The Light Ahead

On Slow Seasons and Softness

June 29, 2026

“Light precedes every transition. Whether at the end of a tunnel, through a crack
in the door or the flash of an idea, it is always there, heralding a new beginning.”
Theresa Tsalaky

Dear Friend,

How are you faring through the summer storms and deadly heat waves? Some of you are across the pond where the situation has been grim. I’m concerned to hear of people suffering terribly. In the States, we generally have air conditioners, but in climates where they are typically unnecessary, these temperatures are suffocatingly deadly. Please look after for yourselves and your neighbors, especially the elderly ones.

Slow Seasons

Our winter here in Michigan seemed unending, and consequently, spring was cut short. It is hard to believe it’s summer already!

It somehow still feels a bit wintery for me though. A certain quiet remains.

Here it is late June, and I feel like I’m in the still days of January, where it is so cold out you have to stay bundled up inside. That “forcing you to stay inside” sensation is what’s been lingering for me.

Spring’s life-force is, simultaneously, powerful. And so is this little angel, Lady, who takes me for walks morning, noon and evening. (I recommend a small dog for anyone who tends toward introversion!)

With each brightening day this spring, our strolls around our sweet neighborhood have been met with increasingly vivid wonders, from daffodils to dogwoods, from baby robins to red-tailed hawks.

What is this Quiet?

The quiet I mentioned, like a blanket of snow over me, is the remaining sense of loss, a still lingering ache, lying at the bottom of my heart, surfacing now and then to remind me of my beloved Ruby and Keefie.*

Saturday marked one year since Ruby died.

I’ve dreaded this time marker, and when it arrived, I feared I’d just sob all day long. So, I tried to stay busy to avoid the feelings. But by dinner time, I got so tired, I just slumped to the sofa and tears fell out. I wept with longing for Ruby’s hugs, her eyes, her presence on hikes and road trips with me. But just for a few minutes.

Mostly, I just felt quiet.

Grief has a way of walking us into silent caverns where we never really wanted to go. In spite of our resistance, it makes us stay longer than we wish to. But there, we are mysteriously transformed.

I don’t find grief’s depths morose, nor scary. On the contrary, I am drawn in with curiosity, wondering what this soul-excavation and life-reorientation is making room for within me. Something about it is oddly comforting and weirdly hopeful.

“Let winter come and live fully inside you, so that you can retrace the loving path of heartbreak that brought you here.”
David Whyte

Compression

Many of you, like me, are caregivers of one kind or another, raising young children, looking after adult children with illness or special needs, or walking through ever-unpredictable days with parents whose bodies and minds are altering.

Learning to love and care for my mother in practical, daily ways, through both heart-wrenching and sweet moments, is one of the most important experiences of my life. These long years have let Mom and me develop a trusting adult friendship I never would have known otherwise.

Extended seasons of caregiving do, however, test everything in you. Some days, you feel you’re being squeezed and sucked dry. A deep exhaustion can set in. On hard mornings, I think, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Have you felt the same way? I’d love to know your experience. Please comment in the chat if you can relate at all.

I understand that the compression I feel may not let up any time soon (and I don’t want it to so I have more time with Mom!) The reality of this current season of my earth travels involves trying to sort out conflicting emotions.

I do have hope that alchemy is at work in the pressure, bringing about gold I will see in time.

“No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.”
Hal Borland

Softness

When the tunnel seems long or life’s spring seasons seem far away, I find myself gravitating toward softer things. I don’t mean weak or wimpy soft. I mean incredibly strong, gentle, and comforting.

This kind of softness graciously delivers beauty and relief to the world.

I experience it in lovely humans who have a way of taking pressure off of me (like my siblings have in recent visits with Mom.)

I taste it in beautifully filmed shows with brilliant, delightful characters, like The Other Bennet Sister, streaming on Britbox (have you seen it??? If not, you MUST! Mom and I just watched the last episode together.)

I’m especially grateful for a talented artist I discovered on YouTube, The Unexpected Gypsy, Wendy Robison. She has created a Patreon community where she offers drawing and painting tutorials. Wendy has such a personable, magical way of bringing softness to this frightfully hard world. She is helping me remember the childlike imagination that used to run free in me (but has been a bit dampened in recent years.) Wendy’s social media pages are chock full of ingenious reels, inspiring stories, YouTube videos, drawings and paintings. Her online community is gentle and welcoming to tender-hearted, complex artists. I’m finding it a wonderful place to be right now.

What do you think of the power of “softness?” Are you experiencing it anywhere in the world around you? Does it carry accusations of weakness or wimpiness for you?

Softness lets you melt and rest when life feels hard and depleting.

Art Fair Snow Cones

This little embodiment of softness wiggles across the room whenever I come in the door. She crawls in my lap when I’m writing to you. She snuggles by my shoulder when I sleep. She is absolutely an angel sent to me. No question. Lady, my ten-year old rescue pup, comforted me so attentively on Saturday.

On Ruby’s homegoing day, I took Lady to an art fair down the road. Young children—and old ones—stopped us every few steps, asking “can I pet your dog?” Lady was spoiled with attention. She got to taste her first snow cone, AND, she found a potato chip in the grass. 🎉

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I hope you won’t find my posts too dreary with all these thoughts of grief. I try to write candidly about difficult human experiences in hopes that you might feel a sense of permission to open up to someone in your life. I hope you might feel more free to acknowledge and sort out the effects loss has had on you. In sharing each others’ stories, we dispel the shame that sometimes hangs around the expression of sadness and grief. It’s okay to talk about the effects of loss on your life. These normal human experiences bond us together.

It is a solid truth that in the midst of great sadness, wonder make its appearance at every turn.

As I always say, keep your eyes and heart open for wonders in your world. They are all around you. You may need to get outside (or adopt a rescue dog,) but they are there. Let them comfort you and bring you delight, especially on the harder days.

Don’t miss them!

With loads of love,

Linda

and Lady

*If you’re new here, my first two dogs, Ruby (11) and Keefie (15 3/4,) died in the past year. See previous posts for their stories.