Dear Self

It has been eleven months. You have blisters on your feet from walking this camino, this pilgrimage of loss. You've thrown your boots away, preferring the dark, hard earth beneath your troubled feet. Preferring to feel it all, even when rocks get between your toes, or you miscalculate and step hard on a sharp edge. These moments make you pause, tears well up from the pain as it travels up your legs and lights up in your brain... this is a form of aliveness.

I notice how your body softens when you cross paths with others that walk this road... your shoulders drop and you open like a poppy in the morning sun showing your beautiful delicate interior. I've also seen you sidestep the people that aren't on the camino-- it's difficult to relate to them in their whirling reality, in their bubble of "my life is intact". I've seen you choose a detour many miles out of your way when you see someone coming your way that is out for a recreational hike just to avoid the meaningless questions of how are you and where are you from and let me tell you all about me. You don't have space for that, not now. Your motto is more like "go deep or go home".

You do not need my permission to feel it all, nor do you need me to tell you that some of your friends will be able to walk along side you, shoes off, matching your pace and witnessing your process while others will not understand or have the patience or even know where to find you (if they cared to look). This is what it is. It happens whenever a major life event occurs. The loss of a child, though, is so profoundly disorienting that many don't know how to even be curious about the world you now occupy.

Continue on the path, follow the signs and honor the nudges about when to look up or down, when to sit and study the sky, how to eat with reverence, where to pray. There will be many opportunities on this journey to hone your skills in self-forgiveness because, frankly, you will fuck it up. You're a bit of a baby porcupine still learning when and how to use your quills.

This next stretch... these weeks leading up to the day your sweet son left this earth... the trail is difficult, slippery, steep and in many places you will not know if you are still on the path. We are guiding you even when the fog rolls in, darkness falls, fatigue or hunger cloud your mind. Though it feels like there's a destination, let us remind you that there is not.

When you meet a river you don't know how to cross, spread your blanket on the riverbank and rest. Dream. Do nothing. If heron or hummingbird or eagle appear, listen. Likewise, if irritation fills your body with shards that hurt to swallow, stop in your tracks and ask, "What would feed me right now?" Yes, it's not only ok to ask that question, it's okay to hear the answer.

Another question you might ask is "If this irritation had a voice, what would it say?" You might simply need to stomp on the earth, scream into the trunk of a tree (ask permission first, so she is receptive), or dance crazy in a meadow. There is no right way to do this camino. There is only the evolution of your way.

We are here, with you, guiding you, holding you, witnessing the beauty unfolding. So, my love, tend to your blisters as you would care for your child when he was just born. Your love will land and take root in hearts throughout the world when first you wrap yourself in your own arms and weep and rest and honor the deep soul seeds you have planted.