Three Little Birds

Hello my friends, 

I am writing you today from Phoenix, Arizona. I am on lands originally belonging to the following three indigenous tribes: the O’odham Jewed, the Akimal O’odham (also known as the Upper Pima), and the Hohokam. These lands were stolen from these peoples, and by naming them, I honor them and acknowledge the truth of what has happened here.

It has been a long time since I’ve written you. When my thoughts turn to writing and publishing again, I wonder how to bridge the gap. All that stretches between my last entry and my writing you now is so much inside me, and it becomes a bit like dammed water. I will let words flow today, and trust that what needs to be shared, will be.

A short synopsis of the last months:

Shortly after publishing my blog and sharing my story of surviving emotional abuse, I lost my job as a nanny. The truth is that I probably should have left before being let go. The parents of the baby were in a custody battle after a bad breakup, and things were unhealthy between them. I was getting put in between the two of them, and it was not very healthy for me, either. However, I loved the baby so very much that I just tried to ignore the parts I didn’t like about the job. As I was new at navigating this territory as a professional caregiver, I wasn’t very good at setting clear boundaries with the parents. In the end, I received word that the team of lawyers working for one of the parents was suggesting I had been unprofessional with the baby, as a way to make the other parent, who employed me, look bad and put their custody rights in jeopardy. In order to protect themselves, this parent who’d hired me, upon getting word of this, let me go. They mentioned that the lawyers had found some blog of mine and that they were going to use that against me, as well. I’m guessing their desire was to paint me as an emotionally unstable, unsafe person, in order to swing the case. As for unprofessional behavior, this is untrue. The blog, however, was out there, and could be used against me however anyone wanted.

This is the scary thing about sharing a vulnerable story, about sharing a healing process (one that includes big emotions), outwardly with the world, instead of hiding it away. I immediately considered deleting the blog, but in the end, I chose to leave it up. I chose this because I had several people write and call me in the weeks after I published, telling me how reading my story had helped them. Telling me how they’d survived something similar, and how it meant so much to hear someone tell the story. Telling me how they’d gone through miscarriage, and reading my story gave them courage to reach out and connect with me, to grieve together, and face another day. And these stories matter more to me than the ones where people are painting me as a loon.

Still, though, when the parent who’d hired me and treated me so well, when they chose to fire me through a text message and then stop replying to me, it broke my heart. I was never allowed to say goodbye to the baby, or have a final meeting with the parent to communicate in a healthy way and leave things on a good note. I clung to the fact that, in the message where I was let go, the parent said that even though I was being let go, they always felt safe when I was with their baby. This felt as though their soul was speaking to me, saying, “Even though things are messy right now, and I have to do everything to protect my custody of my child, I want you to know that I trust you, and that you did a good job with my boy.”

Even with this reassurance, being suddenly and permanently ripped away from the child I’d grown to love so deeply was devastating. It took a week for it to really set in, and then I allowed myself to grieve and have a process of letting go and healing. In the end, my time with that family was a deep gift, and I am grateful.

And after that job ended, I was blessed with a new love in my life, and an incredible journey. After meeting in dance class, I started seeing a man named Tsune, originally from Japan, and we shared a very profound and healing love which formed immediately. We became close quickly, and he invited me to spend time with him in Japan, where he was born and continues to live part of the year. I traveled with him and spent nearly three weeks there. I’ll try to share about this journey in a later writing. 

After Japan, I brought him with me to visit family in Missouri, and meet my friend-family in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We had a beautiful summer together, and then returned to Maui. Shortly afterward, the devastating fires happened. This, too, is a story for another day. Suffice it to say that this is the closest I’ve ever been to a natural disaster and to a death toll so high. It was traumatizing and it deeply affected me. Namely, the shared grief and shock was impossible to avoid, and made unavoidable my larger grief, the one I share with millions of others, for the abuse of the earth, for our very uncertain future as human beings, and for the immense human suffering through the oppression and genocide of innocent peoples across the world. This grief was, at times, very overwhelming. When I could volunteer and help with relief efforts, it lessened, and I felt a deep sense of connection, hope, and love. Still, the sorrow seemed to follow me back to the mainland when, in late August, I flew to California.

