"Let us step through the door of self into the uncharted lands of our beings, unossified. Let us dare to live in our bodies as a question rather than a statement." Really nice, Justyna. And I love all the authors you quote; Huxley, Suzuki, Saramago. Did you recently read Island? I read that years ago but I still often think of the talking parrot when I repeat to myself, "Attention! Pay attention!"
It is the small things that bring me alive — the small things that tended to my broken heart after Barbara died. Those same small things help tend to my aloneness and my solitude now. Five and a half years have passed since that horrid predawn darkness when the burning and the clenching of my heart cast me into the great abyss of Without. I was without myself, lost and flung to the furthest reach of the universe. Now my universe is this 100 acre forest that is glorified by the unending cycles of the seasons. A hilltop forest that has been made sacred through my grief and the myriad of small things I witness on my daily rounds. I have grown to know all the denizens from hemlock to yellow birch to the great red oak that looks over my wife’s cairn. Time and time again lost to the sound of the northern wind and the slow sensuous sway of the lofted crown of the white pine. This heart lifted skyward to join and embrace this high dance where the spirit of my beloved spreads wide the sweep of her silvery wings.
I have become the ornamental gargoyle moved from our flower garden to a solemn outpost standing vigil in the watchtower of a tripod red maple. A still and steely eyed gaze, unrelenting and unfaltering as the gate and gatekeeper to the deepest stretches of this realm. To be both tireless and adrift to the sounds and the sounding of deep granite bedrock and a quiet heart. To find one’s place at the center of a square parcel of woodland that had always been awaiting my arrival, my duty, my allegiance, and my affection.
Thank you, Justyna. This poem by David Whyte has been my anthem back to myself since the death of my wife.
I thank you deeply for your offering of this touching, precious, and difficult story. It is beautiful on its own, and your careful words only add grace to it. It is tender to read about your relationship with the land, and I can't help but feel that the land cared for you just as you care for it. I know the pain of losing a beloved, and the movement that follows—uncertain, and at times even fearful of each step, yet it makes its way forward, still.
I'm sending love your way, and a deep bow to the pain and beauty of your life. I’m grateful and honoured that you joined us here, in this community. I hope it serves you well.
Justyna, thank you for your kind and generous words. And thank you for John O’Donohue’s blessing. I am very familiar with his work. Barbara had a copy of his blessings on a book shelf that I only opened after she died. In those first months I was madly and obsessively driven to find a way back to her, to discover and tend to a new and unknown relationship with her spirit. I browsed through the blessings and found I needed something more. Something that had more depth and color to frame this new relationship, something that would also affirm the enduring love and commitment that we had to our relationship no matter the struggles, the miscues, the darkness we often experienced. Then I came across his book ‘Walking in Wonder’ and later “Beauty: The Invisible Embrace” and, finally, his book “Eternal Echoes”. These three books, particularly the last two, became such exquisite prose feeding and soothing the processing of my grief — deliberately, slowly, reading after reading. Often I would read a page or two then find my breath suddenly taken away and immediately break down weeping. It took me months to read those two books. His words became a mantra for Barbara, for my healing, a validation of our “Third Body” (a Francis Weller term for the embodiment of soul) that had been created between us. During the first year I read little else and settled into the rhythm and upheavals of my grief, the days of tears followed by tremendous wailing expulsions that felt primal tearing me to the core. Eventually soon to follow would be these tenderly, quiet interludes. A new awareness of beauty would seep into the spaces between my tears. And later the beauty matched with the broken open heart (and the steadiness of a mantra I whispered endlessly) and led me to stretching my arms as far above me into the blue as I could, into the “scalding, aortal light,” as Mary Oliver said. In those moments I believed I was just barely touching the outer most filaments of the Eternal. And that was my first visitation, but not my last visitation, with Grace. So John’s language, his gentle and relevatory words, became my salvation in those darkest of times. Thank you again, Justyna.
