It has been nearly 13 years since our son Brian died as a result of a line of duty accident in his role as a paramedic captain. Over the years I have made some peace with his death. I can truly say he did more in his 33 years to live the passion of his profession than most people do in a lifetime.  And still, the ache of a mother always resides just below the surface.

I, and other family and friends, remember Brian in a wide assortment of ways. This fall has held a surprising convergence of memories, ceremonies, and acknowledgments of the fine work our beloved son did for Denver Health paramedics.

Every Day

A few weeks after Brian died, I took his captain emblem into our local jeweler, told him Brian’s story and asked if he could create a pocket token for me to carry. And every day since the jeweler created it, I have carried that talisman, talking to Brian as I slip it into a secure pocket. Every day is an easy commitment. Being a mom is, after all, a forever assignment.

A Tattoo

My extended family held a reunion in Colorado this June. (see my June blog: https://annlinnea.com/summer-family-reunion-circle/). We miss Brian in these settings, he ALWAYS attended family gatherings.  So, it came as no surprise to daughter Sally, Christina, and me, sitting around an outdoor fire ring at YMCA Camp of the Rockies, to have a raven swoop low over us sounding its ethereal croak. Ever since his November 2013 death, each of us has had uncanny experiences of a raven showing up to signal spiritual presence.

We teared up and acknowledged this “Brian moment.” Then Sally turned to me and asked, “Would you ever consider getting a raven tattoo with me?”

Pausing for quite some time, I said, “Well I did not think I would ever be drawn to have a tattoo, but this is a spiritual question and, yes, I would do this with you.” What journeys our kids take us on! They work to hold the values of our generation and invite us into the values of theirs.

We set about finding the right LA tattoo parlor near Sally’s home and a raven image that worked for us. During my recent visit, we handed our tattoo artists the watercolor drawing our friend Kelly Anderson had given me several years ago.

My annual solo camping trip

I have taken an annual solo camping trip every year since Brian’s death to scatter ashes and to spend time journal writing and in ceremony. This year the journey was also a celebration of my recovery from hip surgery in December 2025.

Deer Park campground in the Olympic National Park (5,400 feet) is located up an 8.5 mile narrow, steep dirt road. It is a first-come-first-served campground with only 14 remote sites. Feeling lucky, I set up camp and took a short hike above the campground to Blue Mountain (6,000 feet). On one side of the ridge the Strait of Juan de Fuca stretched out below me across to Vancouver Island and out to the Pacific Ocean. On the other side of the ridge the Olympic mountains spread out at eye level before me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the second day, fog swirled all around camp, limiting visibility to sometimes no more than 100 feet.  There would be no hiking off trail on this day, no getting lost. Setting off on the Deer Ridge Trail with my pack and safety gear, I left a message under a rock on the picnic table at my site.

I was hoping to find an old growth Douglas fir tree just below treeline—an elder to guard Brian’s ashes. After about an hour, I found exactly the tree I was hoping for and set up a simple altar for my ceremony.

By first light, day three, the temperature was 42 degrees F.(5.5 degrees C.), the wind was blowing, and the rain was coming across the valley. I had worked hard to plan and prepare for this trip. But autumn is a changeable month in the high country, and I heard the voice of my paramedic son urging me to take care of myself.  I had pushed my edges and remained safe. Brian’s ashes were scattered in yet another wild place. The spiritual aspects of camping had been accomplished, so I took down my camp and came home.

Brian Schimpf Memorial Scholarship

After Brian’s death, friends and family established the Brian Schimpf Memorial Scholarship to assist paramedic students enrolling in the Denver Health Paramedic School where Brian taught part-time in addition to his paramedic duties. Knowing the challenges to get traditional financial aid, we established this scholarship to help those with the greatest financial burden.

Since the beginning of this program, we have supported 35 students totaling $89,000. The Brian Schimpf Memorial Scholarship is now a single $3,000 award paid directly to the school account of the winning students who must submit a 500-word essay and their current W-2 forms for consideration. Awards are given three times/year for each of the 6-month, the 9-month, and the year-long training programs. Brian’s father and I, a paramedic friend, and one of Brian’s lifelong friends read the applications and decide the award.

