By my nature, I’ve always been a spiritual person. My earliest thought of God (I must have been all of 3) was of a gigantic hand reaching down out of the clouds to pull stitches from my life as if it were a tapestry. My mother always told me that if I told a lie, God would do that, and she obviously made quite an impression on my very young mind. I was never much of a liar, and I had a firm fear of consequences and what God could do to shorten my life. Nonetheless, somehow, my soul felt an affinity for this God who could do me so much harm. I went occasionally to an Episcopalian Sunday school and listened to Bible stories (and afterward, at my sister’s prodding, stole the cookies that were stored at the top of a cabinet–she was the real culprit being 10, while I a mere 5). My parents were definitely NOT religious. My father, an agnostic, for personal reasons strongly disliked the Catholic Church. My mother, resolutely pronouncing herself a Catholic, could be seen at BINGO, but never at Mass. I had watched movies, and all godly people were personified as Catholic. My favorite was “The Song of Bernadette” (my patron saint and the origin of my name-of-choice, Bernie). What really sank home was when the Virgin Mary told young Bernadette, “I cannot promise you happiness in this life, only in the next.” That resonated with me, and so I went to my parents and asked that they allow me to become Catholic (the Catholics don’t actually baptize you again but merely do something mysterious that transforms you into a TRUE Believer). I was allowed to go to Catechism classes (I loved them, and the nuns and priests loved me!) and made my First Communion shortly thereafter with the younger children (I was 10, they, 7).

All I can say is that I truly loved everything about church and Catechism, the nuns and the priests. I would take the bus to attend Mass at St. Jarlath’s Church in Oakland every Sunday I could. I loved the dark, stoney cold and incense of St. Jarlath’s with its beautiful stained glass and baby crying room. Here, alone, I could feel God, the mysticism, the divine energy, the peace of simply being. I was a very strange child.

I remained Catholic into my high school years when I was invited to a Presbyterian youth group. I asked my priest for permission to attend, and he agreed, stipulating only that I not end up leaving the church, which, quite quickly, I did. Nothing like Born Agains to let you know that you’re part of the Anti-Christ’s church and are going to Hell. I had six months earlier received a Bible from an older sister and had read the entire New Testament. Spiritually reinforced, I embraced everything from fundamentalism to evangelism and back. I loved God and wanted nothing more than to live my life dedicated to Him. Somewhere in the midst of all this fervent worship, I also was introduced to Mormonism, which was quickly disposed of despite my affinity for that church’s commitment to large families and the concept of pre-existence with God. I wanted to be a Mormon, but the teachings didn’t jive with my Born-Again doctrine.

To sum up the next 20 years or so of my Christian life, I moved to Ireland, joined a Baptist Church (baptized again by total immersion), reached out to an American evangelical group that had Bible study and prayer meetings for college students (I met my first husband, the father of my girls, at one such meeting), and later embraced an ecumenical charismatic group dedicated to prayer and the Gifts of the Spirit–yes, “tongues,” prophecy, healing, all the things I felt should be available to the truly devoted Christian. I wholeheartedly believed that if you claimed to be a Christian and followed God’s teachings, then your life, your thoughts, your actions should swim in the pool of spirituality. That said, one would never look at me and think, “Oh, she’s an uptight, rigid, religious nut.” I knew a lot of those folks who fell on their knees, begging for God’s forgiveness every single time they came together to worship. My belief was we were redeemed, forgiven, and ready for action. To stay on one’s knees crying for what was already given was a wasteful use of time and energy (and pretty repulsive).

I was very happy with our charismatic prayer group. Although mainly Catholic, we didn’t rigidly follow doctrine (which I wouldn’t have bought into), but really were centered on love and joy, singing, supporting each other, “going for a pint,” or sharing hospitality with each other, and generally being great friends. We were Community. I met many of my best friends there, one being a Catholic priest from Belfast (who flew out the moment he heard about my daughter and led the funeral service). And then the Recession brought us all to our knees in a way God’s power never required. Our friends left Ireland to find work in England, on the Continent, in Canada, and the States. We ourselves ultimately emigrated to California. With 22 percent unemployment in Cork City and no jobs anywhere in Ireland, we had to build a life somewhere to support our family even if it meant leaving the people we loved behind. It was heartbreaking.

