Brenda's Bicycles

As I retired last night, I mentioned that my drive home after Mom’s funeral blessed me with an incredible experience in synchronicity and listening to spirit.

As I have struggled with “Just how do I share this powerful experience with you,” I realize that I need to back up and lay a little ground work first.

I love my dear Mother-in-law—my children’s other special grandma—the mother of the beautiful woman who gave birth to my own precious children. I can’t find enough praise to say about her. She was an equal to my own mother in every way—an unconditionally loving, kind, gentle, soft-spoken woman who blessed an incredible posterity with her beautiful life examples.

Almost 13 years ago, in August of 1996, I informed my loving spouse—the mother of my children—that I could no longer survive emotionally if I had to pretend to be a man—her husband of twenty years. I was feeling thoughts of suicide, and could not even imagine the pain of living the rest of my life in my current body. We went through two very difficult months as we discussed the details of our pending divorce. Some very major issues were still in limbo, and my wife was having a hard time figuring out what to do. About the second week in October of 1996, she told me “I need to go home and spend some time with my mother, to figure things out.”

I shocked us both when my reply came rebounding off my lips “Can I come with you?”

I didn’t know why I would make such a request, but I had to ask—it felt right, it felt peaceful. I was right in the middle of the whole situation, desperately trying to do the right thing. I knew beyond any doubt that I was walking into what could potentially be a nightmare. Here I was, going home with my wife to visit her mother, knowing that my mother-in-law was fully aware that we were getting divorced and that I was transitioning to become Brenda. She had every right to hate me.

The four-hour drive seemed as if it lasted four years. Sitting in silence for much of the journey, I frequently cried as I listened to music that held a deep spiritual message for me. I pushed aside my terror and stayed focused in my knowing that “Everything will be OK.”

I remember walking into my mother-in-law’s kitchen as if it were yesterday. I stood just inside the doorway, feeling extremely awkward and exposed, as my wife briefly greeted her family.

Less than a minute passed before my dear sweet mother-in-law slowly approached me. Stopping right in front of me, she gently placed one hand on each of my shoulders, stared me straight in the eyes, and proceeded to say the most beautiful words I have ever heard.

“I just want you to know … that no matter what happens … you are still part of my family …and I love you.”

As she finished speaking, my mother-in-law wrapped her arms around me in a warm bear hug. I was stunned. I was overjoyed. I could hardly believe the unconditional love that had just graced my being in such a beautiful, unexpected way.

The weekend turned out to be a beautiful experience, our unresolved divorce issues resolved themselves almost effortlessly, and I again sat in silence—crying nearly the entire way as we drive toward home.

Parallel Story Lines

A separate story line has been unfolding all week, but I have not yet felt inclined to work it into my writings—until now that is.

On Monday, July 6, as I prepared to visit my mother for the second time, I observed my former wife walking into the assisted living center just as I was pulling into a parking spot. Tapping my horn lightly, she glanced up, saw me, and waited briefly for me to catch up with her.

As I reached her side, I told her “Thank you so much for visiting my mother and for keeping me informed last week. I really appreciated your first hand, loving reports of my mother’s condition.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I love your mother.” Then she paused briefly before continuing. “It has been a hard 24 hours. I was just up visiting my own mother in the emergency room last night. She is not doing well. She might not last long either.”

I visited my mother-in-law briefly on Tuesday morning, but she was sleeping, and I asked her eldest daughter (who was with her) to not disturb her on my account. I knew in my heart that she would feel me presence there, even while she was asleep. After checking on Mom #2, I scurried southward to go spend the rest of the day with my own dear mom.

Throughout this entire week, I have been keeping constant tabs on my sweet mother-in-law’s condition, but have felt a deep knowing that my presence was needed right where I was, beside my own mother.

The Set Up

As you may recall if you read my July 11^th posting, I had an incredible experience with a couple of songs on the radio as I drove southward at 1:00 a.m. to spend my final day with my mother. The first song that sent energy surging through my soul was “It’s just a dream” by Carrie Underwood. Then, just a few minutes later, the song “Here Comes Goodbye” by Rascal Flatts again caused fireworks to burst throughout my soul. One thing I didn’t mention is that the “Here Comes Goodbye” song was playing as I crested the top of what we refer to here in Utah as “The point of the mountain.”

The point of the mountain is a higher elevation spot on I-15 that does not quite reach the status of a mountain pass. As the freeway bends around and climbs over a small hill, travelers are treated to a beautiful view, whether they are heading northbound into the Salt Lake Valley or southbound into the Utah Valley area.

On Friday morning, at 1:15 a.m., I was dancing away to the energy of “Here Comes Goodbye” as I began my descent into Utah Valley. I had a strong knowing that this would be the final trip southward, the goodbye journey, as I was determined to remain with my mother during her final moments.

The Blessings of Listening

Exhaustion overwhelmed my body as I drove home last night. Hours earlier, we had dedicated mom’s grave in the Charleston cemetery. Twenty minutes earlier I said goodbye to my sisters, dropped my brother off at his home, and aimed my car northbound—determined to go home to get some much needed sleep.

As I neared the point of the mountain, the same Carrie Underwood “It’s just a dream” song played on my radio. At this point, my attention was slightly peaked, but I did not pick up on anything out of the ordinary.

As I climbed up I-15, nearing the crest of “the point of the mountain”, I was literally blown away when Rascal Flatts began singing “Here Comes Goodbye.” Suddenly I recognized the synchronicity. The same two songs that had energetically announced my mother’s passing were now serenading me as I drove home from her funeral—and I was in the exact same spot where the second song had played on both occasions.

My first reaction was to simply thank the universe for the little “signal” that all was as it should be, and that my goodbye was now complete.

But as I listened to my heart, another sudden awareness flashed into my mind. When this happened before, I was driving south to say goodbye to my own mother. This time, I was driving north, just entering the Salt Lake Valley, and my thoughts intensely flashed to my mother-in-law. A strong and distinct sense of knowing sunk deep into my soul. Just shy of being a voice, the thought loudly proclaimed “My mother-in-law either just passed away, or is in her final minutes. Don’t delay visiting her until tomorrow. Go to her hospice care center NOW!” I looked at my watch. The time read 6:07 pm.

Without hesitating, I followed my deep prompting, abandoning all thoughts about getting some rest. Fifteen minutes later I was on the phone with Michelle as I pulled into the hospice center parking lot. “My mother-in-law is calling me to her.” I told Michelle as I hung up the phone and walked inside the building, not having a clue as to what I would find.

As I walked into the common area outside my mother-in-law’s hospice room, two of her daughters told me “She is very weak …  she has been asking about you … other family members are in her room singing to her … please go in and join them.”

As I entered the room, several other daughters and two son-in-laws were standing around in a semi-circle, surrounding her bed, quietly singing a Mormon children’s song called “I am a Child of God.” Being very familiar with the song, I found myself a spot in the semi circle and joined in with the loving harmony and spiritual energy in that deeply peaceful room.

As the song came to a close, the youngest daughter spoke to me. “She has been asking about you for several days, at least she was before she became non-responsive. She kept saying ‘Where’s Brenda? I want Brenda to be included. I love everyone equally.’”

Hearing these words, I approached my dear second mom. Placing my right hand on her shoulder, I bent over, whispered “I love you Mom” into her ear, and kissed her on the forehead.

A few seconds later, another sister emotionally announced, “I don’t think she is breathing anymore.”

The nurse was called in, and everyone held their breath while the nurse used her stethoscope to search for the sound of a faint heartbeat or perhaps a breath. Seconds later, the nurse gently announced “She is gone, she has passed away.”

Deep, loving emotion filled the room as tears were shed and hugs were exchanged. “Are you sure she was alive when I walked into the room?” I asked her youngest daughter.

“Yes, she was definitely breathing when you came in. She felt your presence here. She heard you singing to her.”

A few minutes later, I briefly shared my experiences of hearing the two songs on the radio, and the strong “knowing” that I needed to drive straight to the hospice center—that she was in her final moments. After another round of warm loving hugs, I opted to excuse myself, to leave the immediate family alone to process their peaceful loving emotions with each other.

I was literally blown away with emotion as I drove off. The beauty of what had just taken place was astounding. I listened to my internal guides, I trusted those guides with a deep sense of peace and knowing, and my dear sweet mother-in-law let me know in a very profound way that she had been waiting for me—until the moment that I arrived. I would not be at all surprised to learn that it was her own beautiful spirit that had guided me to be at her side as she quietly released her final breath.

Dear sweet Mom #2 was just two weeks younger than my own mother. How fitting it was for her to pass on into her own freedom, to be reunited with her own husband, on my own mother’s birthday—amidst such loving energy from many of her children. How blessed I was that she waited for me, allowing me to experience the blessing of being in her loving presence during her precious final moments.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

This is a speech that I gave at my dear Mother’s funeral services today. I just wanted to share it with everyone. I had an incredible experience in synchronicity and listening to spirit this evening as I drove home. I will share that experience it in a post tomorrow. Tonight, I simply need to rest as the first phase of this amazing two weeks now winds to a close. The next phase has already begun. Tonight’s experience has me engulfed in a state of deep soul searching, incredible love, and rich gratitude. (To be continued tomorrow.)

Memories of Mom

As I retired to my bed on Saturday night, I had no idea what words I would speak as I attempt to share my memories of my dear mother here today. At 1:30 am on Sunday morning I awoke unexpectedly. Rather than fighting the experience—trying to go back to sleep—I instead began to use my sleepless hours to meditate on “What exactly will I say? What are my favorite memories about Mom?”

