Month: March 2026

While on a hike many years ago with my sister, Susan, she stopped on the trail, looked up at a magpie, and paid it a compliment. Then she continued on as if nothing strange had just happened. I asked her what she had just done, and she explained.
“When you see a magpie, you have to give it a compliment, or you’ll have bad luck. I learned it when I lived in Montreal.”
I didn’t remember seeing magpies where I lived in Kansas City, but maybe I hadn’t been looking. I lean into superstition and won’t walk under a ladder, turn around if a black cat crosses my path, and pay attention on Friday the 13th. I made a mental note to add complimenting magpies to my list to spare myself from bad luck.

“YOU are working out! And it shows!”
“You look especially nice this morning.”
“Love the black and white, as always.”

And so on. It has now become my habit as well.

When I first moved to Boulder, I went for a walk at Wonderland Lake with Emery. She was anxious to show me some of her favorite spots, and it was halfway between us, making it a perfect spot to meet for walks. She was eight months pregnant with her second, and we had 2-year-old, Arlo, along, so we didn’t go far or fast. We walked on a path next to a small lake to a playground for Arlo, with the beautiful backdrop of mountains framing our view. It’s a moment I remember well, as it was the first nature walk I did in Boulder, and it was with Emery. It’s a place I have returned to countless times since. While we were walking at the pace of a curious 2-year-old, who stopped to pick up small treasures along the way, I complimented a magpie that flew overhead. I told the bird it was looking good, then continued walking. Emery stopped, shook her head, and asked me what I was doing, and I told her. She didn’t seem as curious or touched by the endearing gesture as I had been. When it happened again, and I complimented another pretty black-and-white bird, Emery said, “You just moved here, Mom. Walks like this one are a good place to meet people, but the whole talking-to-birds thing… well…it’s not going to help you, Mom, and it’s kind of embarrassing.” It’s hard to be reprimanded by your child, but I knew she was right, and I gave her a pass for being tired and eight months pregnant. I made the next compliment silently, in my head, because according to Susan, that’s a viable option.

Several years later, Emery and I found a window of time to go on a nearby hike. I was in a hiking group that met several times a week, so I knew the local trails well. My magpie complimenting continued, albeit quietly, and I had forgotten about the day Emery told me in so many words that my behavior was embarrassing. But that day, to my surprise, it looked like she had changed her position. She stopped on the trail and complimented a magpie on how well he wore black and white. I looked at her and couldn’t help but laugh.
“I kind of like it, Mom. It feels like a nice thing to do, and if it keeps bad luck away, even better.”

We had come full circle. When your child makes the realization that something you’re doing that they originally made fun of now makes sense to them, it’s a feeling of triumph and success as a parent. I thought about Emery with her friends or family on a trail, complimenting a magpie and then explaining to whomever she is with, that her mom taught her that, and her aunt Susan taught her mom. I tucked that parenting gem aside and hadn’t thought about it until recently. I was at the same lake, walking the same trail, only this time it was a few days after the one-year anniversary of Emery’s death. I hadn’t been to that trail in over a year, or any trail in the Boulder area for that matter. My hiking had been whittled down to 20 or 30-minute walks around my neighborhood, and even that, on some days, is a push. I had been to my favorite bakery just down the street from the parking lot at Wonderland Lake, and I instinctively pulled into the lot without a second thought. It felt like where I was supposed to be that day. I started walking towards the lake. It was mid-afternoon on a weekday, and the trail was quiet.

There are many spots in Boulder that have become emotional triggers because they are places where Emery and I shared experiences, and Wonderland Lake, I realized that afternoon, was no exception. The memory of Emery and me with 2-year-old Arlo hit me, and I paused to take it in and let the tears flow. I remembered the late afternoon weather, the reflections of the mountains on the lake, and how uncomfortable Emery was at eight months pregnant. Being reconnected with moments I had with Emery is both difficult and heartwarming. It brings Emery close to me, but it also stirs up emotions and tears, often at times and places where I’d rather not be seen sobbing, but I’m getting used to it because it is my life these days.

After a moment of sobbing on the empty trail, I started walking again and was startled by the sound of birds ahead. I walked closer to the sound and was surprised and delighted to see it a tree FILLED with magpies, or a mischief or a charm, as they are called in groups. Not only was I at the same lake where Emery had learned about the magpie superstition, but I was at the same spot on the path where it had happened. And now, a year after Emery died, I was encountering the magpies again, but this time a tree full of them, and not just the usual single.

I have since learned that magpies are usually found solo, and that is where the complimenting came from as it is assumed they lost their mate and could use the kind words. Magpies in a group, however, symbolize good luck and a belief that they are sacred messengers from the other side. That day, in the exact same spot as on my first walk around the lake with Emery, seeing the mischief of magpies gave me chills. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a gift from her, sent with a wink and a smile. And yes, I complimented them, albeit as a group rather than individually. I remembered her embarrassment at my gesture that day, thinking it could lessen my chances of meeting people in a town where I knew no one, then several months later, seeing her do the same thing. The sun was behind a cloud, illuminating the sky behind the tree, giving it a spotlight effect. I stood in front of that tree for a long time, letting myself take it in, crying and smiling at the same time. Emery’s presence in her absence, today, with a bit of humor.

As I made my way back to my car, it seemed the magpies were doing the same as they followed me, moving en masse from one tree to another, in the same direction I was walking. They were following me, and having them near felt comforting.

I met with an intuitive in the early days after Emery’s death, who was suggested to me. I felt compelled to try to understand what was beyond my grasp after her death, and thought I could find answers with her. My time with her was profound, and she told me things that only Emery and I knew, legitimizing her for me.