Even the most focused and driven individuals will hesitate to challenge their peers on counterproductive actions and behaviours if they believe those actions and behaviours were never agreed levitra on line sale upon in the first place. The drug will be delivered to you in your presence only that is the reason; a lot of medicine producing order levitra on line why not try here company has come to the forefront in the last 10 years or so. Only disability downtownsault.org online prescription viagra due to arthritis or rheumatism is more common. Alcohol has deep and tragic effects on both physical and mental activities among discount levitra here weak and tired people. And what followed perhaps was worse. I saw what right-wing Christianity was about in America and retched. The fundamentalist and evangelical hypocrisy, the hatred, the perpetual focus thrown on sexual “sins” and abortion. Where was the love??? Where was the support? I sought out and found one Catholic Church that was quite liberal and tried to fit in, and did for the most part, until the Bishop took offense at the too-liberal priest and moved him out of the area. After that, I wasn’t interested. My husband was a Catholic School teacher (ultimately more ammo against the Church), and my girls were educated at his school, but I found myself rejecting any paternalistic religion, especially after making the terribly wrenching decision to split from my husband. I found my soul still loved Jesus, but my mind and heart sought the Mother.

Although I had always been a Christian, my heart belonged to the Earth, to magic, to mystery, to the Feminine. Somehow, I never stopped believing in the possibility of the unseen world around me, of fairies and nymphs, of elves and spirits, the things you glance at out of the corner of your eye, the whispers in the wind. I believed in the energectic power to change outcomes and even matter. I knew I was being ridiculous by the world’s standards, but I never gave up on the possibility of the unknown. Though “The Song of Bernadette” may have been my early life’s theme, “Finian’s Rainbow,” “Brigadoon,” and “Practical Magic” were my dreams. So, here I was in my late thirties, suddenly rejecting Sunday worship for Wiccan classes and clairvoyant readings, for meditation and pendulum work. While my religious practices provided structured meaning and purpose for my mind, body, and spirit, my pagan beliefs set me free from the rules, restrictions, and judgments. I learned to embrace myself as wise woman and guide, to forgive my imperfections, to trust my inner voice rather than the man (or woman) behind the pulpit. I looked inside and found untapped power to manifest my desires and dreams on earth. And I could embrace all of my beliefs, including those involving Jesus, as long as they rang true for me and didn’t contradict my personal ethics and values. While my life wasn’t suddenly transformed into some gloriously happy journey, at least more interesting opportunities presented themselves.

And now, here I am, many, many years later, having lost one of my beloved daughters and wanting more than anything to retain the experience and presence of her in my life. My single goal since she left has been to maintain open communication channels and do the work that would allow me to experience her on whatever level she is available. And so it has been. Yes, I have heard her voice very clearly, I have experienced her presence around me guiding me, supporting me in this huge loss. Every day I have woken and reached out to her, listened for her whisper, her laughter, looked for signs of her being near me (shiny dimes, lost items reappearing, funny coincidences that would leave me momentarily smiling). And I’ve found that this very craving to keep Jess with me has perhaps been the root of much of my suffering and paralyzing despair. I lay awake one night after dreaming that I paid a trillion dollars at a Sotheby’s auction for a black t-shirt belonging to Jessie and realized that because I believe she is still here, albeit in a different dimension, I seek her constantly and cannot let go (not that you ever really let go of someone you love, especially your child).

I began contemplating what it would feel like to believe in nothing beyond this physical plain. What if there is no spirit? What if there is no afterlife? What if we just die and go “Poof!”? What if my dear Jessica Ellen Marie is gone from me forever? As I ruminated on these ifs I faced the “truth” that I have no physical proof for any of my spiritual beliefs, be they Christian or pagan. I have incredible stories of how I prayed or did a spell for something, and within hours my prayer or conjuring was fulfilled. But that’s not proof. I “know” things about people, have “read” people until they were shocked at what I knew but shouldn’t know. But perhaps given our incredible brains, all of this clairvoyance is actually a normal human skill I’ve managed to develop? I have manifested all that I really wanted in life…but at what cost?