The scholarship application letter is sent to students who have been accepted into the paramedic school: “Brian Schimpf was a respected and proud paramedic for the Denver Health Paramedic division. He embodied the true spirit and passion of a paramedic in both his skill for providing the best care to his patients and in his dedication to training the future generations of EMS workers. Brian was gravely injured while responding to a call in Grand County in 2012 and after a valiant battle and multiple surgeries passed away from complications following a surgery in 2013. After his passing, family and friends came together hoping to honor and keep his spirit and passion for EMS alive through a scholarship to help paramedic students at the beginning of their journey.”

This year the Denver Health Foundation which houses the scholarship approached us and acknowledged the success of the program. “We even have students inquiring about the scholarship before the announcement about its availability goes out to accepted students,” they wrote. They asked if we would be a part of endowing the scholarship in perpetuity. We are in dialogue with them to see if this can happen and insure that the scholarship continues beyond both his aging mother and father’s ability to carry it on.

November 23

Every year on the anniversary of Brian’s death, Christina and I spend the day in nature to write in our journals, scatter more of Brian’s ashes and share reflections, and of course, to have a good meal out. Brian loved his food!

Losses are part of life. And these losses impact us in many ways. Dear-Readers-Who-Also-Have-Lost-a-Beloved, what rituals, ceremonies, or honoring do you keep? We are each on powerful and personal journeys, yet, not alone in our grief. I would love to hear some reflections from you.

Forty of us, ages two to 80, met at YMCA Camp of the Rockies near Estes Park, CO in mid-June. Elevation 8,750 feet. Scenery backdrop: a near 360-degree view of the Rocky Mountains. For three days we enjoyed all that Snow Mountain Ranch had to offer—whitewater rafting, aerial ropes course, horseback riding, hiking, miniature golf and lots more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On our third night my three sisters and I and our children and grandchildren and all spouses gathered in a circle inside around an artificial campfire. (Red flag warnings precluded a real fire.) After days of activities, the group was bonded and happily reacquainted. (The last time we had gathered was 2021 to honor our mother/ grandmother, Astrid, with a Covid-delayed memorial). To create the center for our circle, everyone lined up by age and then oldest to youngest placed one shoe in the middle in a spiral emphasizing that we are all following in one another’s footsteps.

2026 is the year of the 100^th anniversary of my parents’ birth. The focus of the circle was to collect stories about “Astie” and/or “Bumpa” that we recorded for family lineage. People knew about the story gathering  ahead of time. Some had carefully thought out their contributions; others were spontaneous. And some, especially the youngers who never met their great-grandparents (who died in 2013 and 2020 ) were listeners.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My family is accustomed to using circle to gather and share stories. So, only a brief amount of structure needed to be spoken: Be brief; the person with the little earth ball speaks; the rest of us listen. Some stories were funny—our dad, Bumpa, was a larger than life character with a very strong personality. Our mother, Astie, knew how to get things done with the softest of approaches.

I shared the story of helping my civil engineer father dig out dahlia bulbs from our yard every fall so they would not freeze in the bitter Minnesota winters. And then he and I replanted the bulbs in late spring. To this day I grow dahlias in my garden in honor of Bumpa who showed his creative side in his beautiful gardens—he gave his plants what they needed then expected them to behave, just as he did his entire engineering staff at George Hormel & Co., and his four daughters.

The story I shared about Astie was how she used her incredible piano playing ability to build community. After Dad died, when Mom was 87, she left her hometown and moved into an assisted living near our sister Kathy a hundred miles north. As soon as Mom sat down to play piano in the lobby by the dining hall, people lingered and requested songs so they could sing along. She quickly made friends.

As the little earth ball went around the circle, there were many stories about fishing with “Bumpa” at the “Ranch”—a Colorado guest ranch our family visited every summer for 50 years. The tradition of gathering in Colorado is deeply imprinted in my family.

Stories shared about “Astie” ranged from spending time hiking along Canyon Creek, loving her cooking, and sitting with her on the porch admiring the vastness of the canyon mountains and their beauty. Both my parents cherished time in nature and passed that appreciation onto each of their four daughters and we in turn have passed it to our children and grandchildren.

It took an hour for the little ball to travel around the circle of 40 descendants—just long enough for good stories, but not so long that fidgeting overcame us. We closed the circle singing “Happy Birthday” and retired for cupcakes, casual conversations, and a magnificent sunset.

Our whole four-day gathering was wonderful, heartfelt fun. We did not talk about religion or politics. Instead, we focused on what we all have in common—love for each other, love of our families, and love for the beauty of the natural world.

