Stormy weather is the best for crossing over

My beautiful friend C is organising her sister B's life commemoration. The commemoration is today.  Fortunately, there is a live stream set to happen, so I can be part of the event.  I had thought about being there, packing my up littles and rushing off but I very quickly recognised that would be unbearable. And I wouldn't be there to honour Bridget; I would be there as a grief tourist, an unexpected dinner guest.  As much as I love and honour Bridget, it is not how I love and honour her sister C, how I want to turn up for her. We are already planning our own in-person reconnect.

These quilts were made by the quilt guild that Bridget's mama belongs to; each square is representative of the magic and beauty that made Bridget who she was in this life and this beauty she takes with her to the next chapter. Speaking of chapters, I will always be grateful to the Eding Sisters for introducing me to Gene Stratton Porter and for seeing in my what I don't yet have the courage to believe about myself. 

I wish I could explain how much my friendship with B meant, continues to mean.  She is such an amazing spirit. As C said to me last week 'B was a highly flawed, beautifully strong, intuitive, creative soul whose life work was really figuring out how she could live her best life. She knew that she had a crack in herself but that didn’t make her broken, that was how the light got in.' it was what she said next that shook me fiercely awake. 'And I feel the same about you.'

When she died in June of 2021, I felt a another chunk of myself fall down the chasm.  It seared in a way that I had forgotten I was capable of hurting, another quarter inch of my hair turned white.  I don't know that I have hurt quite that way since 1997, when Betsey crossed over. It's a different pain to the death of a child, a parent. Closer to the pain of a grandparent, maybe?  Of course, now I know how little I know about anything and I know that they aren't far removed. Just not around in ways I can call upon in the usual ways. Fortunately, I come from stock that does things in unusual ways. 

I feel thede two beautiful women, though, often. Guiding me back away from survival to living.  Believing in me. Telling me what needs to be shared, using my strength as a conduit to heal and mend what needs to be healed and mended.

If left to long to my own devices, I am the rabbit in the briar patch, lulling in unhappy happiness, isolating myself after a fall down the well.  Fortunately, as another friend reminds me, wells are powerful, magical places.  I'm still down my well, tending my wounds, but I am no longer concerned that I'm in the wrong place.