Spiritual Tending for Mortals: Attending to Death, Dying, and Loss

Attending to Death, Dying, and Loss

How we meet death shapes how we live. Death is a certainty of human life, yet many cultures treat it as unspeakable. Those facing their mortality often find themselves isolated, and those grieving may be pressured to move on too quickly. As spiritual companions, we are called to hold space for the realities of death, dying, and loss and support seekers in finding meaning within their spiritual traditions.

This post offers a practical framework for accompanying people through three key experiences: grappling with mortality, preparing for death, and navigating bereavement. Ritual, tradition, and compassionate presence can help people move through these profound transitions.

Photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons, Photo User HORIZON

Grappling with Mortality

Some seekers arrive in spiritual companionship when they begin to face their mortality—through aging, illness, or an awareness of life’s fragility. These conversations can bring deep existential questions:

What is my life’s meaning? What happens after I die? How do I prepare?

Try These Ways to Support Seekers

• Inviting open, spiritually grounded conversation: Many have never spoken openly about death. Acknowledging fears, hopes, and uncertainties can be profoundly freeing. Whether they frame mortality through reincarnation, heaven, ancestral connection, or mystery, companions can help seekers explore their beliefs with depth and clarity.
• Encouraging life review: Reflecting on one’s journey, values, and relationships can bring peace. Practices like storytelling, letter-writing, or compiling a spiritual autobiography can be meaningful. This can lead to the question posed by the poet Mary Oliver: “What do you wish to do with your one precious life?”

Many seekers will also ask, “Where is the Divine in this?” ...especially as they encounter suffering, fear, or grief. This is a question to hold with great care. A companion does not need to provide an answer but can gently explore this longing, inviting the seeker’s own wisdom and experience to emerge.

Preparing for Death: Accompanying Those Nearing the End

Spiritual companionship brings sacred presence. The focus shifts from seeking answers to finding comfort, closure, and connection. Often, the companion’s role also extends to those close to the dying person—offering guidance and support to loved ones.

Ways to Accompany Someone Nearing Death

• Attuning to their needs: Some may wish to reflect on their lives; others may simply want quiet companionship. Compassionate presence is key.
• Engaging in ritual: Ritual can provide grounding and peace. This may include reciting prayers, offering blessings, or drawing from the seeker’s tradition—such as a Wiccan passing ritual, Christian last rites, or Tibetan Buddhist death meditations.
• Supporting goodbyes:  Helping a person express final words to loved ones or engage in symbolic acts (like passing on meaningful objects) can bring resolution.

Ring Theory by Susan Silk, Illustration by Wes Bausmith/LA Times

Bereavement: Anticipatory Loss and Coping with Grief

Grief often begins before a loved one has died, and it does not follow a predictable course. Companions can support people from anticipatory grief through the long journey of loss.

Key Ways to Accompany the Bereaved:

• Breaking the taboo of grief: Many feel pressure to “move on” or grieve a certain way. Companions affirm that grief is not a problem to be solved but a process to be honored. Consider attending a Death Café or facilitating similar discussions in your community.
• Holding space for mourning rituals: Sitting Shiva, ancestor altars, lighting candles, and writing letters to the deceased are just a few ways different traditions support the grieving. Exploring or creating personalized rituals can help seekers find solace.
• Encouraging self-compassion: Grief is unpredictable; waves of sorrow, moments of peace, and unexpected emotions are all natural. Companions can affirm that whatever arises is part of the process.

Complicated Grief: Sudden Death, Child Loss, and Other Deep Wounds

Some losses carry a unique weight: losing a child, experiencing a sudden or violent death, or enduring a miscarriage or stillbirth. These kinds of grief can be especially complex, bringing profound sorrow, anger, guilt, or shock.

In Rochester, NY, nurses created a gentle ritual for families grieving infant loss, offering time, touch, and keepsakes to honor the child’s life.

When offering such rituals, consent is essential. Not every grieving person will want to engage in these practices, and no one should be pressured. The role of a spiritual companion is to offer, not impose—to listen deeply and respond with care to the needs of the seeker.

