.
World listen, world listen...we be the island isolated frontier that explores it.

Truth be truth, no ego attached.  It be what it be, learning from pioneers' language match.

The Earth be our Mother.  The Soil our sibling knowing know.  How we listen and digest is anyone's crap-shoot go.

Be it be solid and sound.  Be it be solid and sound.  Blessed our glory be round and forever found.

Intoxication Love

Love watch.
You of my mind life that might be.
You of my of mind that sings free and sing.

We are falling fast that feels so true and fool-pool real.
It is OK.
What we do is what we sing.

We no fool.
There is no thinking or can, just be and planned of the heart.

Love you.
Love you.
Love you Alex, for your long-hair honesty that floors me to still.

Queen Waiting

When are we ready to graduate to the next level that no one wants to talk about but every woman yearns to be?

That level of Queen.  That level that cries:
I am Queen of my understanding.  I am Queen of my Bee.  I am Queen of every young lover who ever left the ocean for a Meal to Feel, Feel, Feel.
                                                                                                        To the Floor, Floor, Floor where we all do something crazy and nice.

This is being Queen.  This is being Proud.  This is being Solid in the Cloud to be nothing meek but Tall Tall Tall in presence and home we find answers that were always known.

Be the power to remember to learn from the fear that ate our plates away.  Japan destruction that still hurts more with each day.  These are scares to remember, these are scares to full-focus-make.  We are the solution if only to listen to the make, brake, forsake of all human-kind to create.

This create is of something true and more honest than the hearts of young lover's zeal.

This is human.
This is Queen.
This is the plight I see us women of our era who feel our grandmother feel-yas.
We
Are
New Live the Life of climbers, diggers, grinders, holders, formers can do.

Young Heart

Young Heart I hear your turmoil of being something that feels insane.
Young Heart you feel the divine sensation of losing nothing and gaining everything, just to be true/full/real to the other that can come close to completing you.

Awful and glory saying this to be true.  Yet how are we suppose to be anything more than
                    heart of truth yelling for you?

You are fearful of losing something that has been hurt before.  That is the way of understanding how we live for self and new appendage addition.

How you hold hands during the transition of making your way to meet eye to eye is your own to create, how lovely to greet the unknown known.

Laughing, laughing.  Learning, learning.

Clenched Jaw

Hold it in, see what you can do.

Hurts more than the pain that was inflicted on you.

Do more,
See the clenched jaw syndrome as a pour popped that resonates and descends to what is growth Core.

Many times it hurts and we don't like to indulge with the details or the language that makes us ache and sore.

I know he see me.  I know I see him.  And ten years later why are we in this bend?  Because we are solid because we are cool...because we be making to the lift and the full.

I love you Alex.

I love you Alex.

I love you.

I love.

Alex.

Thank you for your Zen lend.

February 28, Wear Our Children's Colors

I read on the most amazing website (Glow In The Woods) of another family who share February 28 as the day of their child's birth/death.  I was so moved by the entry and excited.

I would love to see the day of our children be of color--the color we feel represents our children.

For us, Nora was fire colors--reds and oranges.  She is fire and light, burning us to a new level of understanding.  She is our fire rose.  Apricot spice.

Find your day of birth/death and honor it.
This is similar to Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday--a day to be grieved and honor celebrated all in the same moment.  What was and what is to be.

These are the flags of our children.

Perculation Points

Wonder walk
ponder
blunder why the world so pound-by-pound ground to the pulp
                                          all
                                          to make us guess
                                          and guess.

Why the steam needs to rise and escape our widow's mess.

I cannot sit nor can I silence the
                                 loud voice of spirit that never leaves my side.

It is what It is.
I am blunt
I am proud
I love for the whole of non-look-ground.
So I may find the oceans we family have crossed to adventure the ultimate pride.

I never know if my voice is mute or harsh.
How it is taken is anyones' to hide or touch chest.

I am native.
I know it so.

She my grandmaman of French Canadian blood.
He be of middle continent native grown.
And together I feel them in every story I unfold.

My third and forth are from pioneer, Anglo descent.
They are honorable, silent and the same soil mend.

I cannot deny them any more then they silence their solstice message sent.

I hear them.
I learn them.
I raise children to instinct them.

May this be the newness of lesson world:
                         meshing how it remains orbit with so many stories told.

