24/09/2025
Hi friends! We went from a very busy August with many events, right into September, and I've stepped away for personal sojurn! Don't worry, I'll be back in October. But in the meantime, here are my personal thoughts and where I've been personally, as we move through September. This is from my personal page...
MEDITATIONS ON LOVE AND DEATH IN KUALA LUMPUR
Right now I'm on a beautiful trip in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. So far from Northern California! The air is hot and humid, and I love it. My skin is turning this beautiful shade of golden brown from spending time in the sun.
I enjoy the brief afternoon drizzle on some days, and I've found myself walking and laughing in the warm rainfall as it beads in my hair like diamonds.
Kuala Lumpur is a colorful city. Trees and skyscrapers alike are lit with neon color-changing lights. Everywhere I look I see people of multiple cultures speaking a variety of languages.
The city streets are clean, and everyone I've met has been polite. I love Malaysian cars, and how come we don't have phones like these ones here?
I've planned this trip for several months, but it also comes on the heels of a terrible personal loss.
What I haven't wanted to talk about, is the death of my father, who passed away just two weeks before this trip.
See? I even buried the lead in this post, preferring to share the stunning and wondrous experience of traveling.
But death, and the death of a parent, is even bigger somehow. I don't know how I feel yet. Parts of me are numb, and parts are molten, and mercurial.
He was a larger than life man. Our relationship was complex, though full of love.
It's easier to be lost in the beauty of a strange place, than to be still and look within.
I went to a Mosque the other day. Sitting in the holy place, I was filled with peace, and reminded that people find strength in religion.
Then I went to a Buddhist temple a few days later. I felt myself moved nearly to tears by the vibrating energy of the mountain, the holy water pouring from within rocks, and the ornate altars filled with the lit incense of peoples' prayers.
This particular religion which I've grown up with throughout my life, was also the passive religion of my father. Probably without him, my mother would not have practiced, nor would I be who I am today.
It wasn't until I was sitting with my family at a quiet, empty restaurant in Melacca, taking a brief respite from the heat and humidity, that I suddenly felt tearful from out of nowhere.
Everyone was happy. There was nothing exciting happening. We were waiting for our food. The servers looked slightly bored. And that's when my heart picked up and I could feel tears finally emerging.
"Grief is like that," My aunt told me later. "It will come up at strange times, for a while. And you just have to sit with it. Let it rise and speak to you."
My reply was a grunt. These are the types of practical truths I know as an energy healer, but it's not really what I want to be thinking about on a magical trip through a strange land. "Who has time for grief?" I wanted to growl.
But the truth is, grief demands time, or there is no healing. There is no peace. And I am truly happy to be on this magical trip, because I feel that my father–though he is probably still finding his way through the ethers to the next stop on his journey–is also still right here with me in my heart.
Being in resistance to grief, I've felt the rest of my voice also silenced. Like for my soul song to emerge, I need to give voice to whatever actually wants to rise. In trying to keep my grief private, many other things have been held close as well.
I find myself carving open a passageway for the grief to come forth from within me. I'm being patient with myself, trying to do all that I teach. Self-Reiki has been helpful. So helpful.
There are still practical things to sort with regard to my father's death, like his celebration of life, and the relationships with the living left behind, but all of that feels far away, back in the states.
For now, as I wind my way through temples, foreign beaches, tea farms, and back alleys filled with art galleries and tea houses, I feel my dad in my heart beat.
I feel his restless desire to live as wildly and fully as possible. That was always his way. To see life, to love art and to be the artist, to teach and to learn; all of it feels reflected in my own journey.
He is still right here, with me. Isn't it funny how grief can feel both isolating and intimate all at once?
