The first time I tapped the transformative power of fire was to banish disbelief, to make real the fact that I had been jilted, to begin the progression from wounded rage to acceptance to ultimate relief.

I was in my early 30s and I’d never been dumped. After my father’s departure during my girlhood, I had resolved always to be the leaver, never again the left behind.

But as these things happen, eventually it was my turn. And I did not take it well. I stormed; I didn’t sleep; I obsessed over thoughts of vengeance.

I flew to San Francisco to seek the solace of the woman who had been a spiritual mentor of sorts since I met her at 24. She had seen me through my coming out and my first big jobs. Later, her last act before disappearing from my life would be guiding me through my father’s death.

That day in San Francisco still stands as one of my clear coming-of-age, coming-to-terms, getting-a-grip moments in life. We sat on the cliffside above the bay, in a spot we later referred to as the Sermon on the Mount, and she helped me to face the reality I was still struggling against.

She had me write down on slips of paper all the beliefs echoing in my head, all the protestations. And then we burned them. We watched them spark, catch, flame, fizzle, and die. As the ash settled into the ground, so did I. The dam of denial and distress broke, releasing the sadness and honest fears that would form my new start.

I repeated the ritual some years later in my farewell ceremony for my father. Since then, I’ve discovered a magical resource for engaging the regenerative power of fire: Flying Wish Papers.

Created by Julia Lambie of Hux Creative in Beaverton, Oregon, these little papers are a perfect way to focus whatever it is that needs to be released, transformed, or wished into being. I’ve used them in nearly a dozen ceremonies, from birthdays and baby showers to memorials and transition support.

63 years ago today a girl child came into the world who would grow to become one of the most significant influences on my life. I don’t know where she is today, or why we aren’t in touch, but I remain grateful for the enduring lessons she taught me in the 14 years we shared. I light a wish paper for her today.

"Write it. Light it. Watch it fly."

How long is too long to wait when it comes to celebrating the life of a beloved family member? For Charlotte Eulette, who shared her story with me recently, it’s never too late.

Charlotte created a memorial celebration for her stepfather Sheldon eight years after he died.

In the first year after Sheldon’s death at the too-young age of 62, Charlotte’s mother was still in shock; she couldn’t fully process it. The suddenness of his death fractured the family for a time. But as the years passed, Charlotte’s mother realized she wanted a chance to gather people back together to remember her husband, to hear the stories his friends would tell, and to let his grandchildren (so young when he died) get to know him through others’ memories.

Inspired by the seven-year cycle of observance in Jewish custom, Charlotte and her mother began a year-long process of planning the perfect event. They rented a fabulous hotel hall with a killer view of Chicago, the city Sheldon had loved and served as a lifelong philanthropist. 

The invitation featured an historic photo of the city skyline, an image that seemed to personify Sheldon’s life as a Renaissance man. In honor of his name, they decorated with shells and created beautiful keepsakes for everyone to take home. Reflecting the eighth anniversary theme, eight speakers shared their personal Sheldon stories with a vibrant and diverse crowd of 80. Classical Greek music completed the tribute.    

Charlotte knew the ceremony had succeeded in capturing her stepfather’s spirit when the hotel bartender, who had never met the man, poured Sheldon a drink. With tears in his eyes he called for a toast, saying, “I’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve brought Sheldon into this room. We may not see him, but he is here nonetheless.”

Sheldon’s celebration provided Charlotte’s mother with a helpful focus. It also offered a healing contrast for Charlotte who had conducted her own father’s funeral two years before.

As the International Director of the Celebrant Foundation and Institute, Charlotte has conducted hundreds of ceremonies in her 12 years as a Life-Cycle Celebrant ®. But perhaps the most difficult was the funeral she led for her own father the day after his death by suicide. “It was the last gift we both gave to each other,” Charlotte says of the beautiful and honest stories offered at the funeral home that day.

Describing the two ceremonies she created for her two beloved fathers, Charlotte says, “They were two different feelings – one done immediately, the other eight years later. But just as much was love shared with both. Each was truly a reflection of who they were and how they were remembered.”


