Monthly Archives: May 2025

Connection, Family

May You Soar Mom

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Bernie, my mom, passed away early this morning.

It’s been quite a journey these past few years—for us as sisters—to support and care for her. She was quite a woman.

In these last few days sitting beside her, I was struck by her sheer life force. Even near the end, that determination was so present. We always knew she didn’t want any life-extending measures, and yet, as her dementia progressed, it was sometimes hard to witness her body continuing on long after her mind had started to fade.

She lived in a care home in Seattle, which ended up being a much better fit for her than the assisted living apartment. It offered warmth and connection, and the staff there really held her with care. My older sister Penny carried much of the weight—getting her to and from appointments, making sure she always knew her family was close. As mom became less mobile and her memory slipped further, Penny worked closely with the team at Langford House to keep her safe and at home, especially as we worried about the risk of her being sent to urgent care or the hospital against her wishes.

Eventually, the moment came when we could call in hospice. The focus shifted to comfort—to helping her transition to her next adventure, to release this body that had served her so well for so long. I think as soon as she knew she was surrounded by people who were there to help her let go, she was ready.

But that didn’t make it easy.

The hospice team was incredible, working seamlessly with the home care team. My mother was surrounded by healing and compassionate hands. And for the first time in a long while, Penny didn’t have to carry the heavy load alone.

We were told it could be weeks, maybe months. But soon, without the pressure of constant medical intervention, she softened. She allowed herself to simply receive—music, massage, touch.

I got the call that it might be very soon and was able to come. We sat together for hours. My sisters and I talked and shared. One of us was on FaceTime, but it felt like we were all in the room. We laughed. We cried. We told our mother she could go—we were ready.

Still, she labored with her breath—each one seeming like it could be the last. Dying is hard. I could feel that she was mostly gone already, as if one foot were in Heaven and the other still here. To me, it seemed like she was already somewhere else—some other time or space—but felt she had to bring her body with her.

That body was complete. Fully used. Fully lived.

And finally, she let go.

I’m so grateful I could be there—with my sisters—as we said goodbye.

May you soar, Bernie.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Family, Vulnerability, Women

Mothers and Lessons From Three Sisters

My mom Shining

I wrote most of this on Mother’s Day.  My mother is mostly in the spirit world, though her heart still beats and body carries on.  Her memories are gone and the woman now seems anxious and uncertain where she is.  So, it seemed more like a burden to call as her daughter.  I know her care team and those around her are honoring her as mother, woman, and human being. That’s the blessing I wanted for her on this Mother’s Day.

One of the stories I tell in Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep is about the Three Sisters—a Native American planting tradition—and how it beautifully reflects the relationship I have with my own sisters. I’m the youngest of three. As we navigate my mother’s later years together, I see this story playing out again and again.

But I also believe this story has something powerful to offer all of us—right now.

Here’s the plant version, if you haven’t heard it:

Three very different crops—corn, beans, and squash—are planted together. And each plays a unique role:

  • Corn, like a strong older sister, grows tall and gives the beans something to climb.
  • Pole beans, generous and grounding, pull nitrogen from the air and feed the soil for all three.
  • Squash, with its sprawling leaves, protects the ground, shades the soil, and keeps pests away with its prickly vines.

Together, they create a self-sustaining, living community—each one offering what the others need.

I love this way of thinking. That three different beings—plants, sisters, people—can grow together by weaving their strengths, instead of competing. And that this nurturing, collaborative way of being is deeply feminine.

It’s no accident they’re called the Three Sisters. This collective, collaborative, and nurturing process of growing with the land feels deeply feminine to me—more so than masculine.

And I struggle with how often our Western culture misses the value, the depth, the heart of the feminine. 

I don’t want to just say “women,” because I know women who don’t honor or value their feminine side. I’ve been one of those women. 

I spent years trying to kiss my elbow because someone told me that would magically turn me into a boy. 

Not because I wanted to *be* a boy—but because I wanted to be dominant. 

I didn’t want to be the one who could be crushed like a bug, raped, or terrified by arms stronger than mine, forcing me to do something against my will. 

