Looking to the Future While Remembering the Past
September 3, 2026
I learned this afternoon that this was the longest summer since 2020— from the earliest Memorial Day to the latest Labor Day*. And it felt like it!
As you reflect on your experiences over the past 106 days, what stands out for you?
Earth altar in a tree hollow, in the Peloponnese mountains.
So many of my experiences in this long summer expanded my personal and professional horizons: my artist residency in Greece, completing my certifications as a chaplain and spiritual counselor and as a mindfulness and grief coach, attending Drawing Perspectives: Health Graphic Narratives, Under Pressure, the Graphic Medicine 2026 Conference, enjoying the energy a house guest brings, visiting with a friend I haven’t seen in several years in northern California, hosting several ephemeral earth art sessions at retreats, facilitating an experiential session on trauma-informed care, and more. These were heart-opening—and yet other times were tough—as we weathered a variety of health challenges with our family. It was a summer of learning to cherish the heart-warming times, lean into my “strong back and soft front” (from Roshi Joan Halifax) to be responsive to the moment, and let go of what wasn’t essential. Life is full of opportunities for learning.
What are you excited about as we enter this next season?
My altar from Saturday morning, a beautiful reminder me that my present holds my past.
Perhaps, “excited” is the wrong word. As you can tell, this summer felt like a long ride on a roller coaster for me. There were highs and lows. I wasn’t always excited and happy; there were times of uncertainty, worry, sadness, and grief.
A better question is, how are you entering this new season? What’s on your mind and in your heart? What’s working – in your personal life, perhaps professionally and/or in your community? And what needs work and attention? Where will you put your time and energy in this new season?
Honestly, I’m ready for fall and the simple joy that comes with a routine. At the end of May, I said a formal goodbye to my colleagues at Bikablo – though my love and use of visualization are a part of all I do. I will continue coaching visual practitioners—both new and experienced—who are seeking a new lens to re-view and advance their work.
One piece from the session on the seasons of our lives at the Portland Institute retreat.
In reality, my plan for change began in earnest in January of 2025, I began the exciting journey of shifting my work to focus on my passion for end-of-life literacy and planning. In the summer of 2025, I completed the Arts-Assisted Grief Therapy Certificate from the Portland Institute for Loss and Transition. In December, I became a certified Morning Altar’s Teacher, adding this new area to my collection of workshops addressing end-of-life planning, grief, loss, change, transition, and self-care. The Mindfulness and Grief Coaching work and my own arts-focused grief coaching program, heART-mind Grief Coaching, complement my workshops and retreats focusing on self-care and personal development.
I’ve got some plans.
I bet you do too.
I’d love to hear yours. I hope you will be in touch.
- The combination of Memorial Day on May 25 and Labor Day on September 7 created an unofficial summer window of 106 calendar days. The same 106-day stretch last happened in 2020, and we will not experience a “mega Summer of this maximum length again until 2037.
As I pull into the access road to our home, I’m thinking of tasks to be accomplished before the end of the day—meeting the deadline for all my materials for my session on Trauma-Informed Care for the Portland institute for Loss and Transition; final edits to an email to send to a group of colleagues for training in September about trauma informed teaching; an appointment, that while brief will conclude a long-term relationship with an organization, and lastly, learning to help my husband get comfortable with a procedure for administering his own medication. I step out of the car, walk the few steps to the mailbox for Saturday’s mail (that was not a priority among all that’s going on), and I look down and see a beautiful bird that is dead. How this Blue Jay died is not obvious to me, nor how he came to lie at the foot of the three mailboxes at the side of the access road.
It will take me a good half hour to gather materials, handle them with care, and find a place for the Blue Jay at the edge of our backyard (as we border a wetland/wilderness). Honestly, I’m used to taking my time and making thoughtful decisions when I step into creating an altar. Yet, I shifted easily into a slightly faster pace—in part because flies were beginning to gather, and the reality is that there were not a lot of materials in the yard at this point in the year. I held the competing priorities lightly in the back of my mind, yet most important to me was making the time and space to honor this being’s death.
the design and its colors. It is part of the journey that I began in Greece, researching land artists around the world to develop my own voice. I think it’s an area of growth in my practice. I was initially drawn to the beauty—especially the symmetry—of Day Schildkret’s/Morning Altars’ designs—and, of course, to the ritual and to being in nature—and yet it has become an evolving practice for me… I love it!
As I celebrated Mother’s Day, I thought a lot about my mom and her influence on my life. As Father’s Day arrived, I reminisced about my dad’s curious mind, adventurous spirit, and our family travels around the world. And just this week was the second anniversary of the death of our most recent canine companion, Gus… sometimes, I still cry when I think of him. Of course, I remember him with joy too. I think that I am better able to keep continuing bonds with my parents because of how their influence shows up in some much of what I do—they feel present. With Gus, I miss his sheer delight in being loved, and while I keep him in my heart and mind, it is the very visceral experience of his being that has been lost.
different, right? (I do love the title and the ideas offered up in, Grief is a Sneaky Bitch, written by Lisa Keefauver.)
I remember one year, at Easter, there was an opportunity to purchase a lily plant in honor of a family member. I bought one for my mom, and it was placed on the dais along with all the other lilies purchased by church members. I thought my mom would like it. (My teen years weren’t the easiest between us.) What I discovered was that lilies were not a symbol of love and beauty to her. They were a reminder of death. Perhaps because they had accompanied the death/burial of one of her parents—at least that’s what I’m guessing. We never actually spoke about it. I believe that she appreciated the gesture. How interesting—the different meanings we held.
Creating ephemeral earth art is a healing modality that facilitates deep connection with nature, grounding me in the present moment. By mindfully arranging natural elements into intricate designs, I engage in a practice that nurtures reflection, meaning-making, and a sense of interconnectedness with the universe, offering emotional and spiritual healing. This act of creation allows me to process what is on my mind and in my heart.
me. The rest of the world falls away for a time. I experience the seven steps of the practice seamlessly:
In this practice, I become immersed in a multi-sensory experience that supports gentle inquiry into my inner landscape and provides opportunities for insights and expression. Over the past year, my subjects of introspection and altar construction have included: Releasing and Readying, Many Conversations/Listening for Other Voices, Becoming/Unfolding, Transforming a Gift, Letting Go, and Crossing a Threshold. My altars are created inside or outside, in 15 minutes or 60, range in materials from all nature-based (branches, leaves, flowers, berries, shells, bark, ashes, and more), to inclusion of my artwork, and art materials, and in sizes that fit in my palm to others with a four-foot diameter.