The Place We Cannot Breathe

Diving into the depths of what has all ways been waiting for me, to discover the treasure I will need for the next step in my journey.

As I prepare for my upcoming voyage en France, I feel nervous and excited… but underneath a dark tide is rising. Dark like the sea and just as deep. I’ve seen it coming for years, knowing always that it would arrive at this moment and no sooner. Like watching a lit fuse grow inexorably shorter, I’ve dreaded this season and simultaneous longed for the relief of no longer counting down the hours. Lest I betray my most fundamental tenets, I can neither avoid this fate, nor change its course. I can only pray, as it overtakes me, that the consummation leaves me whole, healed, and deeply myself. 

This rising tide is one I know well. Intimate as lovers we have been—these depths and I—though like all great bedfellows, the experience shows up differently each time it arrives. Though many despise these waters and flee when they call, I will neither turn my back nor hold the darkness at bay.

I will dive into grief as my teachers taught me to do…

in hopes to touch the glimmering coins left by those who wished for something else.

The Heart of Sorrow

My beloved mentor died in 2022 at the beautifully ripe age of 92. Yet when I heard the news no tears came. No feelings of deep sadness. We saw his slow end coming for years, and there was nothing left unsaid between us. When he crossed the veil, I felt a tenderness for his life and all that we had shared. Then some weeks later, I felt a little annoyed that he hadn’t visited more from the other side. That was all.

Sir Henry did have the magical cunning to send me a message that I cherish. He died on February 22nd. This cryptic text, so true to his style, arrived a few weeks later.

I told myself the lack of grief was because I expected his death for so long. My ability to connect beyond the veil diminished the feelings of finality so many have about death. Yet somewhere in the quiet recesses of my heart, I knew that grief was waiting for me.

Now, as I ready myself to visit the sacred South of France—to once again walk where we walked together…

As I study the histories he taught me and explore how I will transmit them without him…

As I remember what it felt like to be in his presence and who I knew myself to be with him…

I am overwhelmed by grief.

For all that “Sir” Henry Lincoln was a best-selling author, an storyteller, a poet, an actor, a mystery master at the center of a Great Mystery, and world-famous heretic… to me, he was simply a teacher.

A teacher who taught me to open myself fully to the world. To be willing to love and be loved in return. A teacher who always had a twinkle in his eye and mischief in his step. And a man who, in his heart, honored the ancient rite of the Cathar Consolament, transmitting Divine Love here on Earth for those who would receive it.

A silent keening rises up from my belly as I remember—a song to the world for one who Loved more deeply than anyone I have ever known. I am humbled to have worked side by side with this man. I am awed by what he taught me, and I am better every day for striving to be worthy of the charge he laid upon me. As I deepen each moment into the experience of connection with what once was, all the conditions are present, at long last, to grieve him as we both deserve.

It is awkward to embrace this grief so out of season—two and a half years late. In the midst of a busy season of preparation, I have to consciously give myself permission to be the weak, weird, and weary creature that I am right now without trying to pull out of the dive. Still I know I cannot afford to pull up. Everything is on the line.

I will be in France soon, and I will need all the treasure I am gathering now to lead this sacred adventure without my own guide standing beside me in the flesh. The mantle has been passed. I know what I have to do… and I know how to do it. All that is left now is to give myself to it completely.

My prayer is this poem by David Whyte, which was written on my bones so long ago, it is woven into the fabric of my being. 

Though I am afraid, I will trust to grief once more to guide me to the depths, beyond which lies the far-green country. It is, perhaps, the shortest route to arrive where I always want to go anyway. My ticket was issued the moment Sir Henry died. Now it is punched, and I climb aboard. 

The Well of Grief

Those who will not slip beneath
    the still surface on the well of grief,

turning down through its black water
    to the place we cannot breathe,

will never know the source from which we drink,
    the secret water, cold and clear,

nor find in the darkness glimmering,
    the small round coins,
          thrown by those who wished for something else.

—David Whyte

For anyone who’s interested to learn more about the incredible Henry Lincoln—here’s an article I wrote about him, published in Tardis Magazine just after he died.

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This post is dedicated to Gammie and everyone else living a season of grief right now. May it sweep over you like a sea of lost treasure, leaving you richer, wiser, and deeper.

Special thanks to my loving husband who makes room for all my seasons in our life.