Additionally, some seekers may come to you because they themselves are struggling with wanting to die, or because they love someone who is suicidal or who has chosen to die. These are tender and difficult realities that require deep presence and often professional collaboration. I address them more fully in another post [https://abeltaine.blogspot.com/2025/05/traveling-with-despair-consent.html].

Addressing Misunderstandings

There’s no “right” way to grieve. People often feel pressured to grieve quickly or loudly or in a particular way. Companions affirm that every grief journey is unique, and there is no timeline for healing.

“The Stages of Grief are not Stages”, art by Beth Erlander

Self-Care for Spiritual Companions

Companioning others through death and grief is sacred work, but it can also be emotionally taxing. To sustain this work, have your own companion, seek supervision, honor your limits. Consent works both ways. If a conversation is too emotionally heavy, it’s okay to pause or refer the seeker to additional support.

Final Thoughts

Spiritual companions play a vital role in making space for death, dying, and grief by breaking silence, offering ritual, attending to the presence of the sacred, and honoring each person’s unique journey. By showing up with care and presence, we help seekers navigate one of life’s greatest transitions with dignity and meaning. Attending to death is an act of deep love for life itself.

You are whole, holy, and worthy.

Rev. Amy

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Further Reading & Resources

• Death Café – A global movement normalizing conversations about death.
• The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller – A deep dive into grief and ritual.
• The Five Invitations by Frank Ostaseski – Lessons from a Buddhist hospice pioneer.
• It’s OK That You’re Not OK by Megan Devine – A compassionate guide for grievers.
• National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization – Hospice resources and end-of-life planning.

How have you witnessed or participated in meaningful end-of-life rituals? I invite you to share reflections in the comments.

This Heart of Spiritual Direction series is ©2025 Amy Beltaine, all rights reserved. You may freely reprint any blog post, website, or print resource. Simply include the following attribution, and if you print online, make the link at the end live:

Article ©2025 Amy Beltaine, all rights reserved. Reprinted with permission. This article and hundreds of others, along with other free resources are available at http://www.AmyBeltaine.info

Ancestral River: Guided Meditation on a Lineage of Care

Guided Meditation: Held in the Lineage of Care

For the reader: Speak slowly, with warmth and steadiness. Pause between paragraphs. Let your voice feel like a safe, protective presence. Approximately 12-15 minutes. (Allow spaciousness during the breaks.)

Image created by Hawthorne Post with the assistance of ChatGPT

Settling into Presence

Everything offered in this grounding is an invitation. Please engage in whatever way feels right to you. You are the sacred steward of your own experience.

Let's begin by arriving. Not in some imagined place of strength, but right here, with whatever this moment brings.

Take three slow breaths. (Pause for breaths)

Notice the places where your body meets support: perhaps the floor beneath your feet, your chair, the air touching your skin.

If tuning into your body isn't accessible today, you might bring awareness to your surroundings—the quality of light, sounds around you, or a presence that feels safe or sacred.

Begin with simply being… present.

Present with the now.
Present with the person that you are.

There's nowhere you need to be but here.
Nothing you need to fix or become.

Here. Now.

With this skin.
These bones.
This heart.

Let yourself arrive more fully.

The Journey Back

And now, with gentleness... let your awareness travel back through time.
Back to when you were small.
Perhaps to a moment of being held—
or simply to the knowledge that someone, somewhere, cared enough for you to be here now.

It might be a memory—or just something imagined.
Perhaps a time when you were held in someone's arms.
In a loving way.

Let yourself rest there for a moment.

Now remember: there were people who survived.
Long enough to create you.

Their lives were stories.
Their lives reached back through the years.
A connected line… from you, back through those who nurtured you, or brought you into being.

Let yourself follow that line—like watching a film moving backward through time.
Each frame: a person who was once a child.
Each child: held in loving arms.

All the way back to when those people—those ancestors or caregivers—were children themselves.

Just pick one.
That person was a baby once.
That person was held with care—in someone's arms.