If that’s what relationships were—one dominating, one surrendering—then I wanted to be the one dominating. 

And for a while, I tried. But I wasn’t particularly good at it. 

I didn’t like dominating or powering over anyone. 

And I had this deeper, quieter knowing that even when I armed my rage and delivered it, it only left me with more shame, pain, and isolation than when I bled on the ground from being on the receiving end. 

Somewhere along the way, I began to understand: the feminine isn’t a weakness. 

Maybe it was learning that childbirth—one of the most painful experiences a body can endure—is something women do all the time, to bring a child into the world. No glory. No fanfare. Just a newborn. 

Maybe it was through poetry and songwriting—how music can deliver truth without destroying. 

Maybe it was watching women leaders who build teams rather than just climbing ladders. 

Or maybe it was from the men who’ve whispered their longing to let go of the fight and the might, and to share their tender sides.

Maybe it was my own mother’s way of being in a medical world and bringing Healing Touch into a world that wasn’t particularly receptive. Yet, she wove her beliefs into energy work, spirituality, and science.  Just last weekend, three practitioners spoke of her mentoring them at various universities.

I get now—it’s not really about gender.  It’s not even about birthing a baby.

We all have masculine and feminine in us. 

But the dualities make it harder sometimes. 

It’s easier to grow like the Three Sisters—interwoven, interdependent—than to live trapped in polarities. 

I see that with my sisters. When one of us is at odds with the other, the third—if she’s not too entangled—starts dancing, loosening the knotty vines so we can work together again.

We need to do that. 

Weaving together the seeds from our different beliefs, not getting stuck in the right path or the wrong path but allowing the beauty of the sun to shine through and help each of us become a brighter light.

Ultimately, I believe that is the lessons of The Three Sisters and one of the gifts from my mother.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith, Life Experiences, Valuing Differences

Walking Through Duality: My Journey with A Course in Miracles

Years ago, I was introduced to A Course in Miracles (ACIM). What brought the course to my attention back then was hearing people—some of whom had played painful roles in my past—talk about how ACIM had helped them find forgiveness.

To be honest, I wasn’t impressed. It felt like a way for them to feel better about themselves without truly acknowledging their impact. Once again, I saw Jesus and God being used to justify or excuse behavior rather than transform it.

So when CrisMarie told me she wanted to do the full year-long workbook for A Course in Miracles, I wasn’t thrilled. But I chose to do it with her—all 365 days. And here I am now, engaged in a 28-day Forgiveness Challenge.

You might think this is the part where I say I’ve become a devout ACIM evangelist. But no—that’s not what happened.

What did happen was that I found myself looking deeper at how I construct my reality—how I interpret conflict, identity, and the stories I tell myself. ACIM became a surprising catalyst for learning and growth.

A Strange and Surprising Origin

The course was channeled through two psychologists who were struggling with conflict in their academic department. They claimed the source of the material was Jesus, offering a perspective radically different from traditional Christianity. That origin story alone fascinated me enough to keep going.

Still, I had my resistance. I struggled with the language: “Father/Son,” the heavy masculine tone, the King James-style writing. It was difficult at first to separate my reaction to the language from the deeper meaning beneath it.

But once I did, I found something remarkable.

Forgiveness as a Path Forward

The course teaches that forgiveness is the path to salvation—not as a lofty religious concept, but as a real, daily practice. It also presents a foundational choice we all face: to live in ego and survival mode, or to choose love and creation. That idea struck me as simple, profound, and incredibly relevant.

I’ve always wrestled with the idea that “love is everything.” The word gets thrown around in ways that feel vague or even misleading. But through this study— building on the many years of work I have done to heal at Haven, and also through the work of Dr. Joe Dispenza—I’ve come to understand that we are energy. Eternal. Connected.

This human experience is one of duality and separation. But somewhere beyond our comprehension, there is a space where everything is connected—where frequency, potential, and intelligent love live. I like to call that space God, or all potential.