I have read your story over and over again, searching for the right words to meet you with. What you share is as achingly painful as it is indescribably beautiful, and it lingers in a way that few stories do. Even now, I find myself at a loss for words that could truly capture how deeply your journey has moved me.
I can relate to the primal, soul-tearing, life-tearing pain—the obsessive longing to find a way back into the arms of a loved one—even when it causes us more pain. I once wrote, “It’s cold everywhere, and I know the only place I could find warmth now would be in your arms. But it would mean running back into the house that is burning, and for the sake of feeling warmth once more, burning away with it. So I must endure cold until I can feel warm again, until it comes from my own heart.”
To lose a love of such significance also means to have known it. I am sure you have realised this too. It is a gift to be touched so deeply by another person—to have dared to let ourselves unfold like a flower, opening our petals and exposing the core. It is the utmost risk: to be touched so deeply and totaly that it changes Everything.
But of course, such awareness doesn’t, in any way, lessen the pain that enfolds us like a leaden mass, pressing the air out of our lungs and holding us down, heavy of yet-to-be-poured tears, against the cold ground, denying us light and free movement.
I deeply, truly respect you for honouring the calling of your grief and allowing yourself to become undone by its workings. I can feel it deeply. The raw courage it takes to do so. You are so very brave.
Your honesty, your openness to grief, and the way you describe your connection to Barbara and how you found your ways to John O’Donohue’s work are profoundly, speechlessly touching. I can only hope that my response carries even a fraction of the depth and tenderness you have so generously shared.
Thank you for trusting me with your story and for showing how beauty and grace can emerge, even from such unimaginable pain. It is a reminder of the courage it takes to hold space for both grief and wonder, and the power of words and spirit to guide us through the darkest times.
Justyna, Thank you for such a heartfelt and endearing response to my post. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to respond. Somehow I missed this and discovered it just a little while ago. I have to admit that I have been caught up with the multitude of writings and responses to Trump and his vicious band of angry and callous miscreants. Often I have found myself fearful and angry and sad — possibly the worst waking nightmare in my country’s history. I take my wounded soul and discover a comforting balm in the beautiful interludes of slow and quiet walks through our snow covered forest accompanied by my golden boy pup Buster. To witness all the splendor and grace that fills me in a place I know so well is the Eternal’s greatest gift to me through these dark times. Francis Weller spoke often in how the greatest attributes we bring to any relationship are stillness, quiet, witnessing, and going down into the deepest recesses (the heart, the earth, our grief). I have walked the trail of grief season after season these past five years. My relationship with this New England forest has brought as much comfort and intimacy and affection as that which I had found with my Beloved. And in this same forest I have been blessed by the discovery of events and synchronicities that defy any logical explanation yet always seem to lead back to Barbara. Now I am thinking about the Bill Stafford poem, “The Way it Is”:
“There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change.
Everything about this is sublime. The poems (David Whyte is one of my favorites—he lives near me in Washington State now and I’ve seen him read his poetry live multiple times, including the one you shared here—the last few lines in this poem has become a mantra I use often and is an excellent way to live); the quotes from Suzuki Roshi (one of my root gurus), and then all of your thoughts and reflections. Thank you, thank you. I’m glad you are “out there” creating spaces of loving kindness.
It sounds like you’ve had some truly meaningful experiences, Kert! How wonderful that you've had the chance to witness David Whyte live and feel so connected to those words. It’s beautiful to hear that his poetry has become such an integral part of your life.
I also honour your connection with Suzuki Roshi—such a profound and guiding presence. It’s clear that his teachings have left a lasting imprint on you.
Thank you so much for your kind words—they truly mean a lot. I’m so grateful for your time and your thoughtful presence here. It’s an honour to have you as part of this community 🙏 :)
I read your post and was about to click to your home page when I noticed a ▶️ symbol.
I hit it out of curiosity and boom 💥 a strip appeared to play your wonderful VOICE!
Wow 🤩!
Are you a professional speaker??
I enjoyed your text even more with the emphasis of your voice and the speed of your words.
So many great points.
