When the sun sets, look for the stars. Your heart has infinite depth. Though breaking, it still beats with devotion. The love that breaks your heart is the same love that will heal it. For a reminder every night of the peace inside you, get a copy of my book, Sleep Affirmations: Phrases for a Deep and Peaceful Sleep. Take care of yourself. Let yourself rest. I liked no 7 thoughts"You grief is here to teach you something.
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- Dealing with the Anniversary of a Loved One's Death.
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- Dusk or Dark or Dawn or Day.
Close Icon. Every dusk has its dawn. Your heart is stronger than you realize. Your experience of grief is powerful, but so is your ability to love and heal. They get better. None of us do. Then what am I — the body substance which I can see with my eyes and feel with my hands?
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Or am I this realization, this greater understanding which dwells within it, yet expands through the universe outside; a part of all existence, powerless but without need for power; immersed in solitude, yet in contact with all creation? There are moments when the two appear inseparable, and others when they could be cut apart by the merest flash of light.
While my hand is on the stick, my feet on the rudder, and my eyes on the compass, this consciousness, like a winged messenger, goes out to visit the waves below, testing the warmth of water, the speed of wind, the thickness of intervening clouds. It goes north to the glacial coasts of Greenland, over the horizon to the edge of dawn, ahead to Ireland, England, and the continent of Europe, away through space to the moon and stars, always returning, unwillingly, to the mortal duty of seeing that the limbs and muscles have attended their routine while it was gone.
Lindbergh, The Spirit of St. JoyBell C. As I stand facing the beauty of the never-ending Pacific Ocean, a late afternoon breeze blows down from the hills behind. As always, it is a beautiful day. The sun is making its final descent. The magic is about to begin. The skies are ready to burn with brilliance, as it turns from a soft blue to a bright orange. Looking towards the West, I stare in awe at the hypnotic power of the waves. A giant curl begins to take form, then breaks with a thundering clap as it crashes on the shore.
Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared. At the end, there will be words of revelation.
To the east and opposite to him gardens and an apple-orchard lay, and there in strange liquid tranquility hung the morning star, and rose, rilling into the dusk of night the first grey of dawn.
The street beneath its autumn leaves was vacant, charmed, deserted. Shrill and clear he crowed reckoning nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn. Tolkien, The Return of the King. As he clicked off his overhead light, he turned his eyes one last time to the heavens. Outside, in the newly fallen darkness, the world had been transformed. The sky had become a glistening tapestry of stars. But I instinctively knew why I would now measure time from the fractured hush of this morning.
Finally, a voice pinged back to me from outer space. I had seen her in Boston barely a week earlier. New England was bracing for a late-winter blizzard, and as I prepared the usual ritual of stocking up on coffee, wine and popcorn, my father called. In two days, I was due to leave Connecticut for Botswana.
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For an illness marked by mercilessness, hers was unusually tragic. She had no intelligible language and seemed to be in a state of mortal terror.
Dawn To Dusk by E. H. Lane
She lashed out at me, the youngest of her four devoted daughters, and often at others. Did she know me? I certainly hope not. There was nothing like recognition, even less of love. It was living death and I had lost her long ago. It was warm in her little room. My father, one of my sisters and I played music she loved.
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I dipped a swab in lemonade and laughed when she bit down hard on it like a child with a lollipop. I narrated stories about her grandchildren.
follow site Her beauty had returned in this liminal state. Her face was smooth, her colour rosy. Meanwhile, Massachusetts had all but shut down. We were socked in for two nights and slept on mattresses near my mother, cocooned by 29in of snow outside.
My father, a physician, was not optimistic that she would wake, but this enigmatic disease was rife with trickery, and there was no way to predict what any day would bring. My family urged me to go forth to Africa for the work I loved. My own justification was simple: I did not actually believe my mother would die. My mother was a natural-born wayfinder who never needed a map. In another era, she could have led an expedition down the Amazon, but instead spent her decades as a stay-at-home wife and mother.
But after her children left home, travel answered the call of her restless, curious mind. And now, it was unfinished business.
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I owed her at least that. I had been absent at her deathbed, and I wondered if the wound of my guilt could ever heal. But I was also in Botswana to work, and grief began to paint unexpected colours on my assignment. We climbed into the boat and into the tangle of water and wilderness. The universe has ways of offering comfort, and it was deploying them at every turn.