4:44

thoughts from seat 30F JFK - SFO

Dear Mom:

Gosh, thanks for the fast one. I was sitting on that flight going nowhere for over two hours. Not sure how I was the only one to get on the next flight out, but it had to be you. I can hear you clickity, click, clicking the keys in my mind’s eye, rebooking me on your end.

Oh, did I wake you with my alarm this morning at 4:44? I am not sure if time is a construct in heaven, but since you send me those 444 signs, I thought I might start the day and trip, by sending you mine.

I am heading to a grief retreat. I know…can you believe there are gatherings where folks get together and learn how to deal with missing our people? I am co-leading with my mentor, author and therapist, Claire Bidwell Smith. We are all down here learning how to live without you all. I think you would dig it, actually. I call it “grief tending”. Weeding and watering and making space for the “allness” of it, so it does not grow up around us in an unruly mess.

When I look out the window of the plane, I imagine you there in the lofty forever of the cloud blanket. Far, far out there were the watercolor sky and the cotton candy edges meet. Each cloud, a home of sorts. I have long imagined you are a realtor there too. When someone checks into the after-life, I envision you are there to greet them. Well, mostly everyone. The nice ones. I try to calm friends (and a few clients) when their people die, by telling them you are there to find everyone a comfortable place.

I flew in a day early to try and avoid travel snafus that might have me missing the start of day one. Good thing, right? At a friend’s suggestion, I stayed on Stinson Beach at The Sandpiper. The moment my bags landed in the room, I headed for sunset. While it is not “our” coast or ocean Mom, I saw you there too. There I was alone, and bursting to share the ominous beauty. More birds than people filled the sand. Surfers dappled in the last of evening light. I caught a snippet of sound, the soft crash of waves lapping the chocolate edge of the shore.

Visiting. Retreating. Visiting. Retreating.

Like the waves of grief themselves, that sound, a reminder. I begin to take a few “selfies”. There is a Tinkerbell of light that somehow appears in each. I just keep snapping. This film is free, Mom. Remember dropping the rolls from vacation at Fotomat near the A&P?

Anyhoo, I look at a few a notice one, where the dapple is in my mouth. You are here. At least that is how my un-techy, still missing-you brain, makes sense of this beach visit. I am sure there is an explanation of this glimmer, but I prefer to bask in the magical thinking. It is just like you to ‘lol’ at my impromptu photoshoot. You, teasing me, at the ridiculousness of smiling alone there.

I mean, you did your magic on that reel I made of you. So tech-savvy, Mom. They must have keys to the algo up there. I think you are at well over half a million views.

I met with all of the participants last night and there is so very much missing and pain down here. I used to think you would be mad and sad that I would in any way define myself my your death. I must have lived in some version of that story because you knew all of my “before” this work, and were so very proud. But, this is the work. As I told my friend Gina, once I realized I had been through this with something to say, I felt “of the people, for the people.”

I am typing in the new light of our first morning “on retreat”. Jet-lagging and an early coffee before the participants wake. Stay. I think you would like to meet everyone.

Keep messing with numbers and ladybugs and beach visits. And feel free to keep tweaking the algorithm so we can get the griefy word out there. Love you and miss you so much.

B.

P.S. Did you hear yourself on the podcast? That tiny tape from the answering machine starring you, is the star.