Gratitude seems like an odd thing to have felt in the midst of such wrenching pain, but it was a continuous thread throughout the love room years. Sometimes, it showed up as a piercing beauty of the natural world that cut through the fog of loss. At other times, it was an acute and visceral joy at being with family, or returning to home ground, or penning the small notes to my aunt. Often, the gratitude occurred neck and neck with grief. I wondered if perhaps, in the life-quake of loss, the world’s everyday beauties and gifts get exposed for the bits of Mystery they surely are.
Here’s a little note from the 3rd year of the love room’s unfolding….
“Tonight I am loving the owls and their raspy-throated calls, a sky that sizzles with stars, crickets ringing all around the house—and having waited for you. Whatever rough edges this—the love room—has pressed into the tender tissues of my life, I am nothing but glad. Some happy chance has landed me at the love room door, and I have stepped right in.”