I decided then that I would put on, at least temporarily, a coat of atheism if possible, agnosticism if nothing else fit, and judge for myself if this would ease my pain and make this loss bearable. After all, if Jess is gone–totally gone–than I will be too, poof! And sooner than later in the scheme of things. Now, when she comes tiptoeing into my heart, I don’t speak to her. I tell myself, “Jess is gone forever. Get over it.” I don’t allow her memories to dwell in my mind. I’ve shut the door, added double chains and deadbolts. And the pain has decreased…a lot. The pain is under lock and key, and I’ve found that it still can explode free, but much less frequently. Of course, my life feels very flat, two-dimensional now without spirit, without magic, without possibility. But without Jessie, my life, the person I was, is gone anyway. What matter this? The judge is out though on if I can maintain this way of being. I’ve a lifetime of muscle memory reinforcing my beliefs that the true reality is beyond our physical perception. It will take conscious work to rid myself of such knowing. And the whispering voice of my inner child longingly puts out the challenge to prove me wrong. “Jessie, come show Mom you aren’t gone.”

In 2001 my ex-husband Pablo and I bought a two-acre farm in Sacramento County. For me, this was a dream come true. Even though I was born in Oakland, I’ve always been a country-girl at heart, and for as long as I can remember I’ve maintained a garden of some sort in which to find peace, contentment, and a sense of accomplishment (at least some of the time!). There’s nothing quite like stepping outside to pick some veggies for your dinner or grab a peach off your tree, and the feeling of rich, well-worked soil in my hands literally grounds me when my head and heart are spinning.

I’ve endless stories to tell about my gardening experiences, but since I’ve just spent four hours weeding yet another garden row that was inundated with invaders and my arch-nemesis Bermuda grass, I have weeds on my mind.

Experience has taught me that weeds thrive in poor, dry soil that lacks organic matter and living creatures (worms are the surest sign of healthy dirt) and thus would be unlikely to support other more desirable plants in a robust manner. Bermuda grass is a prime example. Its roots run very deep (at least a foot) and spread so quickly and so far that it’s virtually impossible to exterminate without extremely strong and harmful chemicals that would kill everything green within range. Miss one small root while weeding, and the damn stuff will be back with a vengeance in no time. There have been times when I’ve been ready to throw in the trowel and take up soap operas!

While weeding is without a doubt a necessity, as painful as it can be, equally important is adequate water and mulching with rich organic matter (amazing how weeds thrive in pavement cracks where no water or nutrients reach). As we have sheep, goats, llamas, and poultry, this organic “gold” is readily at hand. And the manure of the before mentioned animals is “cool” enough to put directly around growing plants without harm, unlike steer manure, which is initially too “hot” and would burn and possibly destroy young plants.

Of course, I’m not attempting to provide gardening lessons here (though if you gain some insight, no harm), but the metaphors are too obvious to ignore. Perhaps our very lives are our personal gardens. We have the potential to bear fruit, vegetables, and the most beautiful and exotic plants and flowers, and we can equally bear nothing but scraggly tufts and invasive, creeping weeds such as Bermuda and crab grass. While weeds are living things in their own right (they are, in fact, plants you haven’t invited into your garden), they do little to nothing to feed your soul if you’re trying to grow beautiful flowers and food for your table. They are, in fact, the gardener’s enemy that must be constantly attacked to keep at bay.
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Let’s face it, water is beautiful as long as it’s not inappropriately extreme (constantly soggy ground will kill new plants as sure as dried-out, “dead” soil), and watering is easy enough even though it can be a major chore in Sacramento summer heat. I would compare watering to providing the peace, nurturance, and restfulness that our bodies and souls need to survive. Although this sounds like a no-brainer, how many of us regularly take the time to truly relax and renew? We have a million excuses involving the endless list of chores that consume us, but truthfully, we simply are not our own priority.

So if we provide the water, where does the mulch come from? I can’t help but compare manure to the bullshit of life, (as I warned earlier, I’m not all about the flowery language of a demure lady) that causes us so much grief and pain, and the decomposing leaves, the memories, once so vivid and beautiful, that are slowly fading to dust. Yet, this very fertilizer is the stuff that makes us strong when we absorb the goodness and learn to glean the richness from the experience. All we have to do is look at the people around us. Although easy to envy, those folks who appear to have never suffered challenges or loss tend to be incredibly shallow people who lack understanding or empathy for others. This is, of course, a sweeping generalization, yet one that I have found to be true in my life. The most generous people I’ve met are those who have known lack, even poverty. And the friends I hold dearest have all experienced loss and suffering yet have beautiful compassion, loyalty, and understanding. I can be jealous of the peace and prosperity of those with easy lives, but I don’t think I’d trade most of the experiences that have molded me into the person I am.