I first resonated with:
“My clothes are plain and mainly the colour of sand or stone. Typically no music, and if ever, it usually will be soothing, cradling, classical. I gaze up to the sky when I wish to see a painting; it is different everyday and never not heavenly. The food I eat is uncomplicated and satisfying, welcomed with reverence. Words come to serve a purpose and fade when unnecessary. And the mystery is that of living, no need to over-characterise it”
So happy to hear that it resonated with you! And how wonderful to know we share these similarities :) 🙏
As for the voice, I'm afraid it’s an auto-generated text-to-speech recording created by Artificial Intelligence. I've now changed it to a male voice so it’s not confused with my own. I have yet to record my own voiceovers, but I’m still practising, as reading out loud is not my strength :)
This is an important, meaningful work that you do, dear Marlena—thank you for sharing it! And, of course, so difficult at times.
I find that on a "good day" it's relatively easy to let go of unskilful thoughts and embrace a more uplifting state.
There are days, however, that stuff us into ourselves so tightly that all the space is filled with "me" and none remains for anything else—no room for the present moment, no space for ease, and no openness for the world to flow through.
Yet, as you write, it is those days that, paradoxically, leave us feeling empty :)
I'm re-reading a book by David R. Hawkins "The Pathway of Surrender" which helps to release the root cause of thoughts: emotion. If you haven't read it yet, perhaps it could be of interest to you! :)
"Let us step through the door of self into the uncharted lands of our beings, unossified. Let us dare to live in our bodies as a question rather than a statement." Really nice, Justyna. And I love all the authors you quote; Huxley, Suzuki, Saramago. Did you recently read Island? I read that years ago but I still often think of the talking parrot when I repeat to myself, "Attention! Pay attention!"
Thank you, Don! I actually haven't read Island yet, but I had this quote saved for a very long time. I want to read the book soon, though :)
It is the small things that bring me alive — the small things that tended to my broken heart after Barbara died. Those same small things help tend to my aloneness and my solitude now. Five and a half years have passed since that horrid predawn darkness when the burning and the clenching of my heart cast me into the great abyss of Without. I was without myself, lost and flung to the furthest reach of the universe. Now my universe is this 100 acre forest that is glorified by the unending cycles of the seasons. A hilltop forest that has been made sacred through my grief and the myriad of small things I witness on my daily rounds. I have grown to know all the denizens from hemlock to yellow birch to the great red oak that looks over my wife’s cairn. Time and time again lost to the sound of the northern wind and the slow sensuous sway of the lofted crown of the white pine. This heart lifted skyward to join and embrace this high dance where the spirit of my beloved spreads wide the sweep of her silvery wings.
I have become the ornamental gargoyle moved from our flower garden to a solemn outpost standing vigil in the watchtower of a tripod red maple. A still and steely eyed gaze, unrelenting and unfaltering as the gate and gatekeeper to the deepest stretches of this realm. To be both tireless and adrift to the sounds and the sounding of deep granite bedrock and a quiet heart. To find one’s place at the center of a square parcel of woodland that had always been awaiting my arrival, my duty, my allegiance, and my affection.
Thank you, Justyna. This poem by David Whyte has been my anthem back to myself since the death of my wife.
Dear Mark,
I thank you deeply for your offering of this touching, precious, and difficult story. It is beautiful on its own, and your careful words only add grace to it. It is tender to read about your relationship with the land, and I can't help but feel that the land cared for you just as you care for it. I know the pain of losing a beloved, and the movement that follows—uncertain, and at times even fearful of each step, yet it makes its way forward, still.
I'm sending love your way, and a deep bow to the pain and beauty of your life. I’m grateful and honoured that you joined us here, in this community. I hope it serves you well.