As the ideas began flowing, I quickly climbed out of bed, picked up my laptop, and let my fingers effortlessly type away. Just hours earlier, I had finished typing up my feelings and insights regarding my experiences with mom during her final 17 hours of mortal existence.  I had been tired and exhausted when I went to bed—but now, as my fingers rattled around on the keyboard, I felt a renewed energy, reminding me of the many things I desired to express.

Time after time I climbed back into bed thinking “OK, I have typed enough … I can finish this tomorrow” Two minutes later, more ideas would begin to flow, and I was back on the floor, again typing away in the dark. Three hours later, I finally went back to bed.

So many times I have heard others say “I never want to remember my mother (or my dad) in this difficult state of old age and decline. I want to remember how they were in their prime years, when they had their faculties and were able to function normally.”

I used to be one of those people myself, using my discomfort as an excuse for why I didn’t visit mom as much. I rationalized that “She won’t really know who I am,” or “She will not remember I was here anyway—not even five minutes after I leave”.

It was not enjoyable watching Mom and Dad decline with age, and I longed for a return to the days when they were seemingly whole – when they were independent, and could communicate, remember, talk, think, etc…

It was not until Dad passed away that I began to go visit Mom more frequently, usually several times per week. At first I used self-imposed guilt to force myself to go see her, but soon that guilt dissipated and was replaced with a slight desire, a desire that gradually grew into loving anticipation of my next visit.

As I have frequently visited Mom over the last three years, I have gained an entirely new perspective, a new way of seeing life and love, a perspective for which I will be forever grateful.

Yes, I have many fond memories of my mother from childhood and teenage years, but those memories fade into nothingness when compared with my beautiful memories of the last few years.

But before I share these recent memories and experiences, let me spend a few minutes sharing a few experiences from my early days.

My first memories of Mom are of the loving way in which she cared for me as a toddler. Even when I misbehaved and definitely needed a little discipline, her gentle loving touch was always evident. Some of my fondest childhood memories are the simple ones such as hugging my mommy tightly and telling her how much I loved her.

Mom was one of those people that you can’t stand to disappoint. If I misbehaved or did something to hurt her, the sadness in her eyes was all that was required to get me to want to change—to please her, and to never hurt her again.

Our home was always clean and organized. I can never remember a time when I felt any type of basic want or feeling of neglect. Even though we were not rich in monetary terms, we were abundantly wealthy in the things that mattered. We always had food on our table, and a warm comfortable place to sleep. Most importantly of all, I always felt safe, secure, and loved. Being the youngest child, perhaps I was also a little spoiled as well.

Mom set a beautiful example of service, both in the way she cared for her family, and in the devotion she showed through her service to others. She tirelessly served in numerous church callings over the years, and unselfishly cooked meals, did the shopping, and conducted regular family home evenings.

But the service I remember most is the service that Mom provided to me. I remember the many times she cared for me and nursed me back to health when I was sick. Mom taught me how to play the piano, a talent for which I am still eternally grateful. She was patient and forgiving, not even getting mad at me when I drilled holes in the wooden top of her old treadle-operated Singer Sewing Machine.

I was an ambitious child. At age nine, I immersed myself in a contest to sell the most Scout-o-Rama tickets in our city. For weeks, I remember my dear sweet mother patiently driving me around in her car, from one street corner to the next, while I knocked on door after door after door.

On another occasion, also around nine years old, I got myself in way over my head when I contracted to clear the weeds in a neighbor’s vacant lot for the grand total of $6.00. After digging weeds for what felt like days, I was making little, if any, noticeable progress. I was ready to give up and throw in the towel, but my mother would have none of that. In an incredible act of love, she organized the entire family to spend an evening with me, helping me to complete the difficult task. She took what would have been a failure on my part, and turned it into a wonderful teaching moment, teaching me the joy of togetherness and in completing something that I had committed to.

Mom was a teacher of how to live your life, teaching not so much through words, but by personal example. She served others in so many ways, teaching these concepts of service to her children. Mom walked the walk, living her life in the way that made you simply want to follow in her footsteps. There was no coercion—just pure unconditional love.

But I didn’t learn my real lessons about love from watching Mom in my early years. I learned my real lessons from serving her in her later years.

I remember the incredible bonds of love we shared when I was a young child, but I also remember pulling away and asserting my independence, at the same time building walls around my heart. I had my own painful secrets and I withdrew behind my walls to keep my secrets safe.

As the family grew older and everyone moved in different directions, Mom tirelessly communicated week-after-week by sending love to her family through detailed typewritten letters, keeping everyone informed about the changing events in each other’s lives. Just last year, I spent countless hours scanning copies of her old family letters onto my computer, attempting to preserve the many years of service that she put into that loving communication.

In November of 1996, I approached Mom and Dad with a feeling of sheer terror. In the process of announcing major transitional changes in my own life to the rest of my family, I was terrified that Mom and Dad would reject me and possibly even disown me. I so desperately desired their love and approval, but could no longer hide my deep internal struggles.

On the day I brought them my long detailed letter, outlining the changes I was about to go through in my life, I agonized over the thought of their possible reactions. After swallowing the huge lump in my throat and reading that difficult letter to my parents, I then shared with them a story about a friend of mine who had shared similar life struggles with her own mother and father. My friend’s mother had embraced her with unconditional love, while my friend’s father had completely rejected her.

I remember vividly the love that Mom shared with me when I posed this situation to her. After hearing this story, with pure innocence in her heart and eyes, my dear sweet mother looked me lovingly—right in the eyes—and calmly made the statement, “I want to be like your friends mother. I want to embrace you with unconditional love.”

It was not many months later that Mom began her physical decline. I no longer focus on the details of her gradual and steady decline in health. Yes I witnessed every step, and wished Mom did not have to pass through it. But in the last few years I have begun to look for the hidden treasures that were buried just below the surface of her seeming disabilities. Where fear and discomfort once resided, I now began to find beauty in the inner journey that unfolded as I learned to love my mother from a whole new perspective.

I began to realize that my visits weren’t about how I was helping mom. Yes, I hoped that my visits impacted her in a positive way, and helped her to have more peace and comfort in her final years.

But I began to realize that my visits were really not about what I was giving, but what I was receiving. With each visit, I was learning, I was shifting and growing, as I altered my own way of seeing the world. As I shifted my own way of perceiving physical limitations brought on by age, I began to realize that I was gaining far more from my visits than I could ever give. In fact, I wasn’t actually giving anything away at all—I was literally receiving everything that I tried to give away.

No, I won’t remember the details of her physical decline.

Instead, I will remember the incredible lessons I learned in how to connect with people at a level deeper than words—how to connect with the soul even when words seem to be useless, futile, without effect. Even though we were unable to carry on even a simple basic conversation, I learned to connect with my mom in a much deeper way. Always holding her hands in mine, we shared eye contact, “I love you” statements, and simply communed with each other’s soul.

I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

Instead, I will remember the lessons in unconditional love as I learned to see mom for who she really is—a divine daughter of God, still perfect and whole in every way. Her body may have appeared to be fragile, but I grew to recognize that her limitations in no way placed boundaries on the beautiful soul that she still is.

I will also remember how I was able to connect with the beauty of the other residents in the same way, learning to look past the discomfort of their physical and social appearances, learning to see divinity in their very being. At first, these other elderly residents made me uncomfortable. I tried to avoid interacting with them when I visited with Mom. But gradually, my shell cracked open, and I began to recognize the same beauty in their souls. During these last three years, I have grown quite attached to many of these other elderly residents, and I already miss seeing their bright child-like faces.

No, I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

Instead, I will remember the childlike innocence of what it means to forget the past and to live in the grandeur of each present moment. Mom carried no stories of the past, the pain, the rationalizations, the judgments, etc…, and she did not focus on fears and anxieties about the future. In her purifying years, she simply lived in each and every moment, expressing the emotions of how she felt, with no false pretense or invisible masks of pain.

No, I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

Instead, I will remember the closeness and connection that has grown between my siblings and I as we have worked together to care for Mom’s needs. The fact that Mom was still here caused us to stay in touch more than we might have. Before my life changes, it was I who kept the walls up. It was I who hid my true self, not wanting another living soul to know of the pain through which I was passing. After my transition, after becoming my authentic self, I felt very isolated from the family I so desperately wanted to love. I felt like the odd-man-out, wondering if I would ever fit in, wondering if I would ever belong—and was inclined many times to simply disappear—going off to live my own separate life. Because of Mom, because of her path of dependency, I have developed a continuously growing bond with Jeanene, Carol, and Neil that may have never happened otherwise.

I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

Instead, I will remember the songs we have sung together on so many beautiful occasions. Instead of trying to communicate with mom using words, I loved to sing fun silly songs together with her—songs with familiar tunes and familiar words. Over time I developed a series of favorites that I would always sing with Mom each time we visited. On repeated occasions, I watched her face light up with delight as I began to sing. Once she recognized the song, she often joined in and sang along with me. Prior to the song, she often seemed to be lost in the pain of realizing she didn’t remember anything. As the words came flowing off her tongue, her eyes would light up with excitement at the realization that she did remember something—she actually knew both the melody and the words. Even if it was just for brief moments, she often returned to a youthful, giggling energy. Words of surprise often surfaced “How did I know that?” etc…

My favorite recent memory of Mom is from a visit in December of 2008, just a few weeks before Christmas. Mom was particularly lucid during that visit. For more than an hour, we giggled together, and sang one Christmas Carol after another. The beauty of that memory will forever be implanted in my heart. Hannah, another of the dear sweet residents, sat near us and repeatedly interrupted with a huge sense of excitement, “You should get a video camera and record this. What a fun memory this would be.” How I wish that I did have a video camera, but even without the camera, the memory will be forever engrained in my soul.

During that beautiful afternoon together, I shared with her in a more lucid moment, “I love you mom. I want you to know that it is OK for you to be free, to go home to be with Dad. We will miss you but we will all be fine. Please don’t stay here for us. I want you to be free again.”

