









Just recently, I found the answer to a mystery I had given up on resolving many years before. I mostly didn’t even know that I was still looking, but the search was hidden away in my heart to emerge only occasionally.
There were few things of value that I even cared about because Mom left so little behind. But there were a few of precious value to the heart only. Nothing she ever owned was embued with monetary value.
But there was one mystery to solve, known only to me as, “The Missing Heart.” I would have found the answer if I had known to ask the right people. Why did the loss of this small charm occur to me again? Oh, yes, I remember! My niece, Sharon, was going through her mother’s (my sister’s) jewelry and came upon a bracelet she didn’t recognize, and neither did I.
I asked if among her things, had she come upon a small silver and marcasite heart with a mother of pearl inset? At first, I couldn’t remember the stones, so it was hard to describe. Her first answer was, “No”, she said, but she would keep an eye out for it.
I looked online to see if I could at least find something similar to help her identify it. Why did I even care, you might ask. Because, as a small child, like all curious children will, I loved to look in my mother’s jewelry boxes and in her top drawer to see her linen hankies and soft gloves of silk, cotton and leather, small veils of soft netting, hat pins, hair barretts and other small pieces and mementos.
On top of her dresser, among the crystal bowls, was her hair brush, a handheld mirror, and containers of face and body powder and fancy glass bottles of perfume and fragrant lotions.
There, also sat my favorite music box. It was a small wooden piano with just enough room to hold a few small pieces of jewelry.


Mom’s dresser was always dusty with the powders she used liberally. Her favorite perfume was Tweed. The fragrance is strong, with the tiniest bit of floral notes to keep it feminine, but mostly, it is dark, moody and earthy, woody, and resinous. Perfect for Mom, but not for a small child or even a teenager. I was never tempted to use it, but it smelled spectacular on my loving yet stoic mother.
But, back to the heart.
I sent my nephews and neices online images of similar items. Sharon said she would continue to look. She said she would also ask the other girls. My sister had three girls and four boys that she left behind way too early. She also said that there was a story that went with that heart, if the one I was looking for was one that she remembered. I didn’t remember any such story.
Not long after, another of Kristi’s three daughters, Shauna, sent a message with a photo of the heart. “Is this the one you’ve been looking for, Auntie?” she wrote. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

There it was! She explained that her mother had given it to her, before she passed away, to wear at her wedding. Sarah, one of the three daughters, now had it to wear at her upcoming wedding.
She went on to explain the story behind the heart, a story I had never heard: It was a gift from Mom’s first love. If that’s true, why hadn’t I heard it?
I should have been happy just to know that it was still in the family… but. I wasn’t. I was hurt, confused, and frustrated. When did Mom give that to Kristi? Not known to lie nor even to be secretive, could Kristi and Mom have kept this gift giving a secret? When did this even take place?
I couldn’t be upset with the girls, and of what use is it now for me to be angry with Mom and Kristi, now that they passed on years ago. I decided to sit with the feeling. I couldn’t shake it anyway.
Now, after a couple of weeks, I guess I’m happy that the heart is in safe and loving hands. Somethings I’ll never know, like when or why Mom decided to give the heart to Kristi. We were and are a close and loving family. I know also that Mom and Kristi hadn’t between them, an ounce of secretive intent.
Each of the girls wore the necklace at their wedding, and if I had it, it would have been enjoyed and cherished by only me.
“I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
–Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1929)