May I also offer this poem, which I personally find great comfort in: https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/beannacht-blessing/
Justyna, thank you for your kind and generous words. And thank you for John O’Donohue’s blessing. I am very familiar with his work. Barbara had a copy of his blessings on a book shelf that I only opened after she died. In those first months I was madly and obsessively driven to find a way back to her, to discover and tend to a new and unknown relationship with her spirit. I browsed through the blessings and found I needed something more. Something that had more depth and color to frame this new relationship, something that would also affirm the enduring love and commitment that we had to our relationship no matter the struggles, the miscues, the darkness we often experienced. Then I came across his book ‘Walking in Wonder’ and later “Beauty: The Invisible Embrace” and, finally, his book “Eternal Echoes”. These three books, particularly the last two, became such exquisite prose feeding and soothing the processing of my grief — deliberately, slowly, reading after reading. Often I would read a page or two then find my breath suddenly taken away and immediately break down weeping. It took me months to read those two books. His words became a mantra for Barbara, for my healing, a validation of our “Third Body” (a Francis Weller term for the embodiment of soul) that had been created between us. During the first year I read little else and settled into the rhythm and upheavals of my grief, the days of tears followed by tremendous wailing expulsions that felt primal tearing me to the core. Eventually soon to follow would be these tenderly, quiet interludes. A new awareness of beauty would seep into the spaces between my tears. And later the beauty matched with the broken open heart (and the steadiness of a mantra I whispered endlessly) and led me to stretching my arms as far above me into the blue as I could, into the “scalding, aortal light,” as Mary Oliver said. In those moments I believed I was just barely touching the outer most filaments of the Eternal. And that was my first visitation, but not my last visitation, with Grace. So John’s language, his gentle and relevatory words, became my salvation in those darkest of times. Thank you again, Justyna.
Dear Mark,
How to begin.
I have read your story over and over again, searching for the right words to meet you with. What you share is as achingly painful as it is indescribably beautiful, and it lingers in a way that few stories do. Even now, I find myself at a loss for words that could truly capture how deeply your journey has moved me.
I can relate to the primal, soul-tearing, life-tearing pain—the obsessive longing to find a way back into the arms of a loved one—even when it causes us more pain. I once wrote, “It’s cold everywhere, and I know the only place I could find warmth now would be in your arms. But it would mean running back into the house that is burning, and for the sake of feeling warmth once more, burning away with it. So I must endure cold until I can feel warm again, until it comes from my own heart.”
To lose a love of such significance also means to have known it. I am sure you have realised this too. It is a gift to be touched so deeply by another person—to have dared to let ourselves unfold like a flower, opening our petals and exposing the core. It is the utmost risk: to be touched so deeply and totaly that it changes Everything.
But of course, such awareness doesn’t, in any way, lessen the pain that enfolds us like a leaden mass, pressing the air out of our lungs and holding us down, heavy of yet-to-be-poured tears, against the cold ground, denying us light and free movement.
I deeply, truly respect you for honouring the calling of your grief and allowing yourself to become undone by its workings. I can feel it deeply. The raw courage it takes to do so. You are so very brave.
Your honesty, your openness to grief, and the way you describe your connection to Barbara and how you found your ways to John O’Donohue’s work are profoundly, speechlessly touching. I can only hope that my response carries even a fraction of the depth and tenderness you have so generously shared.
Thank you for trusting me with your story and for showing how beauty and grace can emerge, even from such unimaginable pain. It is a reminder of the courage it takes to hold space for both grief and wonder, and the power of words and spirit to guide us through the darkest times.
With deep gratitude, respect, and care,
Justyna
Justyna, Thank you for such a heartfelt and endearing response to my post. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to respond. Somehow I missed this and discovered it just a little while ago. I have to admit that I have been caught up with the multitude of writings and responses to Trump and his vicious band of angry and callous miscreants. Often I have found myself fearful and angry and sad — possibly the worst waking nightmare in my country’s history. I take my wounded soul and discover a comforting balm in the beautiful interludes of slow and quiet walks through our snow covered forest accompanied by my golden boy pup Buster. To witness all the splendor and grace that fills me in a place I know so well is the Eternal’s greatest gift to me through these dark times. Francis Weller spoke often in how the greatest attributes we bring to any relationship are stillness, quiet, witnessing, and going down into the deepest recesses (the heart, the earth, our grief). I have walked the trail of grief season after season these past five years. My relationship with this New England forest has brought as much comfort and intimacy and affection as that which I had found with my Beloved. And in this same forest I have been blessed by the discovery of events and synchronicities that defy any logical explanation yet always seem to lead back to Barbara. Now I am thinking about the Bill Stafford poem, “The Way it Is”:
“There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change.