As my niece, Kyle, said in the circle, “Values are not taught, they are caught.” I invite all of us to find ways to connect with family members—a little email text about something you have or had in common, like maybe sports and the World Cup soccer matches; or sending a recipe you have preserved from your family to someone who likes to cook; or  sending a link to a fun puppy video. The world could really use some re-knitting—and it can only happen one stitch at a time.

 

He was 10. We were 65 and 68. We were on a 12-day spring break camping trip to honor our grandson’s double-digit birthday: 4 states, 3 national parks, one national monument, and 2 state parks.

 

 

 

We picked trail names for ourselves the day we walked Zion National Park’s Virgin River wearing drysuits and booties to get through some of the deeper holes in the snow melt river. He became Captain Rock. His Nina became Major Boulder. And I took on the title of Lieutenant Dipper—after the amazing little water birds we saw on this hike.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a remarkable trip for all three of us and included highlights like helping Jaden earn his junior ranger badge at Grand Canyon National Park, learning to put up and take down the big tent, taking hikes with our dog Gracie (who Jaden named Scout), making campfires and studying the stars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Returning to Joshua Tree

The final stop on that 2015 trip was Joshua Tree National Park. Eleven years later during spring break we returned to Joshua Tree with Jaden’s entire family: Christina and I, daughter Sally, son-in-law, Joe, and Jaden now 21 and Sasha now 15.  No camping this time. Sally found an Air BnB close to the park.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We arrived during an unusual March heat spell with afternoon temperatures rising to 95 degrees F. (35 degrees C.). Conferring over dinner, our little family decided to hike Arch Rock Nature Trail.

Joshua Tree is a vast wilderness park in southern California where the Mojave and Colorado desert ecosystems meet. It is known for its Dr. Seuss-like Joshua Trees (Yucca brevifolia). There are warning signs everywhere about the potential for sudden and extreme changes of weather—from flash floods to snow to thunder and lightning storms to heat.

A different outdoor adventure

We chose the Arch Rock Nature Trail from the Short Walks listing offered by the park (1.4 miles, 100 feet elevation gain), because it offered the promise of some interesting features like boulder hopping and climbing and did not seem too lengthy considering the heat forecast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s hard to get a family of young people going early in the morning. We managed to arrive at the trailhead at 10 a.m. finding one last spot in the parking lot. (Apparently most people believed park warnings about starting your hike before 9 a.m. in hot weather.) This is a section of the park that contains numerous granite rocks known for their course texture and beautiful array of shapes and sizes.  Both amateur boulder hoppers and professional boulderers  are drawn to the area. There were dozens of spring break families like ours with children of all ages walking along the relatively flat, sandy desert path through Joshua trees, creosote bushes, and prickly pear.

Once we entered the area of multi sized boulders, there were a maze of trails leading to the arch—all of which required stepping up and over or between boulders. Jaden and Sasha were off and scrambling. Sally and Joe stayed close to us and provided some much-needed “hand hoists”. Whether through observation of his father and mother’s helpfulness or his own innate kind nature, after a time Jaden started being the one to extend his strong hand to hoist his grannies up at different places along the trail.

 

A new rite of passage for the grannies

 Eleven years ago, on his rite of passage camping trip Jaden was  4’ 8 inches tall and weighed about 80 pounds. Then we were teaching him how to make a fire, to find his way and be steady on trails, and helping him up and over river boulders. Now he is 5’10 inches tall and 160 pounds strong. We needed his help as we climbed up and over and around huge abrasive boulders. We have aged (Nina is now an octogenarian) and I have had five surgeries—knee, toe, back, wrist and hip. We three still need each other, but now in different ways. Our service to Jaden away at college is primarily as witness and listening ear. His service to us on this trip was as physical guardian.

The baton of support between us has changed and morphed, as it should over time. But the baton can only be passed when there is awareness from both sides and a willingness to step into new relationship. We had to acknowledge the need for help, and he needed to recognize that help was needed.

I probably could title this blog: Passing the Baton, Part I

Christina and I will find ourselves in this kind of role reversal more and more in the years to come with our little family. Sasha actually stepped forward on this trip and shared an important nutrition video from her health class that was educational to all three of us. Sally did all the driving and played a major decision-making role in activity choices. Joe was breakfast cook and ever present as helper and organizer. May we be gracious and willing to ask for help. And may our grandchildren and children continue their growth as strong, helpful human beings.

Both Christina and I no longer have living parents. We were very much involved in receiving the batons of responsibility (along with our siblings) from our parents. Both roles— the receiver and giver of responsibility— are critical to the smooth functioning of the ongoing march of generations.