The shadows in the jungle were deeply green and impenetrable to those without eyes to see. The soft breeze was cool, yet the air was also warm and cloying. Her light, filmy garments clung to her wet skin. She felt… she felt like she was warmly alive, sensual, moved.
She had come to the pools of Naemahn. How she had come, she didn’t know. Why was she here? Who had brought her? What was she to do? And yet, not knowing was not unsettling as she stood at the edge of the water. These were subtle and slow moving streams connecting miles of waterways.
The water was covered completely with green algae, large pads of lily with erect stems supported graceful and large, creamy pink blossoms. Through the soft light, blossoms of ruby, violet and golden flowers could be seen peeking out along small paths into the interior catching what light penetrated the shadows.
Large birds with soft grey feathers and long beaks stood on spindly legs that pierced the water. Brightly colored parrots flew randomly and silently through the dense canopy above the water. Other creatures moved through the underbrush, soundlessly on soft padded feet, eyes glowing as they lowered their heads to drink from the pools. All the sounds were muffled and murmured almost imperceptibly to those without ears to hear.
A luxurious flat bottomed barge painted with many colors pulled up in front of her. It was draped in silk fabrics that waved softly as they caught the breeze and completely obscured what was inside. A stunning woman dressed in purple and lavender, embroidered in golden thread, appeared on the deck and invited her to board. Without hesitation she stepped aboard, noticing only at that moment that other rafts similar to this one were seemingly languishing but slowly floating through the waterway.
The woman held open the curtains and a fragrant interior slowly came to light as her eyes adjusted to the candle light. Smoke from incense filled the room. The heady scents of frangipani, myrrh, frankincense, bergamot, rose, clove, cedar, patchouli and more seemed to sedate her. The interior was filled with a pallet and cushions that were covered in the most lush fabrics in saturated jewel tones. The many shades of greens, blues, reds and yellows dazzled the eyes. Every sense was heightened.
The woman motioned for her to sit among the many cushions. She did not resist. She saw no reason to. The barge rocked slowly as it moved away from the shore. The woman, whose name was Ipreet, began to loosen her clothes and slipped them from her shoulders. She sat next to her and gently laid her back on the cushions. The pleasure she felt from the movement of the boat, the many fragrances, the soft light, and Ipreet’s hands, caused her to move gently like a cat.
Ipreet began to massage her slowly and softly with oil of which she could not identify. Its fragrance and softness was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Slowly Ipreet had removed her clothes entirely and was massaging her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, arms and feet and reaching to touch her most delicate parts causing her to reach the heights of ecstasy without letting her reach the peak where every feeling would be released.
After sometime, she felt someone board the raft and enter the room. It was a man. He was dressed in a pure white robe, a white turban and he was barefoot. He had a white beard and deep brown eyes that were almost black and there was a golden light emanating from them. Her legs were open and he sat at her feet.
Ipreet brought him a brass plate with a fragrant smoke climbing sensually to the ceiling. She was feeling an intense desire for this man, though she did not know him. She wanted him to touch her… to continue what Ipreet had started. Where he sat, she could see that he had a large penis. She moved sensually as to arouse him but he remained flacid. She wanted him to enter her. She wanted to have what she knew would be the most remarkable fireworks of her life but he sat there and only smiled at her showing perfectly white teeth and full lips.
Ipreet slowly covered her body as she lay there. She remained uncovered from the waist down. She made no effort to cover her private parts. She wanted the man to make love to her, but he brought the plate between her legs and blew the warm smoke into her. As he did this, she exploded into a million stars of every color. He stayed there, it seemed to her, for seconds, minutes or hours, she didn’t know.
She fell into a deep and mystical sleep filled with beautiful and strange dreams. When she awoke, she was at the waters edge, rocking gently. She was alone. Ipreet and the stranger were gone. The dim interior of the barge was still lit with candles and the incense still burned. She moved to get up and she was aware that she was once again clothed. Her skin felt soft and the fragrance lingered on her skin and in her hair, evidence that she had not been dreaming.
She stepped off the boat onto the jungle floor and moved into the shadows. It was as if no time had passed. She needed no guide. She seemed to know her way out. She felt more alive and fulfilled than she had ever felt before.
She would not soon forget what had happened to her this day… or was it night?
A bit of love remembered:
I finally retired in October 2014. Kristi had retired about a year before me. One day we met for coffee at an intimate, neighborhood cafe in Woodstock to celebrate.
We bought these cups as a symbol of our promise to be companions as we aged, to take trips together and maybe even one day to live together. Little did we know that within just two weeks, she would die in a terrible car accident.