As I held her hands, looked her in the eyes, and softly whispered these words to her, I had the distinct feeling that this might indeed be that last time that we would ever be able to reach that level of lucid physical interaction—a feeling that has since proven to be true.

No, I won’t remember the details of Mom’s physical decline.

As painful as these final years have appeared, I would not take any of them back. In some ways, I believe Mom knew the beautiful lessons that she was teaching to me—to all of us. Yes, I truly believe that she somehow knew that her personal sacrifice of health had a divine purpose, blessing me with hidden treasures of growth opportunities. I will be forever grateful for the treasure hunt of loving memories. As a direct result of my dear mother I have been blessed with profound experience in how to connect with others at a level deeper than words. I have broadened my ability to love others unconditionally, seeing beyond their physical masks, learning to see their divine souls. I have learned to live more in the present moment, releasing the pain of the past and the anxiety of the future. My relationship with my siblings and extended family has continued to grow, and I have learned to let my soul sing my own authentic songs.

During Mom’s final moments in this mortal existence, I sat cross-legged on the bed beside her, holding her hand, gently stroking her cheek with my free hand, and whispering to her how much I love her. Surrounded by complete love and peace, Mom simply stopped breathing. After a few quiet moments, when it became evident that she was letting go, I kissed her lightly on the forehead and again whispered “Goodbye, I love you Mom.”

As we again say our final mortal goodbye on this beautiful day, a day that would have been her 94^th birthday, I simply want to say “Thank you mom. I will forever remember the incredible lessons of love that you have taught me.”

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

A feeling of deep emotional vulnerability permeates my very being. I bask in a constant state of peace, full of deep gratitude, and overflowing with unconditional love. Yet at the same time, little waves of thunderstorms continue to pass through my soul. It is kind of like the weather in Cozumel—one moment I am sunny and smiling, while just a few minutes later another little raincloud floats by and before I know it my cheeks are wet with tears.

I would not give up my growth and experiences of the past two days for anything. Though I have found myself on the edge of physical exhaustion, my heart is full. This entire beautiful week has been a continuous series of one precious moment after another.

You might want to grab your favorite warm beverage, and put on your slippers, as it may take me a while to catch you up on the details of several of those precious moments.

The Internal Battle

I was abruptly startled out of a deep sleep just a few minutes after midnight on Friday morning. My cell phone was ringing, and I could only imagine one reason why. As my feet anxiously hit the floor, my exhausted body nearly collapsed. I was 90 minutes into the first deep sleep I have had in a few days, and my body refused to wake up. Still trying to revive myself from the deepest stages of sleep, I somehow managed to wobble across the dark room to find my phone.

“Hello,” I mumbled.

“Is this Brenda?” the female voice asked.  After a quick exchange, she continued, “Your mother has a fever of 102 degrees … blah … blah … blah.” My exhausted mental stupor was so overpowering that I could barely comprehend what she was saying. After a brief conversation, I utilized every ounce of effort I could muster just to thank her for keeping me informed, letting her know I would consider the possibility of driving down.

“Is that all?” I asked myself. “She has been quite warm all day, and my intuition tells me that nothing is eminent.” I waffled with the decision. I was in a sorry condition—I could barely stand up, and felt so dizzy that I knew there was no way I could possibly drive–yet something inside worried that “Maybe I should go now. Even though Mom’s condition hasn’t changed much, maybe, just maybe, this is the universe telling me to get moving.”

“I’ve only had one and a half hours of sleep. I can’t function like this. I am still exhausted from Thursday night.” I had some pretty good rationalizations to keep me from going.

I tried to force myself back to sleep. As I began to meditate in a prone position, I felt uncomfortably hot and sweaty so I climbed out of bed to turn on a fan. “What if the fan keeps me from hearing the phone ring?” I worried, so I slipped out of bed and turned the fan back off.

Moments after resuming my meditation, I again crawled out of bed to retrieve my cell phone. “What if I don’t hear it?  … I’ll bring it closer … If I clip it to the waist of my pajamas, I will surely hear it if I fall back to sleep.”

After this silly routine continued for fifteen minutes, I finally realized that I was not going back to sleep without a sleeping pill, but my voices screamed “No … do not take a sleeping pill tonight … you need to be able to wake up when you get your next call.”

I was trapped in a space where I was too tired to wake up, yet too nervous to go back to sleep. Finally, I surrendered, and began to focus my weak meditation efforts toward energizing my zombie body.  Finally, after 45 minutes, I felt totally awake, grabbed my pillow and a few personal items and slipped out into the crisp night air. The hands on my watch read 12:50 pm.

Messages from the Radio

While zooming down the freeway at 70 mph, a little intuitive feeling said “Turn on the radio and crank up the volume.”  Almost immediately I found myself lost in a type of Tai-Chi movement as I felt the energy of the song radiate through me. As I moved to the tune, I felt an incredible tingling energy begin to fill my soul with a much needed life-force. As the song neared the end, I suddenly realized I was ignoring the words, and I immediately focused my attention as the last four words played out “It’s only a dream.”

I giggled inside as I realized that the universe was refueling me—and reminding me that all is exactly as it should be. “I need to stop taking life so seriously,” I told myself as I woke up and remembered that unconditional love and peace are my real and only goals here.

After a few more songs passed by, I had another strong feeling “Pay close attention to this next song, it is just for you.”

Five seconds later, Rascal Flats began to sing the beautiful song “Here Comes Goodbye.” Chills ran up and down my spine as I recognized the powerful synchronicity of the moment. I knew that this was indeed a goodbye trip.

Final Bonding and Letting Go

As I arrived at the assisted living center, I learned that mom’s temperature was back to near-normal levels. A few other things had changed as well. Rather than her faint effortless breathing of the night before, her breath was now rapid, and forced. Every exhale was accompanied by an involuntary noise—similar to that of a snoring sound. Her overall countenance was drastically different, and a strong feeling settled in telling me that this would be her last day in this mortal body.

As I stood by Mom’s bed, my feelings of exhaustion returned rapidly. Minutes later, I claimed a strip in the unused area of mom’s queen bed, hoping to get some much needed sleep. Lying just a foot away, I reached over and gently held her hand as I attempted to sleep—but I now had new obstacles to overcome.

“What if I she stops breathing while I’m asleep, and I don’t hear her?” was my first worry. Then, there was the nurse. Every hour she checked on mom. In doing so, she switched on the bathroom light. Along with the light came a loud fan, the whirring of which sounded as if an airplane engine were rumbling in the next room. The final element completing my “no-sleep recipe” was the loud, rhythmic breathing noises that continuously emanated from mom’s dry, parched mouth

In spite of the interruptions, I had finally surrendered to the loving experience. I was content and happy to get what sleep I could. “In a few days it won’t matter at all how much sleep I did or didn’t get tonight.” I reassured myself. “Besides, I’ll probably get more sleep here with mom than if I had tried to sleep at home.”

After an initial sleepless hour, I soon entered into a sort-of rhythm of my own, sleeping lightly for 20 minutes here and 40 minutes there—beginning to get some of those desperately needed zzzzz’s.

By 9:30 a.m., I crawled off the bed, brushed my hair, put on a little makeup, and actually felt as if I might survive the day. Not many minutes passed, however, before I was back again, lying on the bed, holding mom’s hand, attempting to get more rest.

As 10:30 a.m. ticked away on my watch, I realized that I was famished, starving with hunger. Making a quick fast food run, I left mom’s side for 20 minutes—the only time I left for the rest of the day. For remaining meals, the staff was kind enough to bring me a food tray.

Most of my day was spent in an up-and-down routine. A visitor here, and a phone call there would get me up—and as soon as the interruption was gone, I was back on the bed, holding mom’s hand, trying to get a few moments of additional rest.

As 5:45 p.m. began to draw near, I noticed a slight hesitation in a few of mom’s breaths. She sounded as if she had congestion in her lungs. I’ll spare you the other details, suffice it to say that I had a very strong intuitive sense (backed by physical signs) that mom’s time was near. Feelings of fear and loneliness began to set in. I was beginning to doubt myself—doubting my abilities.

In my new state of alert, I sat up, still holding Mom’s hand. Thoughts began to run rampant in my head: “Help … I need help … I need to call someone … I can’t do this alone… I should call someone.”

I countered with: “No … I CAN do this … Mom is almost free of her pain … just sit here … hold her hand … speak loving words … radiate unconditional love … caress her cheeks … meditate and commune with her spirit.”  

I settled back into the comfort of a deep peaceful feeling just as the phone rang. My dear friend Jeanette called at the perfect moment. As she gently comforted me with her words of reassurance, tears began to stream down my cheeks. I allowed my pent up emotions to finally surface for the first time of the day. But there was no time for this emotion, not just yet.

My conversation with Jeanette ended as a young CNA walked in to check on Mom. “I need to talk to her,” I told Jeanette. I’ll call you later.”

Immediately, I asked the CNA if she would help me clean mom up a little. Her pillow case was getting wet and I needed a cloth to dry her mouth. That beautiful young girl went the extra mile and spent several minutes with my mother, and even changed her pillow case so that she looked peaceful, clean, and comfortable.

“Do you think Mom will make it till my sister’s plane lands in an hour?” I asked her, knowing full well that there was no way this young CNA could answer that question. “I think Mom wants to see my sister before she goes.”

“Sure, she seems to be strong enough, I think she probably will make it,” was her innocent answer before she left to care for other residents.