Mother Griever

Mother Griever I feel your cry.
Sit her beside the wave of try--try to be normal, try to be okay with the thick and the pain of loosing our greatest gain.

Children die.  Our children died.  No matter the age, the piece remains frayed.  We do learn but the fog is so thick and demanding that we feel still and lame in our attempts to be anything but hardened.

We love fiercely, even when it looks bleak.
We do not falter the harshness of being a mother--real, whole, scared and sold on our children.

Mother Griever you are...

Support: When Are You Ready For Another Child?

Dear Friends,

I understand the fear all too well.  The fear of:

Can I do this again?  Can I put myself, partner and family through another possible pain, another death?  What are the odds it will happen again?  Will it happen again?  How do I support myself when I am pregnant again to not fall victim to my own fears?  How do I not feel guilty for yearning for another child? Am I honoring my deceased child by wanting another baby?  Are my partner and I on the same page for conceiving again?  Will my family support me in wanting to conceive again?  Am I ready?  How do I talk about being ready?

You and your family experienced trauma.  Death trauma of a child.  The wound is very deep.  The wound might never heal, not fully.  This is your reality.

This is another layer of healing when one begins to process these questions.

That is all we can do--find time to answer the instinctual questions we hold about when the next child (grown inside or adopted) is ready to emerge.  You know when it feels right.  You know when it feels right and your partner feels the pull too.  When you both are holding hands, ready to dive off the high dive again, you will know.  Just like a stellar pot of coffee, percolation is required.  Let things percolate and brew to the taste meant for family and you.

The bitter taste of guilt will undoubtedly play a part in your process.  That is normal.  You will feel angst over if or not you are replacing your deceased child with another.  Please hold my hand and know, you are never replacing.  What is felt, seen, heard, learned from outside is irrelevant as you are loving more and more.  More and more.  More and more.  Replacement is not in your vocabulary.

A delicate part is this: Your partner is protecting you.  Please remember this when you feel anger and hurt that he/she is not expressing a sense of readiness.  Listen to heart and instincts of knowing.  Breath deep, relax and allow your story to be told.  You collectively will feel the pull to what is the direction you want to go.

I am here.

Sister Grief To Birth Of More And More

Support: The Birthdays

Dear Friends,

The "birthday" of your deceased child can be so painful.  For us, Nora was born and died the same day.  Our memories are wrapped with pain.  How do we hold a day like this, where the pain is a massive piece player?

Warmth...

In the hospital after her birth I was so cold from keening, grieving, hormones releasing.  February being her birth month and all I want is for warmth--warm me to my bones colors and weather.  This year I wanted to garden for Nora's day but the colors and weather are muted and grey.

Today, I just want warm.  So I made a fire.

Burning beside something burning can be so cleansing.  So I suppose that is what we grieving parents must embrace; looking to the elements (fire, air, water, earth) and feel out what ways we want to honor ourselves with the element's dependable help.  After all, are we not all looking for dependability during this time of no certainty?

With Deep Love and Constant Support,

Grief Sister

Today You Would Be Four

Not sure how I feel.  Raw and delicate might be the best way to describe.  Reminds me of when I would get sick as a young child and the heaviness of homesickness would blanket me.  The world felt much too big.

I miss her.  She feels spirit still to me today and that makes me ache for her all the more.

I feel still, a bit numb and longing.

Each February 28 I experience something new when re-living the birth and death of Nora.  Hurts every time.  But it also is a safe haven of memory for me.  That was the blessed day I was able to hold her in my arms, kiss her tender lips and be with her those hours.

As I write and cry I recall words a very wise woman shared with me years ago about the releasing of tears;

"Let them settle on your skin, dry where they ran for tears are our medicine.  They soothe the sores of pain.  They are our body medicine."

I will hold these words today as my Alex and I roll with whatever emotions surface.  Tears are my medicine.

Oregon Junco You Heard the Call

Little bird you sang my song:
                                      quiet and cool, soft and long.

Thank you darling Gentlemen Junco for your arrival to our paned window was Nora's anniversary of birth to the month and the day.

You arrived on an early dusk, fluttering with message urgency on the pained pane.

You brought our girl home to us in a message from wild earth.

Every morning you arrived with the same quest of see and tell.
Never wavering was our understanding that you were a chaneller of her quell.