But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop times unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.”
With affection and a full heart,
Mark
Everything about this is sublime. The poems (David Whyte is one of my favorites—he lives near me in Washington State now and I’ve seen him read his poetry live multiple times, including the one you shared here—the last few lines in this poem has become a mantra I use often and is an excellent way to live); the quotes from Suzuki Roshi (one of my root gurus), and then all of your thoughts and reflections. Thank you, thank you. I’m glad you are “out there” creating spaces of loving kindness.
It sounds like you’ve had some truly meaningful experiences, Kert! How wonderful that you've had the chance to witness David Whyte live and feel so connected to those words. It’s beautiful to hear that his poetry has become such an integral part of your life.
I also honour your connection with Suzuki Roshi—such a profound and guiding presence. It’s clear that his teachings have left a lasting imprint on you.
Thank you so much for your kind words—they truly mean a lot. I’m so grateful for your time and your thoughtful presence here. It’s an honour to have you as part of this community 🙏 :)
Justyna, thank you for this wonderful surprise!!
I read your post and was about to click to your home page when I noticed a ▶️ symbol.
I hit it out of curiosity and boom 💥 a strip appeared to play your wonderful VOICE!
Wow 🤩!
Are you a professional speaker??
I enjoyed your text even more with the emphasis of your voice and the speed of your words.
So many great points.
I first resonated with:
“My clothes are plain and mainly the colour of sand or stone. Typically no music, and if ever, it usually will be soothing, cradling, classical. I gaze up to the sky when I wish to see a painting; it is different everyday and never not heavenly. The food I eat is uncomplicated and satisfying, welcomed with reverence. Words come to serve a purpose and fade when unnecessary. And the mystery is that of living, no need to over-characterise it”
I wear simple clothes usually black or brown.
Also typically with no music 🎶.
I am grateful for the sky and food 🍲.
And appreciate the Mystery of life 😌!!
So happy to hear that it resonated with you! And how wonderful to know we share these similarities :) 🙏
As for the voice, I'm afraid it’s an auto-generated text-to-speech recording created by Artificial Intelligence. I've now changed it to a male voice so it’s not confused with my own. I have yet to record my own voiceovers, but I’m still practising, as reading out loud is not my strength :)
Oh. I wondered if the voice was mechanical because it spoke of slash and quote.
Look forward to your voice on your new microphone 🎤.
Thank you! :)
Yet another beautiful piece that resonates so deeply with my heart and soul. Thank you. 🙏🏻
What I find myself letting go of, over and over again, to return home are my thoughts….
about how I should be, what should be different, what I should be doing instead of what I am doing, what others think of me, the future….
all the thoughts and mental chatter that can fill up an entire day and leave me feeling untethered, empty and as though I don’t have a home.
This is an important, meaningful work that you do, dear Marlena—thank you for sharing it! And, of course, so difficult at times.
I find that on a "good day" it's relatively easy to let go of unskilful thoughts and embrace a more uplifting state.
There are days, however, that stuff us into ourselves so tightly that all the space is filled with "me" and none remains for anything else—no room for the present moment, no space for ease, and no openness for the world to flow through.
Yet, as you write, it is those days that, paradoxically, leave us feeling empty :)
I'm re-reading a book by David R. Hawkins "The Pathway of Surrender" which helps to release the root cause of thoughts: emotion. If you haven't read it yet, perhaps it could be of interest to you! :)
Thank you for this. It is a beautiful poem and I’d never heard of David Whyte. This gives me another avenue to explore. 🙏