Good evening Michael and Jenny, just reading your post and so grateful for your wisdom and willingness to share your journey with us all. I am like you, Michael, when I want to feel grounded I go straight to the river. It is calming and healing--and so wonderful that you can go there with Isaiah or Jenny or whomever is in your current presence to accompany you. Blessings on you and your dear family as you take each step together.
I was invited to sit by the river with a friend a few days ago. It gave me a glimpse of why you feel so drawn to the river, how the river can flow into you and move you powerfully into the mystery. Deep gratitude to the river, to you and your family. With much love, I have been holding you, Jenny, and your two amazing children in my heart.
Michael, so much gratitude to you and Jenny. Indeed, you and Jenny and your family have given us such a precious gift. May the love and tenderness of us all enfold you.
What a gift you and Jenny and the family are to all of us, allowing us to be in relationship with you during this journey. It is such a miracle that you are able to put into such poetic words what you, your spirit and body are experiencing. We are all holding you with love and tenderness. May the river continue to be a place of solace and comfort.
Love from another,
Betsy
I'm crying with you, Michael, as I write Tears of empathy, tears of gratitude that with Jenny's help you can still write to us, tears of sadness that you seem to be bit by bit leaving your beloved family and the rest of us, tears of joy that Isaiah knew just where you wanted to go at the river. (Midway into writing the previous sentence raindrops started hitting the window panes of my living room. Raindrops, teardrops, we seem to be a lot about wetness. )
I remember how easily and frequently I cried when I had my cancer and how I started to wonder if our bodyweight really is mostly water, does that mean our tear ducts have pounds and pounds of reserves to draw on?
But then I remembered that I seemed to be a thirstier guy than I had been. Well, yes, and thirsty for life including my "To Do" list and the projects that attract me.
And then the realization kept growing: even more important to me than life was love, and there's no end to that.
No end.
When we go away, for minutes as in your story, or longer, it's Love that's waiting for us. Love on this side is what we've relished and it's worth tons of tears to think of leaving, and lots of fear (at least for me) at the prospect of leaving. And then there's the love on the other side, welcoming us into an abundance far beyond even what can be manifested on this side by your family and friends, and the circles of folks out here rooting for you.
Following on your friend Peter's comment, what a beautiful and scary post. The mystery of life, of being alive, of getting up to face each day, of choosing love, of choosing to love, of being chosen to live this story -- it's so big! Sometimes my skin feels stretched over a brain that is exploding with leaves swirling madly, a metaphor for the enormity of it all, beyond comprehension. My mind wants to organize the infinite, the inevitable, the unknown.
Thank you both for taking the time to share. Blessings on your day, today. Love to the four of you.