You followed us to the garden beds, chattering and chittering a familiar song.

All day long.

I heard, I dug.
You told, you sang.
I cried, I sowed.
You held til Spring's fresh smell bathed the tender beds.

You left us at dusk one month and day later.

We were sad yet feel you each yearly March when the Oregon Juncos find our garden's winter seeds.

-------------------------------------

Dear Readers/Healers,

This was a miraculous nature occurrence where we were visited by an male Oregon Junco bird one month to the day of Nora's one month anniversary of birth (March 28, 2007).  Family were present when he arrived and he stayed for exactly one month and a day.

Each morning, as dawn awoke, he would flutter to our Suquamish house back deck that married the main living portion of our home.  He would not sit still.  He would fly back and forth, back and forth against our sliding glass door--just touching the tips of his wings.

The experience only heightened the surreal experience of grieving the death of a baby.  Our baby Nora felt complete with this arrival of a symbolic nature figure--a small winter smart bird.  The whole month was heart turning yet again.  Yet again.

Look for nature, for spirit, for purpose.  Whatever your belief may be, it will manifest.  I know.  I support.  Just listen, just listen and open your heart eyes to see what wants to lead you to more--more than you will ever know.

March 28, 2007: Cut Hair, Emotional Shedding

Today is Nora's one-month birth anniversary.  I am cutting my hair today.  I am cutting it short and similar to how it was when Alex and I fell in love.  I am nervous but ready to embrace this important shedding to gain something new.  Cut hair of pain.  Short hair for breath of green.

April 8, 2007: Lesson or Child?

I gaze at photos of my daughter and think, how can she be so beautiful?  Her shoulders, arms, nose, lips, long toes, her beautiful hands.  Such tender perfection I was only able to hold for a short while.  I wish I could have her here to hold and bath with mama care.

I feel cheated.  The anger and sorrow are married.  They take turns surfacing to fight and make me exhausted.  Tonight, I feel both.  I am vulnerable to their mission to breech and dive to a greater place of something--awareness? kindness? compassion?--all are a massive, disappointing unknown.

I want to talk about my baby as a baby and not as a lesson to understanding.  I hate it.  I hate relating this experience to survival on a boat adrift--some days I collect ample survival understanding and others I loose it all, never to be found again.  I feel so lost.

I wish I were exhausted from feedings, sore arms from baby holding, anything but this.  I loath this pain.  I do not want to be in this here and now.  It hurts too much.

Apricot Spice Daughter, Happy February 28 Birthday

You are four years memory.  Happy hurt for more memory.  Happy birthday darling apricot spice daughter.

I raise you in memory.
I raise you in story told--for others to release some-something-glorious something.

Wind-aa-ya-ho, wind-aa-ya-ho, wind-aa-ya, wind-aa-ya, ho-ho-ho-ho, heh-ee-o, heh-ee-o, ya-ya-ya.  Nora va, va.  You were born of fire, be of fire, more of fire.  Blessings from your warm glow.

Four years and I feel you so ever more.

Darling girl.  My darling girl that broke and re-opened my heart.  Thank you for the medicine that allows me to see your brothers and extended mama give Vashon crew the love light you never allow to be put out.

Darling spice girl.
Darling apricot sweet girl.
Darling Daughter.

Four years--four years--four years--more to come.

Swedish Held Our Hands, Our Hearts

There are not many times in ones' life when sincere vulnerability is exposed.

My body, my mind, my heart, my partner, my family were the most out-turned with a pain deeper than oceans or mines when we entered Swedish Hospital, February 2007.

We collectively did not want to be there; hearing what we had to hear, embarking on what we had to do.

Through the tears we looked at the doctors, counselors, nurses and felt held.  There was no judgment or commands.  There was information offered and listening to be had.  My greatest ally became my assigned Dr. Lan Tran.  Thinking her sweet name brings tears to my eyes because this amazing doctor, this amazing woman created safety when I felt so afraid.  She, alongside Dr. Luthie, who was present during all three of my baby's births, created a unified front of comfort and keen knowledge of how to be--intellectually and emotionally sound.

I hope for the day when I am greeted by these dear-heart doctors in a space devoted to honoring them.  They are a giving tree fruitful in space, holding the most despaired and we dead-in-soul few.

Thank you dear doctors and nurses (Rebecca from now til the end) who held us so tenderly so we could find some reason to mend.

