Great-Grandmother Cavazos explained that when a girl had the burden of a sad heart the best way to help was to braid her hair. That way, the pain will stay in the braid and not spread to the rest of the body. Be careful that the sadness does not escape. Keep it simple but tight. Quietly hum while you braid, it gently soothes the sorrow into place.

If pain lodges in your eyes; they will rain burning tears.
If it lands on your lips; they will speak unkind things that are not truthful.
If it gets on your hands; it will scorch your coffee and burn your toast.
Sadness seeps in like an offensive odor and leaves a bitter after-taste.

When you see sadness, braid it.
If you sense it, braid it.
Catch the pain and lock it in.
If you don’t know how to braid, learn.

You are capable of everything.
Your roots are as strong as a century-oak; its shade a sheltering sanctuary.
Leaf-piles are alive with possibility.
Little acorns patiently await their future.

Release the desperate grip of melancholy, even if it comes from a lonely heart and the intense ache from the longing for your loved-ones.

Do not let it corrode you into deep ruts, dividing your body from your soul.

Step-up; away from sorrow, step-up; away from sadness.
Wake to the birdsong of the new morning; hear the sounds of your new day.

Learn to braid away pain and set your spirit free.

I am sitting on a couch I like, in the home I love. I have loved this place for thirty years. Can one love a house, a home, a place? This is the house that I had offered to rent for a month to neighbor-friends almost exactly one year ago. They were going to sell their house and begin to adventure across the states. I own two places. One on an island, where they were my neighbor-friends and one in the Rockies. They wanted to kick-off their fantasy adventure with an entire month backpacking in the mountains. They knew I had a Colorado home that I occasionally rented to select guests. We emailed one another about the possibilities. It never happened. They thought it would expend too much of their allocated travel budget. I’d occasionally see them around the neighborhood and we would exchange warm greetings. I didn’t see them at the annual neighborhood holiday party. I heard he had been diagnosed with cancer. I saw them walking up from the beach a few months ago. I barely recognized him. We stopped and chatted briefly. She sounded optimistic, he only smiled. I felt deeply concerned for them. I wished them well.
Last night, after a magical day that ended with picking and eating wild currants in the flower-filled woods, I checked my email. One made me cry. It was from my neighborhood association. It contained a tribute to Patrick. In less than one calendar year, he had died. I re-read our email exchanges. They were dated August 2014.They never sold their house. They never took their trip. They would have loved this place. Now, I wish I had just told them it was free. Too late.

My Message to you

A whiplashed heart does risky things to avoid further injury, insult, injustice.
Ever feel like you’re being judged for some of these survival behaviors?

Friends fretted lovingly and family quietly fashioned complicated life-lines.
I toiled at aimless distractions pretending they worked…

Then I moved. Back to a location that I had once fondly identified as home.
The peace and comfort I recalled were no longer housed in that location.

I worked to remember what I dreamed before the attack of the whiplashed heart
and the beginning of my much discussed and over analyzed “decline.”
I wasn’t certain I could reimagine the specifics but I had a rather general idea.

So, I accidentally slipped off the edge of what was left of my vanishing dignity.
It was not a leap, as leap implies grace and timing. Accidents aren’t timed.

I stumbled into the dark abyss of my very own unknown prison.
Directly into screaming head-winds and impossible expectations I’d induced.

Clumsily I crash-landed into a fleshy, human heap.
Slowly, I recognized I was every single element of this humbled remnant-pile.

Rumpled and dazed, my tortured heart was still pounded in perfect sync.
I was very much alive. Inhale, exhale. This action repeats without intention.
This basic process steadied me. The chest rises, and falls even while asleep.

Nothing that ever really mattered was wounded beyond recovery.
I could sit up. I could walk. I could still move – move on. Onward.

So, sometimes we stumble.
And during the fall, we recognize how our soul soars along to guide us.

Listen for the wing-beat of your soul. Your quiet heart always hears it.
Nurture that solid connection. Feel that steady beat. Sing that simple song.