Author Archives: jillsalahub

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About jillsalahub

Writer & Contemplative Practice Guide holding space for people cultivating a foundation of a stable mind, embodied compassion and wisdom. CYT 500

Gratitude

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1. Morning walks. This week, I saw a heron standing in the river fishing for breakfast. They usually startle pretty easily and when Ringo sees one he barks and scares them away, but this time we were at a bend in the river where the trail is up a slope and the grass is tall enough to block Ringo’s view and for some reason the heron was okay with me watching it, so I took a million pictures. We also saw a bunch of deer — this year’s babies have lost their spots. Everything is turning to gold and it’s just so gorgeous.

Beaver house

2. Practice. I canceled my yoga class this week because I was having too many big feelings, so I missed out on that community practice. I did get to write with my Friday morning sangha and it was its usual magic. I meditated extra this week because I really needed it.

3. Mom. She’s still there, still getting good care and company, still forgetting most things except for us. My brother was visiting the other day and said she couldn’t remember Lia’s name, was asking where the front door was, wanting to be rolled out, and was holding a small framed picture of Dad that sits on her table and when he asked her who the picture was, she said, “Papa.” It would have been their 61st wedding anniversary yesterday. It feels like an awful thing to want, but I sometimes wish Dad would come get her, if that’s how it will happen, if they’ll get to be together again somewhere. It’s just so hard to watch her body and mind fail her and for her to not be able to understand what’s happening, to be so confused about where she is and why she can’t go back to her life the way it used to be.

4. Being able to start over, begin again. It’s one way I’m able to not be so hard on myself — none of it matters, the ways I mess up, the ways I fail, the ways I disappoint and abandon myself, because as long as I’m still breathing, I can always try again.

5. My tiny family, small house, little life. With Eric being so busy this semester, gone more often or preoccupied, I’m especially grateful for the weekend moments when he’s here. When my dad was dying, he asked me once, “Do you like spending so much time with Eric?” and I said “Yeah, he’s my favorite person” and Dad nodded, “I thought so.” Give me Eric, a dog or two, a good book, some down blankets and pillows, and a good place to cuddle, and I am so happy.

Bonus joy: green grapes, strawberries, Gotham Greens Caesar Salad kit, stickers, Penzey’s Spices, Sunday morning Pilates, good TV, movies, listening to podcasts and music, getting to see Chloe’, rabbitbrush, new books, a warm shower, clean sheets, a couch that is comfortable enough to sleep on, groceries, finishing the laundry, gummies, online scheduling, being able to access my medical test results online rather than waiting for my doctor’s office to call, blog comments, sharing reels with Shellie and Carrie and Kari (one of the only reasons I’m still on social media), good news, turning the calendar to a new month, pay day, other people’s pets and kids and gardens, soup, toast, texting with my brother, naps, libraries and librarians, poets and poetry, comedy, documentaries, true crime, time lapse videos of other people making art or flowers blooming, reading in bed at night while Eric and Ringo sleep. 

Three Truths and One Wish

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1. Truth: Two years ago today, my dad died. That grief is heavy, and it is connected to a lineage of other grief that came before and mixed with the ones that came after. These past two years have been especially rough. A long friendship unexpectedly came to an end, Dad was placed on hospice, Mom had a stroke that she only partially recovered from, Dad died, Mom developed dementia and would never live independently again, Eric’s mom died, and we had to move Mom to hospice care. This piggy backs on all the losses that came before that and sometimes it feels like I’m trying to swim while carrying a block of cement or trying to drink from a firehose. 

2. Truth: There is no there, there. My brother sent me a picture the other day of my mom and dad’s bedroom completely empty. The last time I stayed at their house, things were almost exactly the way they’d left them, like they would be coming back any time, like they still lived there. My father-in-law also recently sold the home he’d lived in with his wife, the place we stayed when we visited them, and now that home is not just cleaned out, it belongs to someone else and she is gone. My whole adult life until now, I always knew that no matter what happened, I could always go “home” again, that I could find refuge in either place if I needed it. Those places and some of those people only exist in memory now, and I feel a bit lost without the “home” and family that came before, that had remained intact, where I could return. 

3. Truth: You can make yourself a home. The life you make, the family you chose, the people and things you love, the places you rest and reside — even including your mind, body, and tender broken heart. I love mine — my tiny family, my small house, my little life. It’s everything I ever wanted, wished for, worked toward, and I gave that to myself, I allowed for that, I made it happen. AND, it is still true that I am so sad and being human is hard, and I’m able to make space for that as well. There’s enough room for all of it, the grief and the grace.

One wish: I was watching videos featuring Jane Goodall, who died yesterday, and one thing she said is: 

“I see us at the mouth of a very long, very dark tunnel. And right at the end of that tunnel is a star. That’s hope. But it’s no good sitting at the end of the tunnel and hoping that star will come [to us]. No, we’ve got to roll up our sleeves, climb over, roll under and work around all the obstacles that lie between us and the star.”

So my wish goes something like this: May we stay tender, may we keep our hearts open, and may we continue to look for and move towards the light, together. Don’t give up, kind and gentle reader, and I won’t either.