And the person who held them…
Maybe it was a grandparent.
Maybe someone else.
But someone who survived, who cared enough, to hold that child.

Go back farther.
Feel the links.
The connections.
Each child, once held by someone who cared enough to bring them forward.

Back through grandparents and great-grandparents…
Or nurturers and their nurturers.

As you go back, notice how the world changes.

You may sense shifts in landscape... in climate... in the rhythm of daily life.
Different hands.
Different lullabies.
The same human need for connection.

You may find yourself moving through time and across place—
Back through North America…
Across the sea…
Through the European, African, Asian continents…
And back farther still…

A long line of people, each one holding a child.

Let the movie move faster if it wants.
All the way back…

To the African continent.
To deep time.

Each person, surviving.
Each one caring enough to hold an infant in their arms.

The Return Journey

Now let the movie slow.
Be with this one small child, held in the arms of an ancestor.

And now… begin to move forward again.
Noticing each person's story.
Their strength.
Their mistakes.
Their courage.
Their complexity.

Strength flowing through time.
Flowing from ancestor to ancestor.
From nurturer to nurturer.
From arm to arm, from heart to heart…

All the way forward… to you.

Feel that love.
Feel that determination.
Feel the fullness of those stories.

You can breathe with them.

Choosing What to Carry

And you can choose:
What do you want to hold onto?
What might you set aside, for another time?

As all this strength flows toward you...
Notice what feels nourishing.
What feels true.

Some gifts you can receive fully.
Others you might acknowledge with respect, then set down.

You are not required to carry everything.
You get to choose.

What wisdom wants to come forward with you? (Longer pause)

What can rest here, honored but released? (Longer pause)

What arrives as a gift?
What stirs your curiosity or wonder?

What meets a boundary—you can acknowledge it, and let it stay behind.

Now choose one or two things…
That you want to carry with you, just for today.

Returning Home

And then… gently, gently return.
To your skin.
Your bones.
Your breath.
Your heart.

Perhaps place a hand on your heart.
Feeling yourself—this person, in this time—
Connected to all who came before, yet wholly yourself.

You.

Here.
Now.

If there's anything you'd like to write down or share, you are welcome to.

The Garden of Accountability and Grace on First Harvest

The Garden of Accountability and Grace

We gather at the turning of the season—Lughnasadh, Lammas, the First Harvest marked the beginning of August. A festival of ripening, reaping, and reckoning. The days are still sunny. Boy howdy, the sun is still warming us! But the days are noticeably shortening. The fields are full, and the shadows are lengthening.

This is the beginning of the end of summer. And it's also a beginning of its own.

First Harvest invites us to pause. To honor what we have grown—what has grown in us. To ask: What did I sow? What am I harvesting from that? And perhaps more tenderly: What didn't grow? What seeds failed? What plantings began and then did not bear fruit? What needs to be composted?

We usually think of harvest as celebration time. But it's also accountability time.

Harvest and accountability say no to punishment, no to perfectionism, but yes to presence. 

They say yes to what is.

Accountability asks us to face the truth—face the truth of our impact, not just our intent. We check the field. Not the seed packet, not the planting plan, but the actual soil, the actual field, the actual fruit. What came up? What didn't? What failed to thrive?

Fresh picked tomatos on a bed of lettuce. Pixabay CC0

A Story

I want to share a story.

Several years ago, I was part of a community organization I believed in deeply. I showed up with good intentions, with energy, with training, with ideas. I thought I was helping. My vision was so sure. I had a plan.

But over time, I began to hear feedback—gentle at first, and then more direct—that my way of showing up was taking up too much space, was hurting certain individuals, was not working with the culture of that particular group. That I wasn't listening as well as I thought I was. I was trying to push a river that did not want to be pushed.

And I got defensive. I wanted to explain myself. I mean, I was right. But accountability isn't about defending our intentions—it's about listening to our impact.

I remembered a bus driver I knew. He would enforce traffic laws with his bus. He was right... but that was really dangerous. Someone could end up dead.