Re-membering Who We Are

So here I am, walking through this experience of separation with one mission: to re-member. To remember that we are not isolated beings, but threads of the divine—all of us.

But I can’t see that unless I believe it’s possible.

It’s not about convincing others that my version of God or consciousness is right. That’s not the point. I have my own inner work. And when I attack, hate, or judge, I only make more work for myself.

It’s like I am firing a gun that only backfires. You’d think I would put that gun away. But I don’t – not when I think I am right or someone is doing something horribly wrong.

If I’m reacting from a survival state, that’s my own call for help. So why can’t I assume the same is true for someone else doing that.

For me forgiveness means dropping MY gun – not firing back in rightousness but considering that misbehavior is a call for help or healing.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean being a doormat. I can have boundaries, opinions, and walk away when needed. But the hardest—and most powerful—choice is to drop the sword. To step out of righteousness. To let go of the need for revenge or retribution.

That’s the real learning for me.

Living the Practice, One Moment at a Time

It can be incredibly hard in today’s world. The headlines, the suffering, the division. But it’s not that hard when I’m face-to-face with someone, listening deeply. In those moments, I can see past the veil of separation and glimpse the possibility that lives there.

It’s hard to hold that perspective globally. But day by day, moment to moment, I am making progress. And I believe I’m not alone.

Many of us are on a healing journey. It may look different—different paths, different language—but the intention is the same: to move beyond separation and into connection. Into the sacred. Into those shimmering moments of music, art, and soul where we remember who we really are.

Divine. Connected. Eternal.

I’m a attaching a playlist of a few songs currently inspiring me on my walking through duality path.

Connection, Family, Vulnerability, writing

The Undertow of Lov-ing and Letting Go

Maybe I thought I had done the work, so I’d be okay as my mom transitions.

I’m not sad in the sense of losing her—I believe that with her dementia, some of that connection to memory and story has been gone for a while now. I don’t feel there’s a lot left unspoken or unshared between us.

And yet, I find myself caught in this underlying undertow—a swirl that leaves me feeling heavy, struggling to stay present.

I’m a marriage and family therapist with a systems background, so I’m well aware of the powerful pull of family of origin. I had imagined that, with all the work I’ve done to gather pieces of my past into a kind of fractal—a pattern that allows me to live and love more fully—I would have unhooked myself from that pull.

But no.

Over the past few years, I’ve been on a journey with my sisters in caring for our mom. 

I live in Montana. Melissa, the middle sister, lives in Indiana. Penny, the oldest, is on the ground in Seattle—closest to Mom, and most often in charge of appointments, care, and transport.

COVID shifted everything for Mom. During that window of being locked down in her apartment, her memory began to decline. We did what we could. But let’s face it—there was so much that left our elderly isolated and alone. Maybe it impacted all of us in that way.

We moved her into a care home where she’s been for the past few years. She has a great care team, and our family stays connected in various ways.

As sisters, we try to meet weekly for a call—to check in, share, and support each other on this journey. Sometimes it’s been about Mom. Sometimes it’s been about all the other dynamics unfolding in our own lives. Sometimes we’ve agreed. Sometimes we haven’t. Sometimes it’s been hard. And sometimes we’ve laughed.

We each hold different beliefs about life, death, faith, and spirit. We also have different perspectives on health care and managing expectations. What I’ve loved is that none of these differences have undermined our shared purpose: caring for our mom.

We’ve cultivated an intimacy—in-to-me-see—with each other, using the energy of emotion to be creative, supportive, and, I believe, lov-ing with each other.

And still, this undertow.

There’s a fabric of family that lives in the body—in emotion, in images, and in story. That fabric is losing one of its essential threads. Though I know, energetically, my mom isn’t gone, the tangible contact with her texture, her vibration, is slipping away.

Will the fabric of our family continue without that thread?

Maybe that’s the fear.

There are aspects of my life that I know will never be “known” once my mom is gone. 

I’ve always said I was okay with that. 

And I am.

Our stories have become my wisdom. 

Energy.  Moving and reshaping.

I hope that’s true for her as well.