Sitting by my mom’s side and holding her hand, I gently stroked her forehead and cheeks with the fingertips of my free hand. Speaking softly, I reminded Mom of my sister’s letter that I had read just a few minutes earlier. “I love you mom … even though we are separated by distance, I am there with you … I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

A deep peace settled over me, and an overwhelming feeling of unconditional love filled my soul as I studied the curves and lines of my sweet mother’s face. I sensed a deep connection with her soul, feeling her love, her true perfection—yes I knew that she was already perfect exactly the way she was. While I held her hands in mine, Mom simply stopped breathing. For a minute or two, I continued to sense an energy rising from her otherwise lifeless body. Finally, when I realized that Mom was free, I reached for the “call chain” on the wall above her bed and gave it a gentle tug. Looking at my watch, I noticed the time—6:22 p.m.

Peace

Later, as the evening progressed and family began to gather in the room, I was thrilled when my sister-in-law made the observation. “I’m surprised I haven’t cried—but I couldn’t—because when I walked into the room I sensed such a strong feeling of peace coming from Mom.”

This morning, as I processed my feelings with my dear friend Rose, I told her about the fears and uncertainties that had begun to sink in as Mom had begun her rapid departure. “Brenda, you did the perfect thing,” she reassured me. “By simply sitting with her—alone—you kept and projected a space of perfect unconditional love and peace—free of the conflicting energy that may have been brought in by others.”

As I reflected on Rose’s words, I had a deep inner sense of awareness and gratitude that perhaps I had done just that. My loving peace had indeed been a special gift to my mother. Even though she had no way to physically communicate with me in those final hours—I was blessed with the deep knowing that “Yes, our souls were in constant peaceful and loving communication throughout the entire experience.”

I am filled with immense gratitude for the faith and peace that gave me the courage and the trust to simply hold onto a space of unconditional love for my mother as she gently let go and made her way to the other side.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

I am at the point of exhaustion, after having been up for almost 24 hours. I will post a detailed blog entry later when I have some energy back, but I just want to let all my friends know that my mother passed away this evening at 6:22 pm. Her viewing will be this Sunday evening, and her funeral will be Monday morning.

I want to thank all of you — my dear friends — for your love and support during this time of growth and transition.

Note: this first part of my post was written on Wednesday evening …

Life has an ebb and flow, similar to that of the shifting tides. The tides flow in, and the tides flow out. A constant cycle of life occurs within the forces of these ever rising and receding currents. The pounding waters constantly change and shift the surrounding landscape, whether it consists of soft malleable sands or hard rocky cliffs.

My mother’s journey seems to be much like that of these ocean waves. On Tuesday, she showed tiny signs of strength, yet today Mom seems to have renewed the statement “I am ready now … ready to be free.”

While I was expecting changes to happen, I was still surprised at how rapidly the situation shifted. My mother has again stopped eating, and has spent the entire day sleeping. While her pulse is normal, her breathing is extremely shallow, and she is completely non-responsive to my attempts to rouse or communicate with her. 

As I piece these words together, midnight is fast approaching. I find myself sitting on a love seat next to mom’s bed. The lights are dark, and the room is almost totally silent. Her breathing is eerily quiet and so shallow that I sometimes wonder if she is still breathing. As I place my ear next to her cheek, I still can hardly hear even the slightest sounds. Only the warmth of her body and the faint energy of a pulse give me clues that she is still connected to this physical realm.

As I left my mother’s side this afternoon, I had formulated no plans to return—yet an inner awareness whispered in my soul, “You will be back this evening.” As the afternoon and evening unfolded, I sensed no feelings of urgency—yet that strong internal calling continued to tug at me “You know you want to be alone with your mother this evening. You know you need to go see her.”

Having no clue as to why, I slipped into her room at 9:30 p.m., and have been here ever since. A desire to begin meditating flowed through my soul. Within a minute of sinking deeper into the silence, a thought flashed into my mind. “Climb into bed with Mom … cuddle with her for a while.”

Surprised by this feeling, I hesitated at first. “I can’t do that … it feels uncomfortable … I wont do that.” A minute later, following my heart as a guide, I climbed over the low railing at the edge of her bed. Mom was lying on her left side, with her back toward me. I carefully positioned myself directly behind her, placing my face gently against her shoulders. Reaching my hand over her side, I let my fingers follow she slant of her right arm until they arrived at her hands. Gently covering her hands with mine, I was amazed at how much warmth radiated from within. Just yesterday she had seemed so very cold as she sat quietly in her wheelchair.

For approximately ten minutes, I gently held her in a soft embrace as I whispered messages of love and gratitude into her ears. Then, I carefully climbed back over the railing and maneuvered myself back to my love seat.

Resuming my meditation, I began imagining myself as being surrounded by my father, mom’s parents and her four siblings—all of whom have already passed on before. One by one, I expressed my love and gratitude to each of them, asking them to embrace my dear sweet mother and to care for her beautiful soul.

Finally, I picked up my tiny laptop, and have been typing up a storm ever since—writing and re-writing my thoughts—feeing driven to record each precious moment.

While I do not feel like tonight will be the night of her passing, I do sense that her hours in this physical existence are very limited. Tonight is a beautiful experience, one I will not easily forget. Gratitude permeates my very essence for these few precious hours of silence and stillness with my Mom.

Blessings in Every Moment

I finally climbed into my own bed shortly after 1:00 a.m. early this morning—and now, just six hours later I am again awake, compelled to complete my narrative.

Appearances can be very deceiving. To the outside observer, the events surrounding yesterday might appear tragic and difficult, but in reality, the entire day was a beautiful blessing, a profound experience of living in the moment—each and every moment.

I began Wednesday morning much as I am now—composing a heartfelt blog entry. The entire morning was abundant with beautiful, peaceful writing and loving conversation. Even my thirty minute drive to Provo was a spiritual feast as I engaged in a beautiful phone conversation with Lori.

It was shortly before 1:00 p.m. when I steered my Camry into the parking lot of the assisted living center. A pleasant surprise greeted me as I unexpectedly made eye contact with my brother who was just beginning to drive away. As our eyes connected, he stepped on the brake, shifted his small pickup truck into reverse, and pulled back into a parking stall. What I expected to a brief conversation unfolded into a magical two and a half hour exchange.

With eight years separating us in age, I never got to know my brother well while in my youth. He was already leaving home by the time I left sixth grade, and at those young ages, an eight year gap in age can seem bigger than the Grand Canyon. Yes, we have interacted throughout our lives, but I have not really felt close to him until the last few years.

For most of my life it was I who kept the walls up—hiding behind those walls to protect my shameful secrets. After going through my life transitions, I strongly desired a closer relationship, but the awkwardness of my gender changes had a way of driving a hidden wedge between us.

Even though the health struggles of both my parents have been difficult, the hidden treasures have been enormous—at least for me. In addition to the incredible insights into unconditional love (from many different angles), I have regained a close and loving relationship with all my siblings. If it were not for my parent’s declining health, I would probably have drifted away from my siblings after transitioning. I felt like a misfit, and felt little hope of that changing any time soon. However, as we worked together to care for my parents, those imaginary barriers have crumbled—being replaced by a sense of healing and connection that continues to grow and strengthen.

My conversation today with my brother left me feeling a deep sense of gratitude. I was a sponge, literally absorbing his words as he filled me in on fun details about my parents, grandparents, family vacations, and other childhood memories. My brother even shared a few stories about my great grandparents—stories he had gleaned from various family histories and personal interactions. Throughout our two and a half hours together, we stood in the direct sunlight, in 95 degree temperatures—but neither of us seemed to mind because we were connecting at the heart level, and we both sensed the magic of the moment.

After my brother drove away, I entered the building, having already learned of Mom’s changed condition. Spending only fifteen minutes by her side, I felt a pull to be elsewhere, but somehow I knew that I would be back later in the evening.

The mountains always have a way of nourishing my spirit. As I drove up Provo canyon, I could already feel myself on the trail. But I had a short stop to make first.

We buried my father’s fragile remains three short years ago, in a beautiful small cemetery just a few miles east of Deer Creek Reservoir. The cemetery overlooks the Heber valley, and is not far from the farmland that was once my great grandfather’s sheep ranch—property that is now mostly underwater. After parking my car, I strolled past my grandparent’s headstone, and sat myself down right on top of my mom and dad’s own granite marker—the place where my mother will soon rest next to her beloved husband.

“Dad,” I began, “I know you are not really here. This spot just contains your physical remains … but for some reason I feel closer to you here at this spot. I have a favor to ask of you.”

At this moment, a few tears streamed down my cheek. After a brief pause, I continued, “If you have any influence in the outcome of events, would you please visit Mom, take her hand in yours, comfort her, reassure her, and guide her to her new home with you? Would you do this for me … for her?”

As emotional as that moment was … I was finished … I was at peace. After just a few minutes, I returned to my car and again resumed my quest for the mountains. As I continued driving, I felt a special closeness with my dear father.

Thirty minutes later I stopped my car in gorgeous surroundings, taking in a vista that was now quite familiar. This is a spot that I come to often—a favorite little trailhead near the entrance gate of the Uintah National Forest on the Mirror Lake highway—a short ten minute drive east of the small town of Kamas.

Surrounded by beautiful mountains, covered in pine and aspen trees, this peaceful little trail follows a small stream that gradually winds its way up the isolated, peaceful canyon.

My father’s presence continued to linger in my heart. He loved botany and geology, and loved the wilderness. In his late twenties he spent several summers in the remote wilderness of Montana as a forest ranger. I often wonder if he felt the same incredible peaceful energy when he wandered on similar trails.

The trail was quite different than it had been just five weeks ago when my footprints had last graced this fertile soil. The overflowing stream waters had receded somewhat, leaving only moist damp soil in spots where the trail had been previously flooded. Thick growths of abundant plant life now crowded the trail, with a gentle misting of brilliant color provided by occasional clumps of radiant wildflowers.