And the weeding? For me, it means digging into the pain and ugliness and extracting it by any means possible without destroying the health of the surrounding soil (and the squiggly creatures). Sometimes, I think I’ve reached the root, but on closer inspection, I find that I’ve merely broken it, and the source is far deeper than I anticipated. Reaching the origin of the root takes a sharp shovel, fit legs, elbow grease, and a strong grip.

I would liken losing my daughter to having a heap of steer manure dumped on me (strange allusion, isn’t it?). The heat has threatened to destroy the essence of my life. I can only hope that my roots run deep, and that as the manure cools and nutrients sink in, shoots will once again appear above ground, reaching for the sun and bearing beautiful, nurturing fruit. I owe this to my beloved daughter, and to my daughter and husband who still live, to not allow her death to totally destroy me. My aim has been to never impart that level of guilt to my children or make them responsible for my emotional wellbeing. Yet, only time will tell, as the seasons move on, whether I learn again to thrive.

Grocery shopping has never been my favorite chore. I’m not into crowds, aisles, a million choices and brands, or buying 15 items when my intention was to purchase two. However, nowadays, going shopping is more of an emotional challenge than just another thing I’d rather avoid. Nowadays, the triggers abound.

I shopped for or with my mother for years (until she could no longer walk the aisles or understand what she was looking at). She died one month short of her 96th birthday, and her food choices largely remained the same until the end. While she still cooked: enchilada sauce and long tubes of high-fat hamburger for when she made several dozen enchiladas (and then gave them away to anyone who would take them); chicken thighs and hot dogs for both herself and her extremely overweight dog; 10-pound bags of potatoes and two-quart jars of mayonaise for when she made potato salad (see enchilada comment above); Lay’s Potato Chips, fillet mignon steak, thick lamb chops, and the makings of her famous rum cakes (she would make nine at a time to take to her quarterly visits with her doctor). During the last few years of her life, she developed a sweet tooth:. Add to the list cookies of all kinds involving chocolate, chocolate candy bars, ice cream drumsticks, and her passion–Entenmann’s Donuts. Her favorite store was the Grocery Outlet or the Dollar Store–her idea of Heaven, no doubt–where she could buy innumerable items at a cheap price.

While I haven’t food-shopped too often for my girls since they left home, I still know their tastes and preferences. Memories are constant as I push the cart up aisles where arguments over sweet vs. healthy cereals held court. I was always strict with what my girls were allowed–fresh fruit and veg, meats, dairy, healthy carbs, all homemade foods–though certainly they were never deprived. As long as they consumed a suitable amount of their dinner, they were allowed dessert (“Mom, I’m full,” one girl would say. I would reply, “How old are you?” “Six (or 14!).” Eat six (or 14) more bites then.”) My system worked. When they were at their dad’s house, they were allowed much more lattitude, but I was the one saying “no.”
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A couple months after Jess passed, I was nearing the check-out and saw a stand of individual-sized bottles of Sunny Delight, something I have never purchased, though I’m sure my girls have drunk. I stood staring at the sugary sweet offending items with one thought stuck in my mind: “All the things I denied my girls to keep them healthy, intelligent (only one hour of TV a night), strong, and Jessie is still dead. All the heartaches and arguments didn’t keep my girl alive.” Enter another wave of despair.

I still have those moments of overwhelming regret, but nowadays, when I shop, I’m simply struck by the bittersweet memories of my mother and daughter (I do shop with Sarah sometimes, always watching closely what she picks and still encouraging healthy choices…I simply can’t help myself). Last week, I was doing a quick search for Perrier and saw the cans of coconut milk Jess so loved yet would never again drink, just as my mother will never again have her donuts or cookies. I believe they know no lack where they now reside–hunger and taste are for the living–and as for shopping for my mother, I can’t forget the many times I complained about the chore (she’d send me out every other day to pick up something she “needed”). Who knew I’d end up standing in the aisle holding sweet cereal, pop tarts, or coconut water, tears running down my face, wishing that I could make a simple purchase, see my mother’s smile, or be blessed to hear “Thanks, Mom!”