A few weeks before, I’d gotten a call from my friend and spiritual counselor, Michele. She was helping to facilitate an End of Life Doula training, led by two very experienced and wise teachers from Hawaii. There was a woman who'd canceled and didn't want a refund, and so I was offered a full scholarship. I gratefully agreed and completed all the study and writings required to prepare for the training. Then, the fires happened. It felt difficult to leave Maui, as I wanted to stay and continue volunteering, but I also sensed that becoming certified to assist people at the end of their lives was a spiritual calling. I felt sad and unsure of myself as I packed up to leave. Still, I was somehow also clearly compelled to follow through and keep my word to attend the training after accepting this immensely gracious gift.

So, I went, and I had a very powerful and beautiful experience. In the training, I spent a lot of time drawing near to death,  examining my relationship with my own mortality and the transient nature of human life. I also was engaged with many other women in a deep study about the practical and spiritual matters of supporting the dying and their families. I am now beginning my service as an end of life doula, and it is incredibly soul-feeding, challenging, and beautiful. After the training was complete, and as I had planned months in advance, I traveled from California to Arizona, to stay with my dear friend and former partner, Gene, and go with him to Ceremony Week with the tribe he is a part of here in Arizona. This is a very powerful experience, where we spend a lot of time in nature,  sit and listen to elders as they guide and teach us, and participate in ancient ceremonies that have been passed down in a very careful and honorable way, all for our spiritual growth. I feel so lucky to have been invited to participate in this for a second year. Perhaps I can share more about this, as well, another time.

But that is my long and short way of bringing myself, and you with me, to the present moment: where I am sitting in Phoenix, writing you. And now, I’ll tell you why.

What brought me to writing today was the feeling that I need to share the messages I’ve received from three very special people who’ve come into my life recently. 

The first is a little girl named Willow, who I like to call my Butterfly Friend. Last year, Gene and I lived together for one month at an RV park and resort north of Phoenix. During that time, I met a little girl who was following a butterfly by the swimming pool. We discovered that we both love butterflies, and we decided to be Butterfly Friends. When Gene and I returned to the RV park this year after Ceremony Week, to rest and integrate, I was delighted to find that her family still lives there. They are saving up to start their own farm and homestead, and homeschooling their four beautiful children. I just love them, and all of the kids are precious. When we all reconnected this year, it took the kids some time to warm up to me again.

After an hour in the swimming pool, chatting with their parents and giving the kids space to play, Williow started playing with me, taking a little floaty toy that her brothers had dubbed as a piece of treasure and hiding it under her belly in the water. I would look around and say, "Where could the treasure have gone?" She would then produce the floaty from underneath her, popping it up out of the water, and I would shriek and say, "Whoa! Where did that come from?!" She giggled and we repeated this game many times. After quite awhile swimming and playing together, she started up a game of “I Spy.” We played several rounds and she informed me that I had received 300 points. I was amazed and I asked her how many points she had. She said, "I just have one." 

We migrated to the hot tub with the whole family of six, and the game continued. We all took turns spying and guessing. When the kids got thirsty and hungry,  it was time to say goodbye. We got out, dried off, and before Willow walked away with her parents, I asked if she would like a hug. She said yes. I knelt down to hug her, and she held very still and embraced me for several minutes. And I mean full minutes. Her mother was so peaceful and just waited. A friend from the park passed by at this moment and said warmly, “That is a very special hug.” And, indeed, it was. I held very still, savoring the moment, the stillness we shared, and the feeling of her little body breathing and holding me. I made sure not to pull away until Willow naturally and softly ended the hug with a little squeeze and took a slow step back. Her blue eyes sparkled as they gazed into mine and she said softly, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” I said, and smiled. We said goodbye for now, and set plans to play again together the next day. 

The next day, I was swept up by the current of life, and things did not go as I had originally planned. Perhaps I’ll share that story later. For now, let’s just say it was a beautiful and very poignant day, and also very full. I was able to sit with a person dying of ALS, and it was a very beautiful experience. Many other things happened, as well, and although I thought of Willow and our plans to play several times throughout the day, it seemed as though life was carrying me down a different river. 