Two days ago I was drinking coffee out of my cup and I thought about these promises we made to one another. I wondered if Kristi’s kids had found her cup amongst her things.
I sent them a message and in a short time, I got a message back from Sharon, her oldest daughter, with a photo of the cup saying that she drinks out of it often.
I cried for loss but also for gladness. A girl could not have had a better sister. My memories of her span 64 years, so they are many.
When she was only 3 years old, I contracted polio, and for the rest of our time together, she did for me what I could not do for myself. She was my confidant. She was my buddy. She was my heart.
I miss her so. When I drink from her promise cup, my heart fills to overflowing. I’m so happy to know that my promise cup to her still exists.
Born tiny but came tough.
White blonde. Green eyes. Under Mercury.
Born into deep love. Enough to keep me safe? Nobody knew.
That dark morning when paralysis came. Then months in helpless isolation.

Only to fall. The pavement won. Muscles failed to protect. A broken skeleton.
I came tough. Rose up. But was knocked down again.
Saws, knives… cutting into bone and flesh.
Shoulder bolt. Only to bend when met with a wall.
Again deep bone cutting. Another bolt. A scalpel slip.
Pathways of feeling and blood severed. Spilling everywhere.
But I came tough. Big, deep, wide painful scars encircles shoulder and slices across my chest.
Forever a reminder; I came tough. I can carry that cast.
I can carry pounds of plaster, though it leaves a dent in my hip and covers just one breast.
I played hard. I was not crippled or disabled Mom and Dad said.
I danced, played music, wrote stories, played sports. Kissed boys.
I fell but got up again, bleeding. Scars on my knees to prove it. I came tough.
I’ll leave here tough.
Sometimes people walk away from love because it is so beautiful that it terrifies them.
Sometimes they leave because the connection shines a bright light on their dark places and they are not ready to work them through.
Sometimes they run away because they are not developmentally prepared to merge with another- they have more individuation work to do first.
Sometimes they take off because love is not a priority in their lives- they have another path and purpose to walk first.
Sometimes they end it because they prefer a relationship that is more practical than conscious, one that does not threaten the ways that they organize reality. Because so many of us carry shame, we have a tendency to personalize love’s leavings, triggered by the rejection and feelings of abandonment. But this is not always true. Sometimes it has nothing to do with us.
Sometimes the one who leaves is just not ready to hold it safe.
Sometimes they know something we don’t- they know their limits at that moment in time.
Real love is no easy path- readiness is everything.
May we grieve loss without personalizing it.
May we learn to love ourselves in the absence of the lover.

(~an excerpt from ‘An Uncommon Bond’, available at any bookstore through Ingram Distribution, and on Amazon (Kindle, Paperback, audio) at https://www.amazon.com/Uncommon-Bond-Jeff-Brown/dp/0980885957/)