At times I found myself drifting away, and had to remind myself to slow down, to inhale the cool mountain air, to listen to the rustling of the aspen leaves barely audible above the sounds of the noisy stream splashing nearby. After reaching a dead end, where following the trail would require wading through the swift waters, I turned around and slowly began retracing my steps.

A few minutes later, a peripheral movement captured my attention. Freezing in my tracks, I was thrilled to begin observing a young buck, only about 50 feet away. He had not yet detected my presence, and was wandering around in his own little peaceful world. Standing as still as a statue, I silently studied his every movement.

This beautiful young deer stood just over four feet tall, glowing with a kind of youthful presence and innocence. His two small antlers were perhaps eight or nine inches in length, covered in what appeared to be a thick fur, and capped on the end by two little round furry nubs. Minutes later, my new friend began walking casually in my direction. Pausing slightly about ten feet to my left, his eyes suddenly stared right into my own. For a few seconds, I communed with his soul before his fear got the best of him and he darted away, some fifty yards down the trail.

As I approached his new position, he again scampered away, splashing across the stream and disappearing into the thick underbrush.

What an incredible experience! This young buck reminded me of the complete cycle of nature—as one life fades away, new life is constantly rising up to take it’s place. In fact, as my mother prepares to return to her home, my eighth grandchild is only a week or two away from entering this mortal realm.

After a beautiful hike, my next destination was my favorite “A Course In Miracles” study group in Heber. After a glorious reunion with friends, I again checked in with my soul. “Yup, I’m still going back to be with my mom.” I told myself.

I did not know why I was going, but I did know that I had no choice. As I left my mother’s side at 12:30 a.m. this morning, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for late night joining with her soul.

A short while ago, my phone rang. It was the hospice nurse telling me words that I already know. “I just spent a while with your mother,” he began, “based on her current condition, and her already malnourished state, I think it is safe to say that her time of passing is near. While it is impossible to say,“ he continued, “she could pass in a matter of hours, up to perhaps a few days.

As I prepare to hop back in my car, I am ready for just about anything. I am fully aware that emotions will be strong, but peace and love seem to follow me wherever I go—I know they will be my constant companions as I take my next steps into the unknown.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

Just nine days have passed since my brother called with the message, “Mom has taken a turn for the worse; she is not eating,” That same evening, as I focused on being especially close to spirit, I was not yet feeling a great deal of clarity regarding the question, “What, if anything, shall I do?”. Early the next morning, my spirit guides gently urged me out of bed. Still resisting, I required a few minutes before surrendering to that inner knowing telling me “It is time again to go up on the roof.”

At 5:00 a.m., the sky was still black and the stars still shone brightly; this was definitely the earliest I had ventured onto my roof, and my tired body was still reminding me that it should be and wanted to be in bed. Only a few minutes later, my physical body surrendered to the calm peaceful beauty of the cool breeze, the surrounding silence, the distant crowing of roosters, and the starry vistas. Over the course of an hour, I gradually experienced increasing clarity.

Shortly before the sun poked its brilliant yellow presence above the eastern horizon, I found myself standing erect, stretching my fingers toward the sky, enjoying the feeling of a gentle cool breeze that graced my sticky humid skin. Unexpectedly, as a tiny gust of wind brushed the hair back from my ears, I simultaneously watched the cover of my pink notebook flip open under the power of that same burst of wind.

This particular notebook is one of the few that I brought with me in my overcrowded suitcases. Having become my nighttime companion, this notebook contains a collection of late night writings. Most of these scribbles were written in the dark, or under faint lighting conditions. Many of the words in these pages are difficult to read, as they were scribed with poor penmanship, by tired hands, eager to record an idea, an experience, or an occasional symbolic dream.

As I observed my notebook pages begin to flap, an internal nudge told me to pick up the notebook, to check out the page where it opened up. With an eager sense of curiosity, I thought to myself, “Perhaps there is a message here for me.”

As I began reading, pleasant memories flooded back into my soul. The page was titled “Weird Dream – September 9, 2008, 4:30 a.m.” These two pages were written precisely nine days before I sat in a title company office, signing away on the sale of my home only ten short months ago. The flow of selling my home is another inspiring story in and of itself—perhaps I’ll share it soon. Ten months before this dream, I was laid of from a computer software engineering job—a 29 year career that I had once loved. But that job no longer brought music to my soul. Being laid off was a huge blessing in disguise.

My soul had been gradually composing a new melody—a harmonious tune that was rapidly becoming a powerful symphony. This internal music insisted—no, demanded—that I sell my beloved home, leave my successful computer career to settle in the dust, and use my liquidated house equity as a means to make my dreams financially possible. I was now an unemployed student, living off a nearly depleted savings account and a small unemployment check that barely paid my alimony obligation.

Being driven to push forward, my calm and peaceful soul refused to look back at everything being left behind. “None of that means anything anymore” seemed to be a prominent verse in the main chorus of my new musical masterpiece.

Yes, on September 9, 2008, as I awoke from my “weird dream,” I was in the process of letting go of the whole world as I had once known it, and I was eagerly progressing on my journey toward completing my 1000 hour clinical internship–the last major requirement standing between me and the completion of my Masters Degree in Mental Health Counseling.

The pages in my notebook begin “I was at a restaurant. I was in a far away town …” The words go on to describe how I was surrounded by a dearly respected counselor friend, and several of the staff members from the substance abuse treatment center where I was completing my internship. The meal ended, and I noticed that all of my friends were leaving without paying their bills. I ran over to them, grabbing them, insisting that they get in line with me at the cashier. As it became my turn to pay, they were long gone, and I realized that my purse was not dangling from my wrist.

“Purse, please still be there … please … please … still be there.” was the internal dialog bouncing around in my head as I cleared the lump in my throat and scurried back to my table to search for my belongings.

To my horror, my brown leather bag was nowhere to be found. A young waiter walked up to me and said “Your purse is probably out back. Why don’t you follow me?”

I followed him outside, and was shocked to see a pile of old shabby purses. I quickly found mine, torn and dirty. The only thing still inside of the torn leather pockets was my makeup bag. The beige foundation bottle inside was smashed, with the brown creamy liquid dripping into the bottom of the pocket where my now-missing wallet used to have its home.

Beginning to wander aimlessly, I felt horribly victimized as I pondered “What am I going to do now? I’m far away from home, with no money, no Identification, no credit cards, no checks, and no cell phone.” Yes I felt totally lost and alone.

“Wait,” I interrupted as my hand touched the waist line of my jeans, “my cell phone is still here!” I eagerly slipped it out of my carrying case, and immediately felt anxious and sick. “This is not my phone.” I realized. “It looks like mine, but it is not mine.” Desperately wanting to call someone, I placed the phone to my ear and immediately heard a male voice calmly say “Hi Brenda”.

I asked the man “Who are you?” but he refused to tell me. He just laughed.

“I better not tell you” is all he would say, as he again chuckled.

Feeling very alone and terrified, I began to wander. I realized I was in a foreign country, and I was supposed to be there for two more weeks—but I was completely disoriented, and could not pull any more facts out of my frightened and confused mind.

Feeling alone, I wandered the streets, feeling helpless. I had no ID, no money, no credit cards, and had no one to ask for help. I could not call my friends—I didn’t have their numbers programmed in my new strange phone—and their numbers had temporarily vanished from my memory.

Suddenly I remembered Michelle’s number and was about to call her for help, when I noticed my friend Irene walking by with three other women who were chatting away about some story they had written. I followed them into a restaurant and tried to interrupt them, to share my frightening dilemma, but they just kept talking to each other, completely ignoring me and my plight.

A deep sadness engulfed me as I stopped attempting to speak my mind. Just sitting there crying inside, I began to be consumed with a pity party and a “woe is me” emotion.

“My monetary life as I know it is being cleaned out by thieves – money, checks, credit cards, Identification, etc…, and there is nothing I can do but cry.” I wallowed in the pain of this realization. “I can’t even get a dear friend, someone I love, to pay attention to my victimhood.”

I wanted desperately to cry … but I could not. At this point in my dream, I awoke and found myself continuing to feel the same emotions while I began to engage in deep internal reflection.

“I am a willing participant in tearing down my entire identity, everything that I once believed that I was.” As I continued to digest the dream, the insights kept flowing, “I’m giving up—walking away from a successful career, abundant income, a safe and comfortable home near my children—everything that used to define who I am—and I don’t regret any of it. And I have never felt more free or alive.”

In the timeframe of the dream, I was also in the middle of preparing to give away over 95% of my personal and household belongings to my children. I had no desire to drag these possessions into my future. They were no longer a part of my purpose, and passing them on to my children was an incredibly joyous experience, again filling me with the passion of love and peace.

As I have continued to gracefully float down my path these last ten months, I have gradually begun to take on a new identity. I will be a “mental health counselor” and a “writer” I told myself. My ego continued to demand that I equate my identity with something that I do.

This brings us back to the present, last night to be exact. I found myself sitting in a gathering of like-minded spiritual friends, enjoying a fabulous feast of loving conversation. But in the back of my soul, I began to feel fear and anxiety creeping in to the corners of my soul. Sitting silently for most of the evening, I became the observer—not of others—but of my own unfolding internal stage play.

“You are not a counselor, and writing is not your purpose. You don’t have a clue who or what you are.” My internal struggle was heating up. “Look around you, these people are all on inspired paths, and you are simply floundering around … you finished your masters degree, and are now just walking away from it … you went to Cozumel on the wings of spiritual passion, and just three weeks later you are back at home for two weeks—not even knowing why you are here.”

The internal dialog was getting brutal—the self doubts beginning to dig in their sharp little claws. “Everyone is going to think you are insane … they probably already think you are insane … you’re a fraud … clueless about who you really are.” My ego was really throwing a temper tantrum.

