There must be something strangely sacred about salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.Kahlil Gibran

Those of us who’ve suffered one or more devastating losses often describe grief as being like the ocean with pain and longing breaking over us in waves. At times, the sadness is overwhelming, and we feel as though we’re drowning. But over time, we learn to float, to keep our head above water. We begin to recognize when the big waves are coming and become better able to deal with them. Although we never escape the sadness, we learn to navigate the waters of grief and move forward into the life we create in the wake of our loss.

a panoramic photo of Pismo Beach at sunset

During my darkest days, I found that the wisdom and experience of other grievers helped me to re-enter the world. They showed me that life after the death of a beloved was possible, that I could begin to see beauty, find grace and feel hope, even joy. They helped me realize that love was all around me, and all I had to do was lean in.

At Salt Water, our community can help you find your equilibrium and begin to heal after an unbearable loss. As Barbara Kingsolver put it so beautifully in High Tide in Tucson:

What a stroke of luck. What a singular brute feat of outrageous fortune: to be born into citizenship in the animal kingdom. We love and we lose, go back to the start and do it right over again. For every heavy forebrain solemnly cataloguing the facts of a harsh landscape, there’s a rush of intuition behind it crying out: High tide! Time to move out into the glorious debris. Time to take this life for what it is.

We invite you to become part of our community. Share your story, ask a question, make a comment. We’d love to hear from you.

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Where I’m From

I am from homemade orange ginger marmalade and strong black coffee. From whole-never-nonfat milk, butter not Blue Bonnet margarine, cheddar not Kraft and whole wheat bread when my friends all ate Wonder. 

Layers of puzzles. The top layer is light turquoise. Some of the pieces are missing so you can see down to the layers below

The Pieces That Remain

I’m sitting here in my younger son’s dining room, catching up on some time and attendance entries from the past week, that I put off ‘til it was almost too late, by the light of the full-size Christmas tree and the toddler-sized tree beside it.

Jimmy is in the ocean wearing swim trunks. His arms are outstretched, reaching to catch a football.

Let It Rain Down

You can’t stop time. You can’t capture light. You can only turn your face up and let it rain down. The Memory Keeper’s Daughter

Mountain with snow in the background reflecting in the pool of water in the foreground. There are trees on both sides of the mountain.

This Earth-World, That Promised Eternity

Two places of beauty separated by a thin veil, pressed closely, one against the other, as two bubbles floating in the air …

Blue violet winter sky with stars in it. Two trees appear in dark silhouette in front.

The Sweetness Of Starlight

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars. Og Mandino

Navigating Grief at Christmas

In June 2020 my dad died, and I was thrown into a world that felt so upside down and unfamiliar. The first year was a year of firsts, father’s day weeks after his death shortly followed by his birthday, my parents wedding anniversary my birthday and then of course Christmas and New Year.

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