After the Lightning: On Grief and the Slow Work of Becoming
By Gretchen Martens, Retreat House Covenant Partner
Wild Spirituality Co-Organizer and Wild Guide | Author, Teacher, and Soul Doula
© 2026 Gretchen Martens
(Assateague National Seashore, Sentinels)
Life, or more aptly my mother, had once again wounded me in ways that mothers are not meant to wound their daughters. The harshness of that January day insisted that I walk the land with grief as my invisible yet potent companion. An icy wind nipped at my unprotected cheeks and fine participles of sand chafed my skin—as if the elements themselves understood how exposed my heart felt. The cold stung my eyes, causing them to water—or perhaps they were tears masquerading as my body’s reflexive response to protect itself, helping me release some small part of a grief that felt too vast to bear?
Salty sea air coated my lips, evoking an ancient memory of life’s origins in the primordial ocean four billion years ago. This ancient remembrance always comforts me, that we carry humanity in our marrow, that we belong to something older than our current pain. There is strength in knowing your ancestors walk with you. A habit from girlhood, I pocketed seashells, broken and eroded by the tides. Even in their jaggedness, there was beauty in the shimmering palette of sea-kissed colors and the profusion of textures. Was the ocean inviting me to reflect on the beauty and poignancy of my own recent fracturing? Not to romanticize the pain of rupture—but to trust that fragmentation, too, belongs to the sacred process of becoming?
As much as I enjoyed the solitude of walking miles of deserted beaches, I felt the call of a hidden forest, shielded from view behind the dunes. Dunes and scrub forest grew denser, until the land suddenly revealed her own woundedness. Months earlier, lightning struck and fire ravaged the forest. Wax myrtle and saltbush had reclaimed the barren soil, but loblolly pines stood lifeless—grey, bark-bare ghosts against the winter sky. The forest felt like a mirror.
The forest reminded me that life turns in cycles of birth and death. Fire does not disrupt the forest’s life cycle; it is essential to becoming and the creation of life itself. Fire clears litter from the forest floor, reducing competition from oaks and maples. Fire enriches the soil, creating fertile seedbeds ready for germination after seed fall. Fire thins the tree canopy so sunlight can nurture new growth. Destruction inevitably becomes preparation.
I did not yet know how to metabolize my recent relational death, but something in me recognized a truth—my story was not over. What felt like devastation was also purification. What felt like loss was an illumination of places long held in shadows. What felt like vulnerability was in fact homecoming, reclaiming parts of my Sovereign Self.
Assateague National Seashore is one of my sacred places, and I returned four years later, seeking solace and wisdom in a new season of grief. The tranquility of miles of empty winter beaches, with their invitation to deep reflection, was disrupted by summer’s abundance. Families staked their claim to the land, if temporarily, with umbrellas and coolers. Children shrieked with delight. Bluetooth speakers pulsed. I did not begrudge these fellow travelers their joy—but I had come seeking quiet counsel and comfort from the land.
The heat was oppressive, approaching 110 degrees. The ocean breeze made the heat tolerable, but beyond the dunes it was close to unbearable. I trudged inland, searching for the wounded forest I remembered so clearly, the one that mirrored my Soul, curious about its renewal. Had I lost my way?
The cry of a gull caught my attention and I looked up. Above the verdant canopy, those same grey sentinels stood in silent witness over a forest reborn, proof of the symbiosis in ruin and renewal, catastrophe and renaissance.
In a universal language beyond words, the forest invited me to reimagine this chapter of my life—where rebirth is inevitable, where destruction is revision, requiring only patience after lightning strikes. The wheel of life, like the cycles of the seasons, turns, decisive and inescapable—whether we consent or not. The duality of breaking and mending gifts us with a poignant journey of becoming where we live into a future that brings us closer to our most precious, authentic expression of Self.
The forest did not promise me an end to wounding, for life lived robustly entails suffering. She did not promise reconciliation. She promised only this—the journey of becoming continues. The Sovereign Self, ancient and resilient, waits beneath the ash—like a seedling, ready to reclaim her light.
Invitations for Reflection
Naming the Lightning: Where in your life has lightning struck? What part of you felt most exposed in that moment? What story did you begin telling yourself about that wound?
Surviving the Fire: What in your life feels scorched or stripped bare right now? What might be quietly preparing itself beneath the surface? Are you pushing regeneration, or trusting the process as it emerges?
The Ancientness in Your Marrow: When have you felt connected to something older and more rooted than your current pain? What does your Sovereign Self know that your wounded Self forgets? If you trusted your resilience as much as the forest trusts fire, how would you move differently?
Storywork Alchemy: What story have you been telling your Self and others about this season of your life? Is that story fixed—or still unfolding? Even if you feel shattered, how might this moment be shaping your becoming?
How are you celebrating love?
Make it stand out
Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
In this month celebrating love, I wonder how you are celebrating love? You might consider writing on one of these invitations to love:
Where there is love, there is life. - Mahatma Ghandhi
Love isn’t love till you give it away. - Oscar Hammerstein
Love is the bridge between you and everything. - Rumi
Love one another as I have loved you. - Jesus
You might reflect on the image above.