We have been in lockdown. We have been quarantined since mid-March 2020. We are expected to wear masks when in public places. Stores and restaurants and bars were shutdown, many to never open again. Businesses have closed. There is massive unemployment. People are infected with Covid-19 and some are dying.
And worse yet, we have a toxic president pushing for a fascist regime. He is up for reelection in November and his campaign is deeply rooted in white supremacy. He is hell bent on destroying not only America but the world. I’m terrorized.
I could write a list of what is wrong but it would be too long for the post I want to write. I will say only that we need real change. We need a universal awakening to stop the engrained systemic racism resulting in police brutality and injustice and inequality in every aspect of life.
We are destroying our home. We have raped and pillaged our only source of life. This just might be the end of us. And yet we persist in this destruction. My heart is sick.
And yet, the earth will heal after our self-inflicted demise, there is no doubt. When we no longer strip the forests, pollute the air, soil and water; when we are no longer here to burn down our home, the earth will recover. I should be hopeful.
While I wake every morning to face yet another day, to sort through what new tragedy has taken place, what new atrocities await us… how much money we spend on war machines to annihilate innocent people, to count how many children are in cages, how many refugees are in transit, and are hungry and homeless, how many US citizens are homeless and hungry, and not to mention the working poor, I become more cynical and without hope. I can hardly take it.
And yet, I am one of the lucky ones. I have shelter, food, clothing family and friends, but that brings no solace. Solace will only come with real and lasting change. History teaches us that only hatred and greed are the only constants in this world.
You will argue with me, I know that. I have heard all the arguments. There is nothing new that you can come up with. NOTHING!. You will say, “but look at all the beauty that surrounds you: nature, music, all of the arts, people who are good, people who are protesting and working towards a better world.” I know. But that doesn’t make change. It never has and I doubt that it ever will. I feel desperate.
But my initial intention for this post is to celebrate our mother, our great mother, who would provide for us everything we need if we weren’t so full of hate and greed. We do not understand her.
Two people have mentioned the changing of the season though we are not quite half way through summer. Do we somehow, intuitively feel the change, see it in the shadows, and see the end of life of earth’s flowering? Fruit and vegetables and all that carry seeds are ready to burst and fall upon the ground.
I have resisted and complained when folks start talking about the season’s ending when we’re fully engulfed in the present season. But I am beginning to understand and to embrace it. I think this follows my lack of recognition of changes in my own body.
I was never really conscious of my own, very intimate, monthly cycles of ovulation and the impending expulsion of my eggs in a flood of fluid and blood. I never experienced PMS symptoms or cramps with my menstrual cycle. I never knew when those changes were about to take place or were taking place until there was obvious evidence. And when the cessation of that cycle came, I wasn’t conscious of the internal changes taking place. I didn’t equate the changes of my emotions and psychology together with the changes in my body. The symptoms of menopause were slight and short-lived.
I am not saying that I didn’t sense the changes as one season was ending or another beginning but I was fully present: summer was summer, winter was winter, etc. Don’t talk to me about spring when it is still winter.
I am just beginning to understand how others more overtly acknowledge and accept mother earth’s cycles, her seasons and how that pertains to my own lack of consciousness of my own cycles… her barreness, her fertility, her impregnation and fullness of pregnancy and then her birthing. And of course there is the building up to each cycle, so I should have been able to put these together. I could be more joyful at the slow turning of the seasons and to welcome other’s acknowledgement that they sense the preparation of the mother to the changes.
Though the universe, the planets and the stars, tell us that the solstice and the equinox turns on this date or that date, we are in the fullness of earth’s cycles everyday and even in the smallest of increments.
How to tie the world’s demise to the earth’s resilience? Well, as chilling March turned into April, winter awoke from slumber and sprang forth in exuberance. Trees grew leaves and flowers. Sprouts burst out of the cold soil. Color was everywhere. Even in April’s cold rains, life emerged, undaunted by the turmoil produced by humans.
If I could wish for anything, it would be peace and justice and a consciousness that this earth is our mother, the very source of life, and that everything is dependent on our loving care.
So friends, let’s talk about the changing seasons. Let’s talk about how “a change is gonna come”. Let’s talk about it. Just maybe it will.
It wasn’t until I saw myself as the tree, clinging to the side of the cliff, hanging over a raging sea, that I was finally – finally able to see myself as beautiful.
I saw the tree, twisted and contorted by storms blowing in from a turbulent ocean. Rain, pounding the sandy soil, washing away its only source of life… or so I thought.
Dark days turn repeatedly into black nights of threatening clouds and stormy chaos, determined to wash the tree off the precipice and into the icy and crashing waters, year after year.
The tree, contorted and twisted by harsh weather, would otherwise stand tall and straight if not continually buffeted. It’s branches symmetrical in form and covered with graceful needles.
But the tree, perhaps not beautiful in the eyes of some, had grown strong. Its roots exposed to the chilling elements, had dug ever deeper into the earth, into the rock, drawing its sustenance from what seemed impossible. Its branches nearly naked, stripped of all but tufts of stubborn needles.
The tree had learned not to resist where it had been sown. Instead, it welcomed the pelting sand and the stinging rain and the bleaching rays of the sun when they came. I saw it as beautiful.
The tree gave in to nature’s artist’s hands and in so doing did not die but thrives.
Every last thing
158,000 will die today.
What memories and secrets do we hold heart-side and in our bodies.
Do we let them bind us? Do we let them flow through, cleansing wounds long neglected.
Let’s find joy in adventures we thought were painful, when in fact they were our wild ride.
How fortunate we are to have these memories that sweep through our souls.
Remembrances of days long past. Let’s look at them, share them, revel in them.
We were and are fully alive. That means all of it.
Every last thing.