And so, it was after sunset when I remembered my promise to play with her, and I really didn’t want to break it. I knocked at the family's door just before 8 o'clock, to find the family readying for bed. They invited me in, and soon, Willow was reaching her arms up for me to pick her up, and chatting happily with me, in my arms. After a few minutes, she wanted to get down, and ran over to hug her mother’s legs. Once she’d comforted herself this way, she came back to me and reached up to be picked up again. I thought, how smart of her: she was making sure she was safe to come and go from me, return to the safety of touching Mama, and then come back again on her own terms. Children know so well how to take care of themselves, and I think it’s so wonderful. They really have so much to teach us about how to be human, if we can remember to listen.

As I began to say goodbye and goodnight, she whispered to me that she wanted to sleep next to me and didn’t want me to leave. This precious moment of connection and love was a deep gift and medicine for my soul. I haven't gotten to hold very many babies and little ones since my work as a nanny ended, and I missed it deeply. 

I smiled and told her that a sleepover would be so very fun, but that I would have to go for tonight. I said that we could meet in our dreams and asked her what we would do together there. In her tiny little voice, she said, “Fly,” but I misunderstood, and thought she said fire. I asked, “Fire?” 

“No,” she said, “Fly!” 

“Oooooh, fly! Of course we can fly together!” I said. And I continued on, saying I was excited to fly with her and I’d see her in our dreams soon. I thought, wow, maybe I misheard her because of what I went through in Maui, it was in my consciousness still.

Then, she looked a bit forlorn, and said, “But I will dream about fire, and then I will wake up sad.”

“Oh you will?” I replied, and was silent a moment. “And then what will we do?” I asked.

“What will I do when I’m sad?” She asked. Then, she took a long time to think about it. Maybe a minute passed or so, and after reflecting, she said very purposefully:

“When we're sad… (another long pause)… we just need to… relax.”

“Wow, Willow.” I said, smiling gently. “You are so very wise.”

And that is what I needed to share with you all today. That when we are sad, the best thing we can do is to just slow down, breathe, and relax. Somehow, we often get tight and anxious when sadness arrives at our door. We tense up, like we’re protecting ourselves against some kind of threat. But really, the medicine inside our sadness can only be delivered if we soften, and allow for it, and receive it. If we bring compassion and ease to ourselves, rest and nourishment, then our sadness can bless us the way it intends to. If we push it away, or hold tension along with it, we block it from fully metabolizing and being released and allowed to do its work on us. 

One of my spiritual teachers told me a story recently, about a group of Tibetan monks who visited the United States for some time. After some weeks here, and plenty of time to observe people and get know know American culture, they described a malady present in the people and the culture here. In Tibet, they have a name for it: srog rlung, and it can be described as a damage or blockage of the primary energy winds within the heart chakra. This essentially means that our hearts are not open, that energy is blocked, and that we have forgotten how to be in intimate relationship with life itself. Our individualistic culture is the main cause of this- we fear really being open and feeling the world around us, and letting ourselves be fully seen and felt by others, because it can bring so much intense emotion to do so, and then we may be rejected for our emotion (kind of like how I lost my job in part because of this blog!), or left alone to reckon with overwhelming sorrow or anger. When we remember our togetherness, and we feel safe and held by our communities and our families, we are safe to open our hearts and have an intimate relationship with life. Then, our anxiety and depression naturally heal, as our hearts are healed and remaining open to life, as we are designed to be.

And then, when the inevitable happens, and we are again touched by deep sorrow, we can follow Willow’s sage advice, and simply relax into it.

If, before, sorrow felt dangerous to allow, like a bottomless pit, like a threat, then with this new approach, we can begin to feel that there is indeed a bottom- that it is not an abyss, after all, but a safe place we can go. Relaxing into sorrow and tuning into the heart, we can descend into the cool, quiet dark of the soul, to rest and glean some kind of nourishment that we can bring back and share with the community.

Maybe this all feels a bit too deep for you, and if so, just let it drift away- no need to “get it” or agree with me. At the very least, I hope that hearing the reminder to relax when you’re sad will bless you as it has me, and give you permission to breathe a little deeper, slow down a bit more, and carve out some space to just rest and love yourself when you’re hurting.