So I paused. I stepped back. I asked myself: What am I harvesting here? And the answer wasn't growth for the organization, it wasn't increased accountability for the board, it wasn't even improved relationships. In fact, I was poisoning the fields with my vision and approach.

I knew I needed to leave. I grieved, I grieved hard. And I was embarrassed. And I was angry. I mean, remember? I was right.

And I grew. I don't know if the organization improved its processes or became more accountable to its membership, but I was no longer flinging myself against a wall.

Turns out, being right isn't enough. I needed to change.

This experience taught me what Rev. Angel Kyodo Williams means when she writes: "Without inner change, there can be no outer change. Without collective change, no change matters."

Accountability is the inner change. It's the willingness to look at the garden honestly. To name what thrived—and what didn't.

Bus on Road, Columbus OH. Photo by Chris F. CC0

Where Grace Shows Up

And here's the thing: Accountability all on its own can feel heavy. It can feel exhausting, it can feel accusatory. It can feel like standing in the field and only noticing the withered crops, wondering where you went wrong.

So that's where grace needs to show up.

Grace isn't an escape hatch. It isn't a get-out-of-jail-free card. It's not letting ourselves off the hook. Grace is what makes staying accountable possible.

Grace is being the soft animal that is our body. Grace is being human. Grace is the peace of knowing what is and still loving yourself. Grace is compost. It takes what's decaying and makes that holy.

bell hooks reminds us: "Forgiveness is an act of love for the self and for others, and it opens up possibilities for grace."

Grace doesn't erase our accountability. It makes the transformation possible. With grace, you can take the withered stalks, the unsprouted seeds, the insect-eaten fruits, and you can plow them back into the soil and renew the garden's resilience.

Grace says: You are still worthy. You are still growing. You can try again.

Mustard Greens in Fall Garden. Photo by Eileen Kane, licensed as CC2.0

Holding Both

At first harvest, we hold both. In fact, here in Portugal, this time of first harvest is the time to plant for the next harvest. We get a do-over.

We grieve, and we celebrate. We mourn the crops that didn't make it. We tend to the ones that did. We name what we are proud of. We name what we regret.

We glean, we gather what's left at the margins—what might have been overlooked. We honor the imperfect abundance.

Remember that the garden is not just ours—it's shared. And so is the work of tending it. It's all of our garden.

Accountability and Grace in These Times

These questions of accountability and grace—they're not just for our personal gardens. They're for the public square too.

How do I stay accountable to myself, my loved ones, my neighbors—knowing that my neighbors include unhoused people, trans people, people of color, people whose very existence is under threat right now? Accountability here means checking my impact, not just my intent. It means asking: Am I showing up in ways that actually help, or am I just making myself feel better? Am I listening to the people most affected, or am I imposing my own vision of what help should look like?

And grace—how do I offer grace to folks who are lacking empathy or lacking comprehension of the harms being done in these times? Accountability is saying, "When you know better, you can do better." Grace is saying, "I will not condemn you for not knowing better." But grace doesn't mean being naive. It doesn't mean having no boundaries. I can believe someone is whole, holy, and worthy, and still choose not to talk with them. Grace can be protecting my energy for the work that matters. Grace can be saying "I see your humanity" without saying "and therefore I'll accept your harm."

How do we offer grace to ourselves so that we DO try again when we fail? Because we will fail. We'll say the wrong thing, miss the important thing, show up imperfectly. Grace says: You're still worthy. You're still growing. You can try again. And the world needs you to try again.

August Sunflowers. CC0 licensed photo by Mary Jane Duford from the WordPress Photo Directory.

An Invitation

So I invite you to reflect: What have you learned this year about accountability? Where are you being invited to extend grace—to yourself, to someone else? What does your harvest look like, really? What are you called to do with it?

How are you being called to tend the shared garden of our communities, our democracy, our world?

Blessing

We grieve the promises we could not keep. We grieve the seeds that didn't rise, the grace we withheld from others, from ourselves. We grieve what we hoarded and what we lost.

And still, the barley is there, bending golden in the field. Still the sun warms us. Still the earth says: Try again.

