Thin Places

Image by spirit111 from Pixabay

I met Catherine Marie in the tea aisle. She was looking for Yogi Decaf Green tea, I for Traditional Medicines Organic Lemon Balm. We weren’t finding any joy in our search. But then Catherine Marie chuckled and pointed to a tea called Mother’s Milk. “My late husband used to like a cold beer on Sunday morning after church and called it Mother’s Milk.” I laughed, that’s great. How long has he been gone? “Three years. He was a good man. I loved him.” How long were you together? “Thirty-nine years.” Wonderful. What was his name? “Jerry.” My dad was Jared, but everyone called him Jerry. “Oh? I’m Catherine Marie, but Jerry used to call me Marie when he thought I did something that was not very nice. Marie, Marie, he would say.”

My stepmother was Mary, I thought and didn’t say. Catherine Marie thanked me. “It helps. Talking about it. It does.” It helped me, too. Not surprisingly, Jerry and Catherine Marie got in the car and came home with me leaving me to ponder love and life and brief encounters that linger for a long while, sweet morsels of goodness piercing the boundaries between the beyond and the here and now.

Thin places are said to be places where the veil between heaven and earth is especially thin. There are renowned thin places such as Iona, Scotland, Stonehenge, England, the Canyon Lands in Utah, Mt. Shasta in California, and several others. But thin places can be experienced any place one has a heightened sense of connection, deep peace, or maybe a feeling that departed loved ones are nearby. They are sacred places of transformation and rejuvenation.

Catherine Marie reminded me that everyone we meet is grieving at some level. She also reminded me we are not disconnected from our loved ones by death. Life continues. Jerry was saying hello to us and so were my parents. They had found a thin place in the tea aisle.

Thin places are an antidote to a world which can be overwhelming, where we can feel disconnected or anxious, scared or angry. There are days I would have closed myself off to this connection never knowing what I had missed. They say that’s part of the magic of thin places; you don’t find them, they seek you when you need them.

Miss You Much

Photo by xandtor on Unsplash

A few days before Easter, I received a card from a friend’s mother who I hadn’t seen in a while. A lot had gone on in both our lives during that time of not connecting. It wasn’t the Easter card I expected. Instead, the front was covered in hearts like a Valentine with the words “Miss You Much.” 

I was on the fence about attending Easter dinner at her daughter’s. Like many people, I had opted out of several gatherings the past two years for Covid-related reasons. As life returned to a semblance of normalcy, those pandemic-related reasons morphed into less decipherable ones for me. Grief? A need to retreat and renew? The world has wrenched our hearts and souls in breathtaking ways that have made cocooning seductive.

Teresa’s card made me re-think the Easter invitation. A generous, passionate woman, she embodies life and joy for many of us who know her. I realized I missed not only her but joy. Where had it gone? How long since joy and I had met, had a good cry, a riot of laughter, a simple smile across the table over a meal, a cup of coffee, a glass of wine? There had been occasions here and there, if I was honest, but I wanted to be plugged into it and lit up like a Christmas tree. I longed for the brush of a feather across my face, an angel’s kiss, the movement of air in its wake, the slow gurgle within to become a rushing brook that overflowed with undammed joie de vivre.

The bolt of electricity did not come. No gentle feather on my face. Not even a sweet whisper or a happy babble from that brook. I was hampered by blind spots, and I had lost the raptor’s 180-mile-high view.

But with the acceptance of that Easter invitation came an opening. It was a nudge to lift the blinds, refocus my gaze, to partake in Life. The twilight zone between light and dark is unavoidable and sometimes necessary to get to the space beyond that allows a dam to break and the joy that comes from connection, even if it’s a string of lights for starters.