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What do you think? Is there a loved one you've lost - person or pet - whose memory you'd like to celebrate?

They say a house remodel is right up there with death and taxes as a major life stressor. Here's how we hit the reset button after our house had come to feel like a place to avoid rather than our home sweet home.

First let me say that we recognize any complaints about the trauma of home remodeling as a distinctly first world, upper-middle class problem. We know we're amazingly lucky to have a home to complain about, much less the extra cash to fix it up.

That said, nobody enjoys having a fine coat of oily black soot covering every surface of their home (the result of a poorly contained chimney demo). Or cats who express their distress over the situation by boycotting their litter pans.

Things started out great. We found a contractor who was excited by our vision of tearing down the wall between kitchen and living room, who was fun to have around as I worked from my home office.

But as these things often go, the honeymoon with our contractor soon came to an end and devolved into a soap opera – and not the kind you want to watch. The worse it got, the more the cats peed all over. It reached the point where none of us wanted to be in the house.

Which was a shame. Because the remodel truly transformed our space. We loved so many things about it: the colors, the lighting, the vast expanse of counter space, the new ways we could cook and socialize. But it was hard to feel the love. The aftertaste of the daily drama was too strong in our mouths.

And so we planned a ritual to cleanse our new space. We chose July 4th, declaring it our Independence from Grudges Day.

A friend joined us, bringing a battered cast iron skillet, a bag of Epsom salts, and some rubbing alcohol. Apparently burning the salts changes the chemistry of the air in the house.

We began in the kitchen with a guided meditation. Our friend asked us to visualize a fine mesh cloth beneath the ground under our house, stretched from one edge of our property to the other. He had us envision the mesh rising up, catching in it all the impurities, grudges, and bad energies in the house, forming a bundle and floating off to a place they could be safely released. We did this twice.

Then we wrote on slips of paper those things we needed to let go of, focusing on acceptance of imperfection, release of what is past and cannot be changed, forgiveness. We burned the papers in the skillet.

And then we lit the salts for purification, parading (carefully) throughout the house, to every corner that had been contaminated with the mess and misery of the remodel.

We ended back in our beautiful new kitchen where we affirmed everything we loved about it. Then we sat down for a feast of thanksgiving.


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How have you transformed the energy of your living or work spaces? I'd love to hear your stories.

How do you support a young woman who is preparing to give birth to a baby she won’t raise as her own?

Friends came to me as they prepared to welcome a baby through an open adoption. They wanted to do something for the birth mother - their niece - to honor her pregnancy and support her impending childbirth while making space for the sorrow around giving up her child.

A contemporary baby shower with its silly games and consumer-fest of tiny outfits and parenting gear clearly wasn’t called for. What were the alternatives?

Blessing Way ceremonies were becoming popular but we were loathe to appropriate this sacred Navajo religious rite. So we started by trying to clarify our intentions: What were we trying to accomplish with this ceremony? Why was this important…to the birth mother, the adoptive mothers, the larger family? What kind of experience did we hope the birth mother would have?  What did she need to carry her through the physical and emotional labors ahead? How could we as her community express our support, our love, our pride in her, along with our concern?

We gathered ideas from the internet and other sources, but - most importantly - we talked to the birth mother about what appealed to her. Ultimately, we incorporated a variety of elements. 

We pampered her, hiring a henna tattoo artist to adorn her as we wove a garland for her hair from flowers each of us had brought, and created a necklace of beads, one from each of us. We listened to her: she spoke to each participant in turn about her hopes and her needs. We pledged our connection to her, symbolized by looping red strings around our wrists, tying us all together, then cutting the links at the end of the ceremony, leaving individual bracelets to be worn until her childbirth was finished. We each left with a candle to light when we learned that her labor had begun.

Perhaps the most significant element was the circle of women who attended. She chose her mother, her step-grandmother (the mother of one of the adoptive moms), the birthfather's mother, the two adoptive mothers, and two of their closest friends (who would be the baby's aunties).

Together, we aligned ourselves with women who throughout time and every culture have gathered to support their sisters and daughters through childbirth - and we made sure that Caroline's place in this lineage was fully honored.