May you be honest about what grew. May you be gentle with what didn't. May your hands stay open—to give, to grieve, to gather. And may your heart learn the alchemy of grace.

May the 4th Be With You: Rising Together Against Empire

Every May 4th, fans across the galaxy celebrate Star Wars — but this isn't just about lightsabers and epic space battles. At its core, Star Wars is a story about resistance. It’s about ordinary beings choosing to rise up against a brutal Empire, refusing to let fear, apathy, or despair win. Today, let's remember the spiritual heart of the Rebellion — and what it can teach us in our own time.

Let us celebrate the message within Star Wars — a saga not only of battles and planets, but of people who commit to doing what’s right when the outcome is uncertain. These stories are filled with reminders that even in the bleakest moments, we are still called to the work: to resist empire, to protect what we love, and to hold fast to one another.

✨ “Rebellions are built on hope.” – Jyn Erso, Rogue One

But they are not, are they? They are built on relationship, commitment, love, perseverence. The film "Rogue One" was entirely about a group doing what needed to be done, knowing they were almost guaranteed not to survive. Rebellions are not just built on strategy or numbers. They’re built on people who show up, who choose integrity when it costs them something, who continue even when they can’t see how things will end. The Rebellion holds because people refuse to quit — not because they’re sure they’ll win, but because they know who they are.

🌀 “The Force will be with you, always.” – Obi-Wan Kenobi, (Original Series)

This isn’t about magical power. It’s about trust. About being connected to something deeper — call it Spirit, or Source, or just the sacredness of life. Even in exile, even in ruin, the Force is with those who align themselves with justice and compassion.

💥 “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.” – Chirrut Îmwe, Rogue One

Chirrut did not actually wield the force. He believed that all were connected through the force. A breath, a chant, a commitment. When the world feels too much, we return to this rhythm. We are not alone. Our actions matter. Even if we fall, the work continues — and we are part of something greater than ourselves.

🛡 “It’s not about fighting what we hate. It’s about saving what we love.” – Rose Tico, Last Jedi

When exhaustion and despair creep in, we remember: we aren’t just resisting. We’re protecting. We’re tending to what matters — the earth, each other, future generations. The Rebellion isn’t just opposition. It’s care, courage, and love-in-action.

🔥 "We have everything we need." – General Leia Organa, The Last Jedi

Empires rely on fear, silence, and division. But the people — when we remember our strength, when we organize, when we hold fast to our values — are more powerful than any Death Star.

General Leia Organa

So today, on May the 4th, may the Force be with you.

Not as a promise of victory, but as a companion in the long work of compassion, disruption, and repair. We are not called to be heroes — only to be faithful to the work. Whether you're a healer, a dreamer, a fighter, or a farmer: the path of resistance is yours to walk.

This is how we endure.
This is how we belong.
This is how we rise.

May the 4th be with you. And with us all.

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

When the World is on Fire: Why Spiritual Care Still Matters

Not everyone has to be a fire fighter to put out a fire. Some of us have to be water carriers.

When authoritarianism rises, when rights are stripped away, when the fabric of society frays—what is the point of tending to small things? What is the point of spiritual care when fascism gains ground?

The answer is simple, but not easy: the work of spiritual care still matters. In fact, it matters more.

Naming the Tensions

In a moment like this, we’re pulled in many directions.

• Panic: Drop everything. Scream. Mobilize.
• Grief: Lie down and cry. Lose faith in what we do.
• Numbness: Pretend it’s not happening. Keep busy. Keep scrolling.
• Determination: Carry on with work and routines as if nothing has changed.

And for those of us whose work centers around care, spirit, healing, and justice, there’s an added tension:

How do I do this work now? Is it selfish to keep tending to my practice, to my livelihood, to my own healing while the world is burning?

Burning dumpster at George Floyd protests in Washington DC, Lafayette Square by Rosa Pineda CC4.0

Yes, Your Work Still Matters

I want to say this clearly: spiritual care is not a luxury. It is not optional. It is not secondary to “real” resistance.

Spiritual care is part of resistance.