As the evening was fast approaching an end, I was well aware of the fact that I had not offered up a single comment or insight into the discussion. Finally, a woman I had never met, sitting a few feet behind me and to my right, opened up and expressed my buried feelings for me. In a deeply passionate and powerful burst of emotion, she expressed her fears about feeling helpless, scared, losing control of her life, literally losing her identity. Her outpouring of genuine realness connected with everyone in the room, while at the same time her words performed a gentle CPR for my own soul—a soul that momentarily forgot to dance to the drum beat of its own music.

I lingered 75 minutes after the gathering, getting to know Lois, thanking her from the bottom of my heart for having the courage to pour out her heart and giving me exactly the jolt that I needed to get me back on track. As I drove away in the dark of night, I was once again filled with purpose and meaning—a confidence that I am doing exactly what I need to be doing in this moment.

During my recent internship, I occasionally asked the group therapy clients to share something about “who they are—not what they do—but who they really are.” Usually I was met with blank stares as the clients struggled to say something about themselves that was separate from the roles they perform (father, husband, employee, sports, hobbies etc…). Throughout most of my life, my identity was also derived from such roles. I was a father, a son, a second-mother-want-to-be, a man, and then a woman, a software engineer, a hiker, a piano player, a this and a that.

The more deeply I pursue my spiritual path, the more I know that these external roles have absolutely nothing to do with my true identity.

No, my identity is neither that of a writer, nor a counselor, nor that of an adventure traveler on a spiritual adventure. I am not here to win anyone else’s approval, to impress them with what I do or don’t do. My only purpose is to wake up to the beauty of who I really am—to once again set out on my quest of discovering that inner connectedness to my divine source.

Yes, my purpose is nothing other than to wake up to the truth in me. I will not define myself as a writer, but I will listen to my soul as it calls out for me to document every step of my journey. I will not define myself as a counselor, but I will continue to let inspiration flow through me as I engage in deep meaningful growth discussions with others. I will not define myself as a traveler, but I will continue to set out in whatever direction my guides take me.

Actually, I still have no idea who I am, but I now know many more things that I am not.

My passion, my purpose, is to find the real me by continuing to tear down layer after layer of false beliefs as I pursue my exciting treasure hunt of self-discovery. I will continue to follow my little “Jedi master” voices wherever they take me, no matter how disorganized or chaotic the journey may appear to others or to myself. I simply cannot do otherwise; following these internal voices has become the very breath that gives me life.

Update on Mom

As I sat with my mom yesterday, I began to sense a tiny spark of strength hidden behind her weak and fragile appearance. Those observations were corroborated by a conversation I had with the hospice nurse a short while later.

Mom’s vitals are fairly strong and normal. In spite of the fact that she is extremely weak, she could live for weeks or even months. We all know that the situation could change on a moment’s notice, but I am beginning to suspect that my sweet mother may surprise us all. Again, I will feel blessed with any outcome, and do not question the workings of the universe. Who am I to presume what the proper outcome might be? My only function is to seek for the treasure in whatever happens.

Monday evening, at the end of a particular long and emotional day, I convinced Michelle to go with me to the movie “My Sister’s Keeper.” I had seen the previews months earlier, and was intrigued by the thought of what I somehow already knew would be an incredible adventure into exploring love, death, and letting go. I was not disappointed.

Tears and sniffles flowed freely throughout the story, with an occasional sob finding its way to the surface. The message of love bathed my soul in much needed reassurance that death is not the end. While emotions can run extremely deep—to the very core—the whole experience of death and letting go can be a beautiful deepening of the soul if we only allow it to be. I continue to find myself surrounded by peace and deep love as I embrace each moment that gently unfolds into the unknown that is to come.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

As I sit here at my mother’s side, I am engulfed by deep emotion and pure unconditional love. During my spiritual pondering, the vision has become quite clear to me—I have taken down another bicycle from my ceiling. This one must be a mountain bike, because I feel as if I am pedaling along a rough and rocky path of rugged self-discovery. Yet, at the same time, I am blessed with the inner knowing that I continue to gently flow downstream. As difficult as this journey might seem, I am surrounded and cushioned with precious love at every bend in the path. Before continuing forward, however, let me regress a bit as I fill you in on recent events.

In spite of crowed and congested airports, both in Cozumel and in Houston, I maintained a deep sense of peace, knowing that everything was perfect. The ‘old me’ would have been quite anxious and nervous, standing in line for 75 minutes, barely getting my boarding pass a mere 20 minutes before my flight was scheduled to lift off from Cozumel’s small airport. At the same time, I knew full well that I still needed to pass through security. The new me simply smiled and made relaxed and pleasant conversation with the people next to me in line, a multi-generational family group from the Houston area.

My dear sweet friend (and adopted sister) Michelle picked me up at the airport at 11:45 p.m. on Saturday evening. Michelle has graciously insisted that I spend this first week, sleeping in her peaceful bedroom, while she has moved herself into her own living room. Another dear friend, Trish, has offered me the use of her home for next week while she is on another out-of-town journey of her own.  I am so grateful for loving friendships, and recognize how the universe is providing in my time of seeming need.

Yesterday, as Michelle and I navigated southward through the sparse Sunday morning traffic on I-15, destined for Provo, my mind was preoccupied with the obvious questions, “What is my mother’s real condition? What will I encounter when I walk through that front door to her Assisted Living Center?”

Based on reports from an optimistic young CNA here at the center, I was half expecting to find my mother the same as she had been three short weeks ago. My instincts, however, were telling me otherwise.

Michelle and I arrived halfway through lunch hour. Mom was parked in her wheelchair in front of an untouched plate of turkey, potatoes, vegetables, and a whole wheat roll. Her water and juice cups also remained full. As my eyes glanced around the room, I recognized the beautiful faces of many other residents that I have grown to love during my frequent visits to see my mom. But today, my attention was only on my dear mother.

Mom was nothing like I remembered. Her energy seemed to be nearly nonexistent. Not even having the strength to lift her sagging head, she was hunched over, staring at her lap through eyes that were barely opened—just a tiny crack between her eyelids. In order to make eye contact, I had to kneel down on the floor and gently lift her head. When our eyes met, she barely managed to show a small smile.

“I love you mom!” I lovingly whispered to her. “I traveled all the way from Mexico to see you.”

“Love you too.” She mumbled, almost unintelligibly, but I knew what she was attempting to say. I knew it in my heart.

Michelle sat opposite my mom, and I seated myself at her right side. An internal struggle rapidly rose from within. One voice inside argued, “No, don’t feed her … you will just be prolonging her misery.” Another voice inside countered, “You cannot just sit here without attempting to help her eat … you have to help her … you know you have to try.” It only took me a minute to begin listening to the second voice, and I reluctantly picked up a spoon.

For what seemed like forever, I performed the emotionally agonizing task of shoveling small spoonfuls of nutrition into mom’s parched lips. She cooperated for the most part, but at one point Mom broke down and seemed to almost be crying. Stuffing a portion of her cloth bib into her own mouth, she resisted my attempts to intervene while the wrinkles on her forehead deepened and tensed.

Gently placing my hand on her skin-and-bones shoulders, I quietly waited, reassuring her how much I love her, just sending her love—while at the same time fighting back a few tears of my own. Soon she removed the cloth from her mouth and allowed me to continue feeding her.

Once or twice I treated her like I used to treat my own young children, “Open the hanger” I said as I flew my airplane-like spoon buzzing toward her mouth. Mom lit up with a slight giggle, and would gently open her mouth, barely wide enough for me to slide another spoonful of turkey past her parched lips.

Getting her to drink a few fluids was even more difficult. I gently placed the fingers of my left hand on her forehead and lifted her head back far enough that the small cup in my right hand could reach her lips without dumping all over her lap.

Finally, after an emotionally exhausting hour, I decided I had done all I could do, and gently pushed her wheel chair into the adjacent room, leaving her half eaten plate behind.

Michelle and I sat with Mom for another half hour, attempting to communicate with her. For a few brief moments she attempted to join in as I sang a few familiar songs with her. After I sang the song “The Farmer in the Dell”, mom actually made silly words with her voice as she briefly mimicked a small segment of the tune.

At one point, I could no longer hold back my tears. With a few tears streaming down my cheeks, I bent over and buried my face in her cold hands, allowing a few brief sobs to surface before I regained my composure. Then, as quickly as the sobs began, I wiped a finger under each eye to remove most of the remaining tears and returned to my upright posture, attempting to remain emotionally strong.

A few minutes later, I gave Mom a few loving kisses and told her again “I love you Mom. You are the world’s best mom. I am so blessed to have you in my life. I’ll come and see you again later.”

As I sit with her again, writing by her side on this peaceful Monday morning, I have barely been able to get a verbal response out of her. Like yesterday, she is sitting in her wheel chair, with her head slouched forward. As I wrap my warm hands around her cold, weak hands, she is mostly sleeping. When I speak and gently wiggle her hands, she briefly responds with loving “mumbling sounds,” responding in the only way that she is currently capable.

Just a short while ago, again holding her hands in mine, I allowed the tears to flow once more. Kneeling down on the floor and looking into her eyes, I poured out my heart and soul to her. “I love you Mom. You have been a wonderful mother. You don’t need to stay here to take care of me. You are free to go any time you wish … It is OK to be free … I love you … I am so blessed by you … I love you.”

It is now shortly after noon. While writing, I noted that the staff was wheeling residents into the dining area for lunch. As I silently observed the lunchtime preparations, another small emotional skirmish unfolded within my heart. The emotional tug of war between my internal voices lasted only a few minutes, ending as I gently pushed mom’s wheelchair over to a young nursing assistant.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” I told her. “I can’t be here during lunch. It is just too emotionally difficult for me to try to help her eat again. I’ll leave that to you.”