And that’s precisely what I did the day after I left the park and said "until next time" to my very beloved Butterfly Friend. 

I returned to stay with friends in a lovely area of Phoenix, in a housing community with two swimming pools and a very nice community center. I was still grieving for Maui, and processing some recent sorrows as well, when I received the news of the earthquake in Morocco. I learned of the 2,000 lives lost, and that it hit the old Medina in Marrakech, where I have very beloved friends who I still have not been able to reach. I do not know if they are alive. It was one of those moments where you want to say to God, or the universe, “Hey, um, I just went through a heartbreaking thing not very long ago, and I’m just getting on my feet, and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sweep the rug out from underneath me again.”

And I know better than to speak such things, because losses sometimes come many, many all at once, and it doesn’t have to make sense or happen when and how we think it ought to happen. It just is what it is, and we choose how to respond.

Sometimes, these days, I can let grief in fully, with grace, and feel it as pure love, and feel the sorrow opening my heart and living through me as beauty, as spiritual medicine for me, for the earth, for those around me open to sharing in it. 

But on this day, I tensed against it. I couldn’t relax with it, I think largely because of the fear in my asking: “Are my friends alive or not?” I couldn't seem to sit calmly with the not-knowing. I wanted immediate answers.

Instead of falling into bed that night early, I went to the community pool after sunset. The place was empty except for one little boy and his grandpa. This little boy is the second teacher I’m writing to share with you today. His name is Otto. I never asked his age, but I would guess he’s around 7 years old. 

He saw me lingering near the edge of the water and said, “Come on in- the water’s perfect! It’s not too hot, and it’s not too cold. I’ve been practicing my flips.” He proceeded to show me his front flips in the water, and how he could do four in a row without stopping. I eased in the pool and dunked my head under. “You’re right!” I said. “The water is just perfect.”

I showed him my back flips and we talked about how much we don’t like getting water in our nose. He was wearing blue-rimmed snorkel goggles that covered his nose.

We talked about how we both like to just go under the water and float there for awhile like some kind of sea creature. When I did that and meandered over a few lanes, he followed me and continued talking, holding himself up with the blue floating lane divider.

“Do you know what I love about the water?” he asked me. 

“No, what?” I smiled and replied.

“Well, how it’s made up of soooo many particles! And how, when we drink it, it goes inside us and gives us life. Because without water, there is no life. If we didn’t have it here, it’d all dry up and be just like Mars.”

And I wanted to share that with you, what Otto told me, because it is true and it is wise and it is perfect. And it reminded me of a moment I’d had one week prior: something I gained during Ceremony Week in the high desert. It was a communal dance on the closing day of the week, a sacred dance meant for praying and praising life. I dry fasted (meaning I took in no food or water), and danced from early morning until evening, giving my love and prayers to a tree along with about a dozen other people doing the same, and several who drummed and sang alongside. 

And what I felt in this experience was a deep reconnection with just how precious water is, and how much we take for granted our easy access to it. At one moment, after hours of dancing, the hot sun and thirst became intense. I was acutely aware of the dryness in my mouth, and the thirst that was growing more and more intense in my body. And suddenly, I remembered all the stories I’ve heard (some first-hand, from personal friends, and some second-hand as well), of people who cross the desert through Mexico trying to get to the US border. These people are refugees, whether or not our government acknowledges this truth. They are trying to escape the threats of extreme poverty and cartel violence, desperate for a chance at a safe, healthy life for themselves and, even moreso, for their children. Many, many people have died wandering the desert, in the hot and brutal sun, thirsting until they could no longer breathe, and dying in extreme pain, all alone, their bodies decaying in the desert. It is not the way any one of us would want to go, or see our family members go. It is not something people want to face or acknowledge as reality, either. And it needs to be known, by everyone, so that we can be compelled to find real solutions and end the atrocities.