All our love and thanks,

Emmy and Alex Graham

Roots

Roots be nimble
               Roots be quick
                              Roots be simple but make our story thick.

We seek connection and village lust.

Sometimes the truth hurts, makes us fuss.  But always core to our final end is that we people find quiver in life's massive bend.

Family is definition.
Family be own.
Family be soaring alongside bows gentle blown.

The question of geographic blood touch makes us hunger
                          for the truth,
                          for the shiver,
                          for the answering thunder.

I know where I am but where was I before, when grandmas and grandpas fought for us to prove more?

Support: Friend & Family Outreach, How You Can Help The Grieving Parents

Dear Family & Friends of the Grieving Parents,
 
This experience has opened our hearts and understanding even wider but the journey is hard. The upcoming months will be a new form of possible emotional challenge for the grieving parents as the adrenalin passes and life becomes semi-quiet again. This is when (at least from my experience) the gritty work can begin and deep sadness can definitely be a bi-product. 


During this time, reaching out with weekly emails and asking to come and visit can be soothing to grieving parents.  For me, this was an important step because I was able to share our story and the more I shared the closer and more connected I felt with Nora (being that my fear always was that she was going to be forgotten and during those early months I needed to find ways to stay in touch with her--find a rhythm of parenting a deceased child). 
 
What to say is, "I'm so sorry this is happening to you" and it is totally alright to cry.  You feeling the pain allows greater release for the griever.  You are offering a gift by feeling.  Also remembering why you are there is key: offering a space to listen and in a kind way, absorb some of the pain by simply being compassionately present. 


What is very helpful is when loved ones show a willingness to listen, not solve or take the pain away but to just listen and ask "how are you"questions vs. detail filling questions. 


When you come and visit with the grieving parents it is fine to say, "When and if you want to share your baby's birth story, I would love listen." As I shared, the next couple months might be hard for the grieving parents and talking about this life changing experience can be very comforting because baby then is alive in their family fabric. 


I have suggested that grieving parents think about setting up an altar for their baby. For us, our Nora altar is decorative in the colors we feel her as (reds, oranges, yellows--fire), special pieces of nature (stones or sand from a Pacific City/Vashon/Byron Bay beach) and candles to light the fire to see where we are headed.  


When family and friends came to visit they sometimes brought small beauties from nature or a letter to our Nora offering gratitude at the altar.  


A respectful question to ask would be, "Do you hold a place in your home that I may offer a loving message to your baby?"
 
Regarding outside questions from inquisitive community members (and I say from great love but protectiveness in this delicate arena), it is best to say exactly what the grieving parents said as their family story.  That is all people need to know.  The details of the death do not matter. 


The core that should be focused on is that the parent's baby died. If people get demanding about details with you (because they NEVER will with them) then end the conversation, you are the grieving parent's advocate and with that; protection and respect are needed. 
 
Much love,
 
Emmy

Support: An Altar

Dear Friend,

Have you thought about an altar for your child somewhere in your home?

We've found that having a space to place sweet little pieces of nature, notes, pictures, a candle to burn has been soothing for our delicate hearts.

When I have yearned for my connection with Nora I light our altar candle and speak love and thanks to her.

This is my way of feeling her when she seems so far away.

Laura Ingalls Wilder, Are You My Grandma?

Little House On The Hill, nestled on the island and the coast.

For those of you who knew me well when I was very young; Laura Ingalls was my savior, was my second chum.

She was rowdy.
She was righteous.
She was a fighter til the end.

I look at my lady pioneer, how she lived a life with little fear
and think about
what I may bring
to this earth to help it sing.

She brought it.
I bring it.
I rejuve the path of the great.

We women are women who climb logging ravines for grandbaby's tear of late.
                                            

Sweat Lodge Living

Water on the stones.
                     Levels on levels we feel the harsh-hot intake.

Can you take?
Don't know.
The stones so hot.
The lessons so hot.
Where do I burn?
Where do I learn?

Water on the stones.
                     More, more, more.

Ah, Spirit come and breath that voice.
Spirit where are you?
I burn.
I learn.

The pressure is crushing, there is no room.  No air.  I want to escape.
                         This tent--this breath--this massive intake.

The darkness boasts for inner look.  I am scared, what will I find?  Those stones be burning from the beginning of time.