“I understand,” were her kind words as she reflected a loving smile back at me.

As I exited via the front entrance, my tears completely broke through my protective barriers, and began to flow freely down my now soggy cheeks. The kind woman who was exiting in front of me turned to ask “Is everything OK?” Before resuming our respective journeys, we chatted briefly as I filled her in on my mother’s condition. Now, barely five minutes later, I find myself under a beautiful shade tree, down a nearby street. My car windows are open, and a cool breeze dries the remaining molecules of moisture from my cheeks.

As I publicly document my raw emotions, I am embarking on another journey of deep self discovery. My mother’s voice has always had a strong and influential presence throughout my life. Her voice always arrived on the wings of unconditional love—yet I somehow managed to turn that love into a great burden of guilt and shame—which in turn blocked the two of us from connecting at a deeper level.

One incident, that happened when I was about eight years old, vividly stands out among my memories. My brother had done something (I don’t remember what) that deeply saddened her. As I observed the disappointment in my mother’s eyes, I remember consciously thinking “I never want to do anything in my life that will cause my mother to feel such sadness and disappointment … Yes, I will be perfect … I will never let her down … I will never disappoint my mother.”

The title of my in-progress book, “The Invisible Pedestal,” is directly derived from this memory. A few years after making this internal commitment, I began to struggle; I began living what I sometimes consider as having been two separate and distinct lives.

The “public me” was standing on my “Invisible Pedestal”, genuinely trying to maintain an image of perfection—trying to please and live up to everyone else’s expectations—especially those of my mother.

The “private me” was in constant struggle, trying to understand, explore, reconcile, and deal with my transgender feelings. Horrible guilt and shame plagued my very existence as those gender battles began to secretly emerge in a powerful and unexplainable way—right around age eleven.

In a very literal way, I stood tall on that imaginary pedestal throughout most of my youth and adult life. I kept my shameful transgender struggles secret, to myself, going to great lengths to hide my internal battles from the world. Just thirteen years ago, at age 41, I finally found the internal strength and courage to share my deeply hidden secrets with my mother.

As I tore down my walls—the walls that had kept us separate from each other—I was thrilled to discover that she still loved me. For a short period of time, I was able to let go of my façade—to be my true genuine self around her.

Then mom’s dementia began to set in. As her Alzheimer’s progressed, she gradually forgot past events—beginning with the more recent events, including those of my transition into Brenda. She resumed using old names and pronouns—not out of any bad intent—but simply because she no longer remembered.

For a while I stopped visiting her—I could not emotionally handle her forgetfulness. I could not handle hearing her lovingly introduce me to others as her son, while she innocently used old names and pronouns.

Only with my own internal healing, and in learning to love myself, was I able to resume my visits. I finally reached a point where I could laugh at the whole situation, realizing that if she introduced me to someone as her “son,” they would just smile at me, knowing that my mom must be really confused.

During the past three years, since my father passed away, I began visiting Mom several times per week. We have developed a bond that I never imagined possible during my earlier years. While we cannot communicate effectively with words, we seem to have no trouble whatsoever in exchanging feelings of unconditional love.

While typing away on my laptop, my dear friend Lori called to check on me. Renewed tears washed away the last semblance of remaining eye makeup as I blubbered away describing the emotional events of the past 36 hours. What amazed me is some of the peaceful words that came out of my mouth as we spoke.

“These tears are not tears of sadness,” I told Lori, “Yes, these tears do come from deep loving emotion … but accompanying these tears is an inner knowing that all is exactly as it needs to be … I am comforted by a profound sense of peace.”

“I would never venture to place any conditions on what needs to happen.” I continued. “If Mom passes on, I will be thrilled that she is free from her suffering. If she recovers, I will be grateful for her continued ability to function. I know that whatever needs to happen, will happen. Regardless of what happens, I am at peace knowing that I am exactly where I need to be in this moment.”

Yes, the emotions are running very deep. As I ended my conversation with Lori, I realized that it was 2:00 p.m., and I was physically famished and starving. Being so immersed in the experience, I had forgotten to nourish my own body. After a short fast-food lunch, I now find myself back at the assisted living center.

I just had a wonderful conversation with Ryan, a young CNA with a huge heart full of love and compassion. I shared with him the deep gratitude I feel in my own heart—thanking him for the incredible love and service that I see him and the other staff members repeatedly sharing with the residents here.

Yes, in spite of the seeming tragedy of pain and suffering—my heart is indeed full. I am moved to tears, not with sadness, but with an indescribable love for “what is.” Life has a way of throwing us curve balls, but as I mentioned in my last post, there is always a beautiful hidden treasure in everything that happens. I cannot wait to discover my next treasure.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

In the past, much of my sadness and misery came from trying to control situations and outcomes that were simply out of my control. In the present, my greatest joy comes from slipping into the flow of the universe, searching for the hidden treasures that can always be found in every situation. Rather than resisting events, I am instead on a quest to flow with them, growing and learning in each precious moment.

On Tuesday, just four short mornings ago, my mother was on a rapid downhill struggle with physical mortality. As I purchased my plane tickets, I was following strong internal voices that called out to me, “Fly home for two weeks … go say goodbye to your mother … you need to make this trip … you need to make it now.”

Amazingly enough, just a few short hours after purchasing my tickets, my mother suddenly began eating again. After four days of refusing to consume any food, she began to show signs of possible recovery. The reports I continue to receive are mixed and inconsistent, but the primary message I hear from family is, “Mom is doing considerably better, but she is still quite weak.”

My ego voices are quick to say, “You are wasting your time and money on this trip. Your mother is going to be just fine … and you know you want to remain in Cozumel.”

My inner “Jedi master” voices are responding, “No … you know that you felt very strong promptings telling you to fly home … you don’t know what will happen on this trip … but you need to follow your promptings … trust the process, go home, and find out.”

As I prepare to head for the airport, I honestly have no clue what this little two-week interruption to my current adventure is all about—but I trust that whatever happens will indeed be perfect. I am making a conscious choice to surrender control—to listen to my internal heart voices and let them guide me on this path. I am compelled to follow these internal voices. Fueled only by blind faith, I am boarding a plane in just under three hours. Perhaps nothing at all will happen with my mother. Perhaps I will never know the real reason that I was guided to fly home. However, based on the strength of abundant past experience, I am secure in my trust, knowing that my internal voices will never lead me astray.

As we celebrate the birth of our political freedom on this beautiful Fourth of July, I choose to continue to celebrate the incredible gifts that emanate from within—the freedom, love, and peace that are my constant companions when I listen to my own heart and soul. Yes, I choose to “Trust the Process.”

© Brenda Larsen, 2009

View of Cozumel Ferry terminal from shore

This is the ferry terminal as seen from the shore near the plaza.

The ferry ticket booth

This is the ticket booth where I bought my ticket.

My ferry is the one in back

A view of my ferry (the one in the back).

Interesting choice of gardening tools

I sat in the plaza while waiting for my ferry. A couple of gardners were out using their machettes in many interesting ways.

This large Mexican Flag just began flying two days ago

I swear this large Mexican flag was never here until now … could I be that unobservant?

Carnival cruise ship as seen from the plaza

This large Carnival Cruise ship drifted by as I was waiting … how beautiful

Closer up view of arriving ferry

This ferry arrived from Playa Del Carmen after I was onboard my own ferry, ready to leave soon.

Yet another view

The Disney Magic cruise ship that came in right before my ferry left.

This ferry arrived right before we left

Notice all of the three-wheeled bicycles waiting to haul cargo from the arriving ferry. These three-wheeled bicycles are quite common all over Cozumel.

View of the Disney Magic as the ferry pulls away

Finally on our way … we got a great view of the Disney Magic …

Looking at our trail

Further away from shore … what a beautiful ocean. You can still see the Disney Magic if you follow our wake … and off to the right, you can see two other cruise ships if you look closely.

As we pulled away, two cruise ships were visible at the southern pier

This is a zoomed-in view of the two other cruise ships docked about five miles south of the plaza.

Arriving at the ferry terminal in Playa Del Carmen

After a 40 minute ride, we finally arrived at the beautiful town of Playa Del Carmen.

Another view

One of the Mayan ruins at Tulum.

More ruins

A distant view of El Castillo.

More ruins

More of the Mayan ruins at Tulum.

Walking through the ruins

People walking among the many ruins.

El Castillo

Another view of the main attraction, El Castillo.

El Castillo

El Castillo, the biggest temple in the city.

Me with El Castillo in the distance

Another view of me with El Castillo.

I love the plants growing in the rocks

Another miscellaneous ruin. I just love the plants growing in these rocks.

Another ruin

One of the Mayan ruins at Tulum.

One of the more intact ruins

One of the Mayan ruins at Tulum.

Another view of El Castillo.

A differnet angle on El Castillo

A wider angle view of many ruins.

Another view looking at El Castillo in the distance.

A view as seen up from near El Castillo, looking out over the whole city and walled off open area. I set up a little hideout under a shade tree up in the far corner, where I could sit and read/mediate/people watch with a beautiful view of El Castillo.

Another view looking away from El Castillo

El Castillo

Side view of El Castillo as seen through some greenery.

A map of the walled city.

A map of the Mayan city. Sorry…I should have put this in sooner.

Me sitting in my little hide-out 'nest'.

My little hideout away from the people

Full distance view from my reading space.

A view from where I was sitting for much of the day.

Zoomed in view from where I sat for a few hours.

A zoom view from my little nest. This is more how it looked to me… camera lenses and all always make things look further away.

View of the beach.

A view of the beach just north of El Castillo. This is a protected beach with no people allowed. Signs indicate that turtles breed here.

View of the beach.

A view looking down the stairway from above.

View of the beach.

Looking further out into the ocean.

View of the beach.