And on another continent, in Africa, many many people are thirsty right now. Climate change has caused shifts in the weather and the water, so that their villages no longer have steady water supplies, and the farm lands dry up, and the people begin to thirst. I felt the pain of the ones in the desert, the ones who’ve barely survived it or died there already, and also the ones crossing it right now. I felt the pain of the mothers in Africa, suffering in the pain of thirst in their bodies, and the unimaginable pain of witnessing the thirst of their children and babies, being unable to give them water and save them. I connected to that desperation and pain, and I kept on dancing, and I prayed for them. At some point, the heat was so strong I had to stop dancing awhile, and I sat down to rest. I could have broken the dry fast at any moment and chosen water. I wanted it very much, and yet I wanted more to see the ceremony through without it. And I thought, if I can connect to those who want it and can’t have it, then I can hold on longer, with them and for them.

I started journaling and a poem poured out of me, singing to the thirsting people, and I felt my spirit connect to their spirits, and like we were sitting together somehow, and just as I was beginning to feel in my heart a pulse of hope and to form the words on the page, “Just hold on a little longer with me,” I felt a drop of rain. And then a gentle, cooling rain fell over that ceremony and all the dancers there, and the relief was so immense that everyone smiled and celebrated it, and it gave me strength to get up and start dancing again.

And, all the while, I wondered: what does it mean? Will the ones I’m praying for find water and survive? Will they die of thirst? If I connect to them and love them, and let my heart beat with theirs, and let myself feel a taste of their pain and their hope and deep desire to survive, can it help them somehow? I prayed a prayer to the ones I can’t know will survive, and I loved them and I held the truth that I can’t save them, that I don’t even know exactly who or where they are, but that my heart was beating with theirs, nonetheless.

I don’t know if anyone anywhere in the world felt anything from this, but I do know that I felt a whole lot. And it was worth the fasting and thirsting and praying, because it opened my heart and whole being to a much more intimate connection with a big and very difficult truth about the world. The suffering and death of so many, this truth that we often try to avoid, because of the pain and overwhelm of really feeling it. 

And the way that rain started falling when it did, well, I don’t know what that meant. The world certainly isn’t fit to be packaged neatly with a little bow on it. But miracles, big and small, they happen every day. And there is more at work here than we necessarily know or can make sense of, and sometimes it’s best to let go of sense-making altogether, and just feel deeply together, and dance.

When that ceremony ended, I drank water and was very present when I did it. I watched how my body gulped and gulped it, and immediately remembered watching the baby I nannied thirstily drink up his bottles of milk, the times when he was really, really hungry. The way his body was just pure presence and instinct, just a thirsty little being, drinking. And in that moment, I was the same. Just the beloved baby daughter of Mother Earth, thirsty, and thankful, and drinking.

And I remembered all that in a flash, as I swam with little Otto and he told me about his love for the water. And I remembered my commitment to be a Water Protector since I learned of the idea at Standing Rock, and I was so grateful for this little wise teacher swimming with me.

I stayed present with him, and as will often happen with children, was swept off into a magical journey that could have lasted hours if it weren’t for all the adult rules about things like pool closures and bedtime. We spent I would guess about an hour together, playing and talking in the water, while his grandpa swam laps and periodically came over to chat with us. Otto taught me some games he’d made up and we played them together. We saved a dragonfly that was drowning in the pool, and it crawled from my hand to his, dried its wings, and flew away. I told him that this officially made us Dragonfly Friends. He like that!

We said goodnight when it was time for him to go, and I went to bed much lighter and happier. 

The next morning, I woke early and sat in meditation in the quiet dark of the morning, before sunrise. My mind was anxious and clouded, and I didn’t really touch peace. I got myself to a yoga class, and that felt good, but afterward, I just felt exhausted. I tried to rest, but couldn’t sleep. I was anxious and unsatisfied. I thought of Morocco and read about the earthquakes. Tried to reach my friends again, to no avail.

Finally, the dam in me broke and I cried. I really, really cried. Again, like I had been for Maui, but even deeper. 2,000 lives lost, in an instant. My friends might be dead. The earth, the disasters coming so fast, all the many families losing their most beloved ones and launched into immense grief, and the ones still terrified and not feeling safe. I let it all in, and sobbed and sobbed. It subsided, eventually, but still I couldn’t feel peace. I moped around, felt exhausted, my neck and head hurt, and I felt very negative, like a very heavy and dark cloud was over me. I was edgy and I pushed people away. I isolated from my friends and went into a place of, really and simply, just feeling like absolute shit.