The practices we offer—presence, reflection, discernment, connection, grief-holding, joy-tending—these are what keep people human in the face of dehumanization. These are what make the difference between despair and determination, between burnout and resilience.

If you’re a caregiver, a healer, a spiritual companion, your work is part of the resistance. You are offering people a lifeline. You are helping them find their ground when the world is shaking.

Personal Crisis in Public Crisis

And what if your personal life is also unraveling? What if you’re navigating divorce, illness, poverty, grief?

Well, of course that is happening. Life is still “life-ing.”. That’s not a disqualification. That’s part of the truth.

Your heartbreak does not make your care less valuable. It may, in fact, deepen it.

Your questions about what to keep, what to let go, and what to rebuild—those are holy questions.

There’s no shame in regrouping. There’s no shame in starting over. There is no shame in needing care and offering it. We are in this together, and none of us is immune to the ache of these times.

So How Do We Go On?

• Gently. With ourselves. With one another. With the work.
• Imperfectly. Trusting that “enough” is still sacred.
• Creatively. Letting old models go if needed, experimenting with what still resonates.
• With discernment. Listening for what’s real, what’s needed, what’s yours to hold.

Try This

1. Set a timer for ten minutes.
2. Ask yourself: What part of my work still feels alive?
3. Write down whatever comes. Don’t judge.
4. Then ask: What needs to rest? What’s worth tending now?

You’re not alone in this.

The work of care—spiritual, emotional, communal—is never easy, and even less so in times of crisis. But it is still ours to do. Not perfectly. Not endlessly. But with presence, with honesty, and with courage. The world may be on fire, and still, we keep lighting candles. Not to deny the dark, but to remember we are not forsaken. Our work remains. We remain. Let’s keep tending the sacred together.

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

The Sacred Fire of Anger

Making Friends with Anger

A reflection for spiritual companions and seekers alike

There is a kind of fire that burns clean.

Too often we are taught to fear anger. To suppress it, silence it, spiritualize it away. We are told that “good” people are calm, measured, forgiving, never furious. Especially those of us socialized to be caretakers—women, queer folks, BIPOC, disabled folks—we are often expected to bear injustice quietly, or at most with polite critique.

But righteous rage is sacred. It is holy energy. It says: this is not okay. It fuels resistance. It fuels change. And it can also fuel care.

Fiery outline of the word LOVE, CC0

When my mom was dying of cancer, I found myself filled with an anger that surprised me. Anger at the disease, at what it was stealing, at the helplessness of it all. But that fire lit something in me. It gave me the energy to speak brave, vulnerable words to her—words I might not have dared if I’d only stayed in grief or numbness. 

Anger gave me the energy to show up for an abused elder, advocating for his safety and doing what needed to be done to remove him from the dangerous situation. That anger didn’t turn violent. It created boundaries. It was fierce love.

Anger doesn’t have to mean harm. In fact, when we repress it, that’s when it turns inwards—into shame, illness, bitterness. But when expressed wisely—at the right time, in the right way—it can open doors to healing and justice.

Woman holding torch with blue background, CC0

Sometimes I curse to myself—mutter sharp words, swear under my breath, or speak with a kind of fire that helps move the energy through me and out. It’s not always pretty, but it’s honest. These words are often born of a need to stay grounded, to give form to my anger so it doesn’t fester unspoken. Anger, after all, is movement—it wants expression, wants release. In those moments, I don’t fear the heat of my words. I let them rise, trusting that even rage can be sacred when it flows rather than festers.

And sometimes I joke that I want to cast a curse. But not a curse meant to cause misfortune or harm. No, the curses I imagine are acts of transformation. A spell like: “May you be filled with compassion.” Or: “May you feel how your words land on someone’s spirit.” Or: “May the next person you try to insult surprise you with their dignity.” These are the kinds of spells I want to send into the world—fierce and clear, rooted in care. They arise from a place where anger meets love, where the commitment to change burns just as hot as the outrage itself.

