Skies are clear and sunny, but yes, I'm a bit in a fog. In a life full of surrealities, I have to say that not attending your dad's memorial service is pretty high up there. But strangely, I am at peace. If I understand correctly what I was meant to learn from him, I suspect his higher self would have been terribly disappointed if I had attended. Tomorrow, I will have lunch with friends, then meditate in a local formal garden, smelling lilacs and other flowering trees and plants. I'll try to get in touch with the universe's endless stream of love, which hopefully he has returned to.
I wrote a number of hand-written notes to family. I guess it shows my age that I prefer this kind of note at this kind of time. I truly think our hearts are "in our hands," and that there's a link between our hearts and our writing hands. But for younger people, I suspect the notion of writing a hand-written note is up there with taking the skin off a dead cow, scraping and drying it to make parchment, then toiling for months over an illuminated manuscript. Not happening. Well, I suspect that in my lifetime, we may need to return to offline forms of communication, so I am keeping in practice.
Regarding the clothing issue mentioned last week; as we speak, I am wearing a neon pink tee shirt and a black and white striped skirt. Not exactly mourning. However, a concept seems to be forming, as I ponder my memories of great aunts and grandmothers. I see blue. Light blue linen. Navy blue dotted swiss. Lots of blue dresses. Moving forward, I suspect I will focus more of my wardrobe on blues and turquoises of various tints and shades. I want to wear more skirts and dresses. And I must own a string of pearls. I won't wear them often, perhaps, but it's time to own one.
Strange musings for such a huge transition, I know. The biggest thing is, I need to keep breathing. I keep finding myself holding my breath.