And I just let it all be, hoping it wouldn’t last too long.

And then, after a good night’s sleep, I woke up this morning with good, strong energy. I got up right away and headed to an early morning yoga class. I knew better than trying to meditate again like yesterday- I followed my body’s calls for movement and I walked to the studio nearby where I’m staying. The half-hour walk in the morning light was uplifting. The sky was filled with beautiful clouds, and the birds were singing, and the cacti and trees and flowers of Arizona were, as always, so very lovely. I saw three little birds perched atop a telephone pole, and thought of the song. I smiled and, for the moment, it felt easy and right to let go of all worry and just enjoy life. 

And then, for one full hour, I gave myself completely to yoga practice, to steady breathing and physical endurance, to spiritual devotion and self love, to calm my mind and purify my body, bless myself so I can be better, as well, for others. By the end of class, for the first time in weeks, I completely relaxed and felt divine healing energy radiate through my being. I lay there a long time, listened to the music playing in the studio, and connected to my own gently beating heart. At some point, I realized that I could also connect to my friends in Morocco. I didn’t even need to know if they were alive or dead. It didn’t make a difference to my ability to connect to their spirit. Once I relaxed and let go of all the fear that was winding me up the days prior, I remembered what a friend taught me years ago (when my great aunt was dying and I couldn’t make it to her bedside in time to be there in her final hour), that we can connect to people from far away, and transcend the barriers of physical distance and death through spiritual energy. I remembered that I have the ability to call their names and psychically speak to them, And so I did, and I experienced a kind of soothing, loving energy, and peace.

I felt peace. 

And, since that moment, I’ve noticed myself stronger today. Rather than avoiding socialization like I had been doing, I was open to a long talk with my friend Beverly this morning. She is the third teacher I’m writing to share with you. The first two were small children, and the third is an elder. Beverly is 76, and more lively and vivacious than a lot of people half her age. This morning, because I opened myself to connection, I was open for her wisdom. And, amidst our many stories shared, she told me these precious words: “When I’m focused on all the love I’m not getting, I need to redirect my attention to the love I could be giving."

And I realized something very simply that I’ve been struggling with lately: when the people in my life fail to meet me in a way that feels nice, I have a choice: I can respond in the old, familiar way, feeling abandoned, defensive, and judgmental, or I can pause long enough to simply realize that they are struggling in that moment and in need of my love. Even when I’m grieving and craving love, comfort, and attention, and when it is not coming in the ways and through the sources I’m looking to, that same love and attention is always accessible to me. I may need to stop seeking it from my friend, or lover, or parent, and instead turn to receive it from the sky, or a tree, or from the earth, or the water, or a song or poem, or a place deep within myself. Always, it is readily available, in infinite supply, everywhere and all around. Always, I can rewire to remember this in my times of woe, to tap into the Source of all life, which is always present, and to give above and beyond what any of us thought possible, to give love no matter what, rather than expect and demand love from others. 

And so, again today, my practice continues. And today, after a long bout of busy-mindedness and a bit of a struggle to relax enough to really feel the deep presence of Source, of peace, I have again returned to this place of calm assurance. Thank God. Every time I wander away from it, I miss it so much until I return. Peace, which is love, which is pure presence, which is the earth, which is God, is my deepest love, and always I want to be near it, and one with it, and chasing after it when I lose track of it, and always I really and truly am it, and often, I remember this and take the deepest breath in and feel my whole body relax and smile.

And, today, I give love by writing you this very long and winding story. 

I’ve broken the silence of several months, and that feels good. It also feels a bit vulnerable and uncomfortable, and unsure. And I think that’s just alright, really. I think that might just be a part of this whole thing. A part of being brave and risking being seen, and harshly judged, and rejected.

And, now, I set the intention to write you at least once a week until the end of the year. At least a little bit.

And I hope that, if it blesses you, you’ll share it with someone who you think might also like it.

And I’m grateful for you! And I love you!

Regardless what’s going on for you now, may you remember today all that didn’t go wrong, which is to say, all that is good and positive in your world, and may you feel blessed.

With my love and gratitude,

Brean