As spiritual companions, we often sit with those whose anger is tangled up in grief, trauma, or injustice. Our role is not to calm them down. Our role is to hold space for their fire, and help them discern how to use it. Anger might be the very thing that empowers someone to set a boundary, or to leave a toxic system, or to speak truth after a lifetime of silence.

Welcoming fire in stone fireplace, CC0

In a world that is constantly offering reasons to feel powerless—racism, transphobia, climate crisis, war—it is anger that can move us from despair to action. It is anger that interrupts complacency. And it is anger, strangely, that sometimes helps us love better. Because we care that much. Not the kind of love that is about being nice, or even kind, but fierce love—the kind that tells the truth, that shows up, that protects the most vulnerable. The kind of love that makes change.

May we give ourselves, and those we walk with, permission to feel angry.

May we learn to channel that energy into courageous compassion.

And may we honor the sacred fire—not to destroy, but to illuminate the path toward justice and wholeness.

Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

Metta Meditation: Holding the Infant

I'd like to invite you into a Metta practice. Traditionally metta is a Buddhist practice of offering loving kindness. In this practice we will offer loving kindness to someone we love, ourselves, and eventually to someone we are having trouble finding love for. 

I invite you on this loving journey.

CC0

Let's Begin

Find a comfortable seat. Let your spine rise gently, your shoulders soften, and your breath flow naturally. Notice your heartbeat.

Now, bring your arms into a cradling position, as if holding a newborn baby. You might let your hands cup one another, or rest in your lap in a soft curve. Let your body remember what it’s like to hold something small and precious.

Feel the weight of the baby in your arms. Imagine the gentle warmth of their body against yours. Maybe there’s a soft scent—milk, skin, warmth. Their breath, slow and even. Their face, small and trusting.

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1. Someone You Love

Now picture someone you love or care for deeply. Let their image arise naturally.

Imagine them now… as a newborn. A tiny, sleeping infant, resting in your arms.

Look at their little face. Imagine their fingers curling. Maybe they squirm a little, make a sound. Notice how lovable they are.

Breathe in, and offer them lovingkindness:

• May you be safe.

• May you be happy.

• May you be healthy.

• May you live with ease.

Feel the sincerity of the offering. Feel your arms around this beloved one, so small, so worthy of care.

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2. Yourself

Now imagine the infant in your arms becomes you.

You, as a newborn. Soft cheeks. Tiny hands. Fragile. Complete.

Take a moment to look at your own face—your infant face. This is you. You too were once this new, this open to love.

Feel the weight of your infant self in your arms. Your breath mingling. Your warmth surrounding them.

Offer yourself lovingkindness:

• May I be safe.

• May I be happy.

• May I be healthy.

• May I live with ease.

Let it be okay if that feels tender. Or unfamiliar. Notice that you keep breathing, your heart keeps beating.

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3. A Stranger

Now the baby in your arms shifts again. This time, you are holding a stranger—someone you don’t know personally.

Maybe someone you passed on the street. Someone from the news. Someone you barely noticed.

Now see them as a newborn. Their eyes closed. Their body curled up in your arms.

Feel the weight of them. The softness. The warmth. The shared humanity.

Even if you know nothing about them, you know this:
They were once a baby. And they are lovable.

Offer them lovingkindness:

• May you be safe.

• May you be happy.

• May you be healthy.

• May you live with ease.

Let yourself feel the connection, simple and real.

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4. Someone You Struggle With

Now imagine someone you struggle to appreciate. Someone who has hurt you. Or someone who brings up frustration, sadness, or anger.

And now, imagine them as an infant in your arms.

This might feel strange. That’s okay. Just see if it’s possible.

They are very small. They haven’t yet learned what life will teach them. They haven’t yet done what they will do.
They are just a baby, breathing in your arms.

You feel their weight. Their fragility. Their humanness.

And if you are able, gently, offer them lovingkindness:

• May you be safe.

• May you be happy.

• May you be healthy.

• May you live with ease.

You’re not excusing anything. You’re just witnessing their early humanity, their potential, their vulnerability.