We hope you might share your thoughts in the comment section below.
Note: Please honor the original writings of our community as you would honor published writings. If you want to share, please seek permission.
Into the "more" with Karen Hoffman
Make it stand out
Karen Hoffman’s treasure chest nestled in the Artist Within room at Retreat House Spirituality Center during a recent Morning Altars workshop she led for our community. Karen is a Retreat House partner, board member, writer, retreat leader and program curator for RH. Learn more of her journey below or listen to our Podcast Tending Space to Bear Spiritual Fruit episode 11 where we catch up with Karen!
Karen Hoffman made a pact with her youngest son several years ago - they would not worry. Even in the midst of health challenges, bills and the regular and (sometimes irregular) twists and turns of life, they were committed not to worry.
Instead?
They were going to wonder.
“Songwriter Rebecca Folsom wrote a song called Wonder in 2016 — it’s main question: Why worry when you can wonder?” Karen shares. “For almost eight years now, my son and I have been cultivating a practice of wonder. Phrases like I wonder if the hail will do something to my car feels much better than I’m worried the hail will do something to my car. This replacement phrase has genuinely improved the lens in which I view my life.”
Words carry essence, she says. They matter.
Wondering invites us to see beyond the perceived problem and into the more.
Unfolding journey of wonder
As an interspiritual retreat and workshop leader, Karen didn’t always work in this space. For much of her 30s and 40s, she served as a nursing home administrator during the years her three boys were growing up. Her desire to connect others to resources combined with her compassionate spirit made her a natural fit for this role. However, as her needs began to shift, she recalls a day her heart began to wonder some.
“I had responsibility for 700 seniors at one point. I felt like I was taking home the burdens of 700 grandparents, and I couldn’t let go.”
— Karen Hoffman
After taking a breath (or a few) and refocusing, Karen began working for nearby Jewish community Temple Emanu-El in Dallas where she served in various leadership and support capacities for 15 years.
Then the pandemic hit. And she began to get curious again.
“In 2020, I began to notice the loneliness and social pressures people were experiencing,” Karen says. “Right after I turned 60 and soon after the pandemic hit, it was the right time for me to leave Temple. This wasn’t me retiring. This was me re-wiring.”
She had loved all of her roles - wife, mother, daughter, non-profit administrator, and she also realized she had spent hours channeling into others and not herself. This noticing was really the start of her spiritual journey taking on deeper meaning she says. As she began to go inward, she noticed a desire and passion for others to do the same.
Freedom to discover
During her time of re-wiring, Karen gave herself room.
Space. Freedom to discover.
In 2021, she founded Living on Purpose, a cornerstone for connecting others with resources to facilitate personal growth with intention and attention, all through a lens of resilience and gratitude.
“I have developed a passion for inviting and teaching folks to slow down,” Karen says. “Slowing down is so critical to learning to thrive. I have read what our Surgeon General said about loneliness in our country, and I so see the need for sharing in community.”
Through interfaith retreats and workshops, occasional 1:1 sessions and Words that Matter - a series of card decks encouraging positive affirmations for various life seasons as well as her newest tool in her toolkit Morning Altars, Karen creates room and space for those she companions to discover the wonder, the true Self and the Divine within so that they might have a deeper understanding of the beauty available to them in this thing we all call life!
Karen hosting a Morning Altars workshop at Retreat House. This healing modality is a 7-step practice and invitation to nourish your spirit through nature, art and ritual.
Wander and Wonder
In today’s overly virtual landscape, what if art could awaken our imagination, our awe, our nuanced eye and love of the mystery of our earth. What if we approached our day with wonder instead of worry?
Retreat House friend and partner Karen Hoffman is doing just this through her regular practice of Morning Altars* a 7- step invitation to go outside and meet with God.
*Accompanying photo to the left: Altar created by RH Partner Wendy Hebicht during Karen’s workshop at Retreat House.
Listen to RH Podcast Episode 11 to hear from Karen and learn how you can particpate
Hope in the Falling Snow
By Gretchen Martens
Snow falls peacefully
On a wounded world
The visionary who has lost her dream
The love with the broken heart
The child whose innocence shattered
Snow falls gently on a jagged world
Hard edges smoothed into soft curves
The solace of Gaea’s bosom
Nurturing her dispirited progeny
Snow falls radiantly
Under a full moon
Stillness so deep you can hear your own heart beat
Over the staccato whisper of hard frozen snow
Restoring wonder to the disillusioned
Snow falls reassuringly
Like the murmur of a lullaby
Gaea embracing the world in her arms
Compassion evaporating pain and fear
Tenderly renewing hope
Snow falls bracingly
Inspiring the faith of humanity
And the visionary dares to imagine
And the lover dares to love
And the child dares to trust
Hope in the Falling Snow was written by House of Book Editor Gretchen Martens and originally published in House of Hope.