• Dana Sayre

Penny from Heaven

A few days after my mom passed, Aunt Chris asked me if I ever heard about "a penny from heaven". She explained to me that a penny from heaven was a sign from the spirit. A wink. She shared stories about finding pennies in unexpected places after losing loved ones. Even after the day Mom passed, a random, shiny new penny greeted her as she was about to step on the plane to return home to Florida. "Thank you Lauren," she says looking up to the sky. A comfort when we can no longer talk. She's ok.



I cry when she tells me these stories. The signs are a gift.


My Mother gave me a deer ornament for Christmas. One of her final gifts. The day after she passed, I was cleaning her room and looked out the window to see one single deer. I smiled and cried. I had asked her to let me know when she arrived safely. I love you Mom.


Monday, Kate and I had A Space For Kate organization gig. When we got home to unpack the car, I reached for my purse and 4 pennies spilled out. My heart... I think she is sending one to each of her children (and Rob).


Last night I lay in bed trying so hard to sleep. I'm tired but my mind is wide awake. I feel twitchy. I get out of bed and transfer to the family room couch. Three cats pow-wow around me. Soft purrs are a comfort. It rains and thunders. My anxiety builds. I start to think about decorating and how to combine all of our things (with Mom's things). I think about the guest room closet. My uncle is coming for a visit soon, where will I put Mom's clothes? My mind drifts back to the final day. A dark place. I was reading her eyes. I think about the moment she's gone and the weight of despair. It's unimaginable. You haven't even been gone for a second and I am devastated. Come back. I wail. I cry like I have never cried before. Something animalistic and unfamiliar, even to me.


Last night, all of these things and thoughts came crashing in - and I lost it.

Rob held me tight, encouraging me to let it out. It feels like I might combust. It's a panic attack from grief. It comes in waves. One minute I am fine and the next I am paralyzed.



I go to my dentist appointment today with puffy eyes and a lump in my throat. My hygenist, Bobby is sweet and understanding. She doesn't ask me to talk much and seems to understand my level of grief.


My yoga family jumps in offering words of comfort. I sub out my yoga class (something I hate to do but I know I need a day). I love you all.


I am reminded that I can fall apart.


I choose to write it all down. I choose to stay in pajamas and lick my wounds. It's ok to hibernate in this healing. It's ok (today) to stay in the hole.


Love and peace,

Dana Sayre

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