One thing she told me that felt so relevant was that when I see birds that made me think of her, I should know she is not the bird, but sent the bird or birds. I had to laugh because it sounded like Emery, and I could almost hear the inflection of her voice and see her raised brows and coy grin. I looked up at the tree and gave the squeaking mob of magpies a compliment on their timing, along with how good they looked in black and white, and thanked Emery for sending them.

This time, my darling girl, you would not have been embarrassed.

I’ve often told my grown children that there came a time when they became the teacher, and I became the student. The change in roles was an unexpected gift, and although the lessons weren’t always obvious in the moment, in time, I’d understand their significance. Through their actions and words, they modeled for me a different way to interact with the world.

In Emery’s early days of kindergarten, I’d ask her who she played with at recess. That was a question I knew she’d be excited to answer, because in her early school years, Emery was there for the social aspect and little else. I would get a detailed list of her friends that day; most of them I knew, and several who had been to our house to play. One day, when I asked, she told me she didn’t know the girl’s name because she forgot to ask.
“Was she in your class?”
“No, and I don’t know what grade she is in, but no one else was playing with her. She was sitting by herself.”

I didn’t know who she was talking about, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Emery would seek out the one no one else was playing with. I was touched by my daughter’s compassion. Would I have done the same at her age? That gave me pause.

I didn’t know who she was talking about, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Emery would seek out the one no one else was playing with. I was touched by my daughter’s compassion. Would I have done the same at her age? That gave me pause.

When my children were in elementary school, every day on our short ride home, I’d ask them to tell me one thing they’d learned that day. Their unanimous responses of “nothing” made my daily questions seem pointless. I changed my wording. “Tell me one good thing that happened today.” Again, mumbles of “I don’t know,” or the usual, “nothing.” The day I asked if anyone had thrown up, my question was met with enthusiasm and stories. That lasted for a few days. I gave up, and one day, at dinner, without any thought or strategy, I asked them to tell me their favorite part of the day. Not what they learned, not one good thing, not who threw up, but their favorite part of the day. And they started talking. My son, Thomas, is still talking about it every night at his dinner table when he and his family share both their rose of the day and the thorn.

A few years ago, when I was babysitting my grandchildren, Arlo and Muna, who were 4 and 6 at the time, I was reading to Arlo before tucking him in and asked him the question I had asked his Mama so many times at the dinner table. “What was your favorite thing that happened today, Arlo?” He looked up at me, somewhat confused, as if I should already know the answer. “It’s right now, Laudie. My favorite thing today is now, and you reading Frog and Toad to me.” My grandchildren are teaching me how to be present, and that is where I can find them, because that is where they live. It is what has helped them in their grief of losing their Mama because their brains don’t have the complex reasoning at their age that would have them looking into their future, without their Mama, as I do. They have no preconceived notions of how things should be, and that has become their greatest protector. They are quietly showing me the way without realizing it

Recently, on one of my many trips to Portland to see my son, Thomas, and his family, I had another grandchild moment that gave me pause. I had just finished some work on my computer, and my three-year-old granddaughter, Ozma, saw my screensaver. It is a photo of me with Emery, Thomas, and Grant on a beach in Santa Barbara. She studied the photo, deep in thought, then asked, “Is that Aunt Emery when she used to be alive? When she didn’t used to be dead?”

I was caught off guard by her honesty. “Yes, that is Aunt Emery when she used to be alive.” She nodded her small blonde head and said, “I thought so.” And that was that. Out of the mouths of babes, words that were pure and honest and spoke the truth that many adults struggle with. The wisdom, honesty, and awe of children continually amaze me. I’m listening more. I’m paying attention. I’m noticing the memories that come up, and I’m letting them have a seat and get comfortable.

I’ve written a lot about the signs Emery has given me since she died; moments that have opened me up to other signs that the universe is giving me through grief. I’m recalling stories that have landed with purpose. I’m living in the moment.

Recently, I was going through a trunk filled with notebooks and stacks of typed essays, letters, stories, and poems. Sandwiched between two of the journals was a small stack of 3×5 cards that were rubber-banded together. When I read the top card, I knew what they were. My first Thanksgiving after I divorced, I hosted the family for dinner, including Charlie, who would legally no longer be my husband the following month. I gave everyone a blank card and told them to write down what they were thankful for. From my hostess spot at the head of the table, I read them one by one before we ate. My family, because they couldn’t see the handwriting, then tried to guess who had written each card, a bonus I hadn’t planned on. As I made my way through the stack of cards with words of gratitude for being together, for being invited, for good health, and for a recent Kansas City Chiefs win, I stopped on the one with large, childlike printing. I knew who wrote it as I recognized the handwriting. I am thankful for being alive. Emery found gratitude in what most of us take for granted. Not a new pair of shoes (although my girl loved shoes), or an invite to a sleepover, but to be alive. Emery was a mature 14-year-old when she wrote those words. I read the card over and over, as if I didn’t understand what the six words meant. The timing of the discovery was not lost on me. That small yellow card held my world. I propped it up on my desk, wedging it between a wooden box my grandmother used to keep her paint brushes in and a piece of rose quartz. It hasn’t always been easy to be grateful for being alive this past year, and now I have her reminder.

Someone recently told me that I’m still here, even on the most difficult days, because I’m not done yet. I liked that. It held purpose. My miracle of life, as I write so often from the fetal position, is that I continue to wake up every morning with the quiet agreement to fight, even on days when I don’t want to. I try to find the joy, the connections, and the sparkles in what has become the mire. I try to remember the words on Emery’s card. I am thankful for being alive.