My heart is wooden room, an empty octagon with cushions on an oak floor. The room is nestled in the earth and rises from it. The room is rooted in the earth that is rooted to the ocean in front and the mountain behind. It is organic and breathes. Love lives in this room in the midst of sorrow.
My heart dances on the afternoon breeze with the prayer flags we follow on the path through the woods, and the path that we follow through grief. Our presence here nourishes one another.
My heart is a wooden room. It waits patiently and listens for the unheard to be spoken. It remembers the whisper of her voice and the softness of her hands. It provides a place where I make the hard journey from what has been to what will be. Grief is rooted in love and the mystery that flows through us.
My heart is a wooden room and empties as I share my life with others. It fills when I listen to their stories and feel their compassion. In the beating of our hearts together around the campfire, in the beating of the drum and the movement of the ocean, we feel the enduring rhythm of love.
As we share our stories of death with each other, the sharing of compassion breathes life back into us.