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Closing

Now, let all of these infants rest in your awareness—your beloved, yourself, the stranger, and the difficult person.

All once newborns. All lovable. All worthy of care.

Let your cradle arms release gently now. Place your hands over your heart, or let them rest naturally.

Feel yourself expand into heart space. Feel the warmth you’ve cultivated. Notice if there is a shift in your body tension or felt sense of your completeness.

And as you move through the rest of your day, may this tenderness stay close.
A reminder that lovingkindness begins in the arms of compassion—and that we all began this way.

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Beloved, you are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy

Kindness in a Time of Claws

Searching through the Rubble for Kindness

When layoffs were sweeping through my workplace many years ago, I watched people I had thought of as kind and decent become cruel. Colleagues who once smiled in the hallways began hoarding resources, undermining one another, and snapping at anyone they perceived as vulnerable. I was shocked—and to be honest, deeply disillusioned. It was one of my earliest adult encounters with how fear and scarcity can twist people.

I did some reading at the time, trying to understand. The answers were complicated—and they still are.

Image Credit: Bonsales, Shutterstock

I want to believe people are good. Some might call that Pollyanna-ish, especially when we’re surrounded by cruelty, bullying, or indifference. But even if some people lose their way, that doesn’t mean we should stop believing in goodness—or trying to practice it ourselves.

Recent research reveals that in disasters, many people do rise to the occasion. Sociologists studying natural disasters like hurricanes and earthquakes have found that people often show extraordinary generosity and cooperation—what some call catastrophe compassion. When the world collapses around us, many of us build communities rather than barricades.¹

But that’s not the only pattern. When people feel threatened—whether by job loss, cultural change, or political power shifts—they can also behave like trapped animals. They snap at the hands trying to feed them or free them. This isn’t just metaphor. Neuroscience tells us that when we perceive danger, our amygdala (the threat detector) overrides the parts of our brain responsible for empathy, reason, and long-term thinking. We go into survival mode.²

That’s where we find ourselves now. I see this in the MAGA faithful. I see it in those who are drawn to fascist ideologies—even those who would be targeted by such regimes. It’s disheartening. And infuriating. And painful.

But it may also be fear.

That doesn’t excuse hate. It doesn’t mean we don’t set boundaries. But it may mean that kindness—real kindness, the kind that is rooted in strength, courage, and healthy boundaries—has more power than we think. That gentleness is not weakness. That compassion doesn’t mean avoiding the truth, but facing it with dignity.

We can be good even when others are not.

And sometimes, people surprise us. Even those who’ve lashed out in pain may, someday, reach back in peace. I’ve seen it happen. It may not be everyone. But it might be someone.

What about bullies?

Bullying isn’t always about cruelty for its own sake. Psychologists point out that many bullies act out of a need for control, fear of being powerless, or a belief that harshness is the only way to be safe.³ In the same way that political extremism can become a hard shell around fear or shame, bullying can be a survival tactic that outlasts the original threat. But people can grow beyond it. What helps? Real relationships. Accountability. New narratives about who they are and what strength looks like. I’ve seen it happen. People can soften. People can change.

So let’s practice kindness—not just for them, but for ourselves. Let’s find refuge in our own integrity. Let’s be the kind of neighbor we’d want to search for in the rubble.

Try It: Reflecting on Courageous Kindness

• Recall a time when you felt backed into a corner. What helped you not lash out—or helped you return to kindness later?

• Is there someone you’re tempted to write off as “irredeemable”? What do you imagine they’re afraid of? (This doesn’t mean excusing harm, nor putting yourself in harm's way—but it might offer insight.)

• Practice one act of proactive kindness today—especially one that’s a bit uncomfortable. Kindness is easy when you think someone deserves it. Real courage shows up when kindness is not returned.

You might find grounding in this practice:

https://abeltaine.blogspot.com/2025/04/metta-meditation-holding-infant.html

I'd love to receive your responses to this. It is a challenge to balance kindness with boundaries, a passion for justice with compassion. What's working (or not working) for you?

Beloved,

You are whole, holy, and worthy,

Rev. Amy