A great view showing the ruins and the beach below.

View of the beach.

A lilttle more zoomed in photo of the same scene.

View of the beach.

Looking down at a differnet angle — looking south.

The stairs leading down to the beach.

Looking up at the stairs to the beach.

View of the beach.

The backsides of a few beach swimmers.

View of the beach.

Another view of the beach.

View of the beach.

View of the beach.

My little Volkswagen Jetta for the day.

My little rental car that served me so well.

As I fast approach the end of week three, I find myself beginning to get sucked into a monotonous daily routine. Old behavioral patterns are creeping into present circumstances, and new habits are developing. I have begun to catch myself ignoring small things that brought such pleasure during my early days here in Cozumel. Yes, in some ways, the magic of each moment has begun to fade, feeling increasingly familiar and even slightly taken for granted.

“Here I am sitting in a tropical paradise, and I am beginning to yawn,” I pondered, “What’s up with that?”

I have full awareness that my spiritual growth depends on being alive in every moment, being in tune with the very essence of the universe surrounding me. One of my primary intents in physically uprooting myself from familiar surroundings was to coax myself to focus on meditation and spiritual growth—especially during the late night and early morning hours while the ego is sleeping.

This morning, at 5:00 a.m., my higher self emerged successful in yet another emotional tug-of-war with my old belief systems. I awoke feeling quite rested, and was unable to return to sleep. My little Jedi-Master voices were quietly saying “Brenda … get up … you know you want to … it is time to meditate … to raise your vibrations … to get on with the real reason you came to Cozumel.”

“Hell no!” was my firm ego response. “I want my sleep, I need my sleep, and I don’t feel very spiritual right now. I had a long day yesterday … and I’ll be tired later if I get up now.”

Feeling very resistant, I fought to go back to sleep. An added complication to trying to sleep was the fact that the air around me felt excessively hot and humid, causing me to sweat—even though I was laying on top of my sheets in light clothing.

“It will be cool and pleasant up on the roof.” My internal voices quietly encouraged me.

“I’m tired! I don’t want to go up on the roof,” was my whining and rebellious reply.

This internal debate went on for several minutes before my higher self finally won out. I forced my feet out of bed and onto the tile floor, quietly coaxed myself onto the roof, and ended up spending a glorious, peaceful, refreshing hour witnessing the magical birthing process of yet another beautiful new day.

So why am I still fighting and resisting such incredible experiences? Why do I still cling furiously to my old habits and beliefs about sleep? I’m not sure I can answer that.

I do need to give myself a great deal of credit, however. Even in the face of intense resistance, the morning after a long and tiring day, I eventually did listen to my internal voices. I allowed another incredibly positive experience to bathe my soul, and I am gradually overcoming old beliefs about sleep—one day at a time.

The Energy of Tulum

El Castillo

Nestled on rocky cliffs above the crystal blue shores of the Caribbean Sea, Tulum is an ancient walled Mayan city, situated approximately 40 miles south of Playa Del Carmen on the Yucatan peninsula. Because of its large temple and other well maintained structures, Tulum is a popular tourist site, with visitors coming from all over the world to enjoy its beauty. But it was not merely the structures that were calling out to me—I was being drawn by the energy of the ancients. I cannot explain it, other than to say that starting Tuesday afternoon, something inside of me was gently pulling me, calling out to me, “Brenda … it is time … time for you to come to Tulum.”

Arriving early at the waterfront terminal, I soon learned that there was no 8:00 a.m. ferry today “No problem,” I told myself, as I eagerly paid my 140 pesos ($11 USD) for a spot on the 9:00 a.m. boat. Being only a half block from the plaza, I had no trouble at all imagining how to occupy my extra hour.

As I enjoyed the freshness of the cool morning air, a huge Carnival cruise ship slowly drifted into view. There is something about these huge ships that instills in me a feeling of majesty and greatness. These ships carry such a presence about them, an exciting energy of exploration and new experiences. For a few minutes, I remained engulfed in the experience as I absorbed the vista before me.

Once aboard my own ferry boat, immediately prior to pushing off from the pier, another huge cruise ship drifted by—this one being the same Disney Magic ship that I witnessed two short Wednesday’s earlier. My camera shutter was busy opening and closing as I attempted to capture and record the beautiful sites.

As I sit here, writing in the plaza, my mind is temporarily drawn to some tourists asking a local policeman for a photo opportunity. The forty-something American woman walks up and puts her arm around the shoulders of the officer, who is handsomely dressed in his black uniform, sporting a small machine gun hanging over his left shoulder. Not all of the local policemen carry these machine guns, but when I do see one, I am quickly reminded that I am not in Utah anymore. Another medium sized lizard, tan with black stripes, perhaps 18 inches from head to tail, slowly zigzags its way toward me, checking out each berry along the way. It pauses, motionless, briefly stares right at me, then resumes its quest as it disappears to my left. My attention is now captured by a beautiful florescent green lizard munching on some leaves. He is fascinating new addition, one that has not previously graced me with its presence.

The forty-minute ferry ride seemed to pass rapidly as I immersed myself in the twelve-mile journey. Three times, my curiosity kicked into gear, when miles from the nearest land, a large yellow butterfly danced briefly in the air above me before returning to its migration path over the open ocean waters below. A few minutes later, another yellow butterfly again repeated the same dance, followed a few minutes later by yet a third.

Once the ferry gently docked at the pier in Playa Del Carmen, I eagerly disembarked with my next task eminent in my mind—find my rental car agency. As I began orienting myself, I was pleased to recognize that the street system was almost identical to that of Cozumel, and a short ten minutes later, dripping with sweat, I arrived at the tiny rental agency. (Have I said yet that the humidity here is off the charts?)

Soon I was out on the roads, steering my little Volkswagen Jetta through the narrow crowded streets of Playa Del Carmen. Armed with only a sparse map, my instincts, and memories of a bus ride to Tulum in 2007, I set off on the next leg of my adventure.

Another interruption here … a white haired fifty-something Mexican man is walking through the plaza, carrying a box on his head, repeatedly singing a loud jingle, advertising whatever treasures he has in his box—his voice being projected in a way that it carries throughout the immediate area. He is the first I have seen doing this in the plaza, but such practice is common in the neighborhood streets. The bread/pastry man rides by on his bicycle several times a day, loudly making a clapping noise to capture peoples’ attention. The propane gas truck drives by frequently, playing a loud, and now familiar, song signifying they are in the area. Each vendor has their own calling card to announce their presence. It is quite a different way of life here.

The area south of Playa Del Carmen, while presenting a similar look and feel, was quite different from the small town feel of Cozumel. While still in the city, I passed by large stores, including even a Sam’s Club. Once on the open road, I was surprised to see an occasional modern overpass—different, but similar to what you might encounter in the states.

Some 40 miles south of Playa Del Carmen, just off this modern four lane highway, was the small exit to Tulum—an exit that I very easily could have driven right past if I were not watching so carefully. Before heading for the ruins, I detoured to use a small restroom. If I had not done this a few times before on other occasions, I would have been very surprised when an attendant asked me for 3.5 pesos. The small 30 cent fee gave me a two-and-a-half-foot strip of toilet paper along with the privilege of entering the bathroom.

Finally, after chugging down most of my first liter of water, I grabbed my backpack and a second full liter, and set off down a ¼ mile path leading up to the wall of the ancient city. I didn’t bother purchasing any tours, I did that in 2007—this time I was eager to simply sit and inhale the ambience and the energy. After making a quick obligatory photo-taking tour, I found myself a spot with a view—under a shady tree in a large open area just a few hundred yards west of the main structure “El Castillo”

Having neither plans nor intentions, I simply sat there, enjoying the ambience, reading a book, meditating, observing people, and drinking water. My liter of water was soon a distant memory as I gulped it down in short order as a defense against the intense heat and humidity. Once my water was gone, not wanting to leave, I sought out a cooler setting to spend my final hours.

Almost directly south of “El Castillo”, a winding wooden staircase leads down to the water’s edge. Surrounded on all sides by jagged rocky cliffs, a small sandy beach sits in this beautiful pristine location. In this incredible ambience, a mixed gathering of tourists and locals were enjoying the cool refreshing energy of the blue Caribbean waters. Not being prepared for a swim, I was interested in the cool afternoon shade created by the cliffs. I could have sat there reading all day, but alas the clock was ticking away and I instinctively knew it was time to retrace my path back to Cozumel.

The only snag I ran into on my homeward journey was trying to convince a machine-gun carrying policeman to let me drive my rental car down a restricted street near the Playa Del Carmen pedestrian-only district. After the officer told me “No” three times, I somehow managed to get my point across, and was allowed to drive the last few hundred feet to park my car in front of the agency where I had picked it up just eight hours earlier.

On my way back toward the ferry terminal, I detoured with a short peaceful stroll along a stretch of the white sandy beaches of Playa Del Carmen. How I wished I had my swimsuit and a little more time, but alas I was exhausted and anxious to return to my new abode.

After disembarking from my homebound crossing on the 6:00 p.m. ferry, my journey took me full circle through the town plaza in Cozumel. In the corner of my eye, I noticed my sweet friend Miguel talking to a food vendor. As I approached him, he took my hand in his, pulled me toward him, and gave me a little peck on the right cheek. After we chatted for a few minutes, he looked me in the eyes, and said “If I don’t see you again before you go home, I want you to know that I am going with you.” Then he paused to find the words that I might understand, as he corrected “I, Me, am not going with you, but (pointing to his heart) my heart is going with you.”

After a final brief hug from Miguel, and a ten minute walk, I tiredly unlocked my gate, climbed my staircase, and hurried my exhausted, hot, and sweaty body into the cool embrace of a refreshing soothing shower.

© Brenda Larsen, 2009