East of the Sun | West of the Moon

What is belief but faith lived and experienced. A testament to what we believe. What we feel we are worthy of in this world.  Ages ago at university we had a nearby watershed we could easily escape to. Minutes away from campus and an overcrowded metropolis we are under cavernous canopies of mist fed giant ferns and cushions of moss blanketing the ground.  In the pounding spray of the waterfall we drop our cares as we peel off into crystal cold pools. Wading wet and wild through shadowed trails and streams. Heat and sweat cooling off in the chill damp air.  Trailing off from the others in our private bubble - closing in, touching, breathless. 

It's been a year of being a grief doula to all too many friends and strangers who have lost a beloved. Young and old. Sudden or long suffering. The men die and the women have to somehow forge on.  What do I know about loss and grief? I knock on wood like some triggered spastic that I have yet to lose someone I cannot live without. I'm the one who's afraid of going to a wake. I find myself stuck in the threshold like some scarred quivering rabbit.  In the Orient where I originated we have the age old practice of professional mourners who diligently wail the spirit of a dearly departed off to the divine realms. Away from the living so we can grieve and live in peace. Never to be haunted by any lingering ghost of disappointment over some unfinished regret or sorrow.  A practice of countless past dynasties now imbedded in our DNA and mutated by new technology. For folks who love to celebrate with, song, dance, staged performances, and karaoke it's not so strange then that w...