Is there a drum or is it my heart?  I am about to explode from the quiet dark.

Then, the settle.
I accept.
I accept that this is my story on the griddle.
My
Mine.

It is the know.
Sweat lodge Life
                   Live
                   Long, it hurts but that's what it takes to spirit grow.

Support: Ashes Come Home

We understand you are feeling such complex emotional layers right now (fear being a larger player).  This is part of the process.  The painful fear, the painful wound created when we parents hold child as ashes.

It hurts, it hurts so badly.

Your ache is valid, your anger is valid.

For this moment, please try to soothe one another as you experience the raw hurt and know you have your child with you, always.  Your child is woven in your family fabric.  Your child is rooted in your hearts, memories.  You will never forget.

We remember, we understand, we send such love as you find your way to calm.

You are not alone.

Much love,

Sister and Brother of Grief

Lily Lioness

How are you?  I could not believe the extent of your story.  I am so very sorry.

I hope you are in a place of quiet anonymity.  Your creative method can open something profound and earth shifting.  I feel that is your plight.  You were offered this pain to shout truth.  I feel that is my work as well.  Just is.  Just is time, and surrender.  This is the hardest work we will do.  But that, is why, it is, so important.

I am here for you sister.  You do not know me other than through words, and I am thankful for that.

I hope sleep is in the near future for you.  Dream well; they will come if not to you, to your partner.

Much Love and Admiration.

Support: Milk Comes In

Oh Friend, I am sorry.

I remember that excruciating pain so completely when the milk comes in and our baby is not there.

It felt like so much loss all over again.  We are told how to bind ourselves, guided on how to posture our bodies in the shower, in the world, and yet our baby is not there.

If you can, hold in your heart and mind that this is the last of the physical pains during your grief.  When it passes and the milk dries, and it will, you will emerge to a new level of release because your body will be yours again.  You will be able to find a deeper love and understanding to move.

You are so smart in your inner guides; feeding what you need right now (sleep, walks, baking, cleaning, gardening, writing, telling your baby's story).  Do what soothes your spirit and mind.

You are not alone.

Much love and presence,

Sister of Grief

Garden

To escape the demands of my men's gentle commands, I enter the space that offers such grace in light and love
     The Garden.

She is feminine female fabulous--she is mine.

I feel my sisters, mothers, grandmothers, daughters dressed in lupine longing or lavender lengthening.  The seeds grow in tenderness and search.  Are we not the same?

The birds and insects worship her by spreading her story.  She is valued.  She is adored.

She is female.

I Fight For You

Loose the righteous.
Loose the Ego before it takes you through the throws-go.

You say you be fire--and that be true.
                                  Is there a way we can understand you?

Take the mole out of the hole and feel the weight to move to grow.

Be that light so you can fight for your children's children to see for sight.

Dear Mr. Diamond, You Helped Me Find A Way

Dear Mr. Diamond,

Your words eased my heart as it broke in pieces beyond recognition.

We watched you on a television, burning beside the firelight that never went out, grieving over our Nora gone.  I found voice from your singing voice.  I found a space through your words to feel that grace and wonderment of the pain.  I began to understand that it would move through and around me.  I would not become the hurt.  I would be found.

I and my family thank you Mr. Diamond.  We thank you.

"Dry Your Eyes" (From "The Last Waltz")
-Neil Diamond


Dry your eyes and take your song out, it's a newborn afternoon.
And if you can't recall the singer you can still recall the tune.
Dry your eyes and play it slowly like you're marching off to war;
Sing it like you know he'd want it, like we sang it once before.
And from the center of the circle to the midst of the waiting crowd,
If it ever be forgotten sing it long and sing it loud and come dry your eyes.

And he taught us more about giving than we ever cared to know,
But we came to find the secret and we never let it go.
And it was more than being holy and it was less than being free,
And if you can't recall the reason can you hear the people sing.
Right through the lightning and the thunder to the dark side of the moon,
To that distant falling angel that descended much too soon
And come dry your eyes.

Come dry your eyes.

You Asked How We Remember On February 28.

Her birthday is approaching and you ask me how we remember.

The first year--was the year.
The second year--I cried and cried and lovely Fin entered our hearts and hands.
The third year--I was pregnant, with our darling Kai.
This year--I will garden, with all my might.