“Smooth functioning” does not seem to be happening much in the world these days. Being gracious in our own little corners of the world in both receiving and passing the baton of responsibility, IS an important piece of activism. That thought brings me comfort and hopefulness in these times.

It is winter in the north country. Much of the plant and animal world is slowed down to the level of hibernation and dormancy—in survival mode. To survive our challenging political times let us remember the importance of rest and being refilled.

Ceremony invites a pause

In this early time in February the northern hemisphere is moving from the winter solstice to the spring equinox. (Our southern hemisphere friends are, of course, that much closer to the fall equinox and harvest.)

We usually have an outdoor fire to stop and take notice of this time, but this year because I am still recovering from hip surgery and get stiff in the cold, we  gathered around the indoor wood stove with candles, drums, and poems. We began by drumming gratitude for the earth which sustains us in all we do and all we need. Then we offered prayers for humans all over the globe who are suffering from oppression, hunger, and pain. As a Minnesota native, I continue to be in regular contact with family and friends living there so much of our prayer energy focused on the brave people of Minnesota for their courageous resistance to the brutal attacks by ICE agents on their community.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spending time outside to feel the earth

Whether we are 8 or 80, spending actual time outdoors walking, playing, gardening, watching birds or just sitting enlivens and opens our physical bodies to the wisdom we all carry within.

• If you are in the far north and hearty, walk on the snow or ice, sled down a nearby hill, feel the crisp cold on your cheeks. How are the wild animals you cherish surviving in these times? The plants? Do you feed the birds? How often? What species do you notice?
• If you are in a moderate climate like my own, go to your garden or yard or a park and be amazed at how much activity there is—heather blooming, insects beginning to “wake up”, humming birds zipping around feeders. If you are a dog owner, pay attention to what they are sniffing and noticing on your walks. Have the cottontails begun to move around? How does rain or mist feel on your face?

• If you live in a southern climate, be appreciative of a relief from hot temperatures and notice how plants are marking the movement from full blossom into harvest time. Have you seen migrating birds? What plants are beginning to bloom near the end of summer? What plants have already completed their cycle?

We are mostly human centric in the dailyness of our lives. And we don’t necessarily need to go outdoors to heighten that connection.

The arts connect us to the natural world

Artists, poets, writers, singers and photographers help bring our beleaguered hearts into open connection with the profound, healing beauty of the natural world.

• There are many master nature writers that call us into story or information that reminds us that we are as much a part of the natural world as we are the human created world: Terry Tempest Williams, Aldo Leopold, Rachel Carson, Merlin Sheldrake, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Sy Montgomery, David George Haskell, and Suzanne Simard to name a few. I highly recommend this new book: All Creation Waits, The Advent Mystery of New Beginningsby Gayle Boss with marvelous illustrations by Sharon Spitz.

• And the poets, oh, the poets! They pull us into such deep connection with the natural world. Mary Oliver is a master nature poet of our times. Any number of her titles can open our hearts to Nature: “Invitation” from her book Red Bird; “When I am Among Trees” from her book Thirst; “Mushrooms” from American Primitive ;and “First Snow” also from American Primitive.
• I don’t draw or doodle much, but I remember a time decades ago coming indoors about this time of the year after making a northern Minnesota snowman with my children, Brian, age 9, and Sally, age 6. We pulled off our considerable snow gear and brought out paints and crayons and attempted to move our outdoor creation indoors onto the page. My outstanding memory from that session was Brian saying, “Mom, that is a really good picture!” Not sure my artwork has been appreciated before or since but drawing with children can be very empowering!

• 

  Christina is our sunset photographer, even creating an annual calendar of sunsets

• Music opens the whole body, the whole soul. When I am feeling happiest outdoors, I burst into song. In a very different approach to protesting the abuses of ICE right now, people have joined “singing resistance” choirs. They are practicing in churches and community centers and often travel to places where ICE agents are staying or working to appeal to the humanity that resides inside all of us.

Friends, these are trying times. Let us do our best to fill our souls with joy and beauty and radiate that out into a world desperately in need of both.

I close with this poem from a newly published book of poetry and photographs by my friend, Katharine Weinman—Skyborne Insight, Homemade Love. (Blog: www.awabisabilife.ca Website: www.katharineweinmann.com
Email: panache@interbaun.com) It touches my heart deeply to see how exquisitely she honors an old tree in this poem that speaks to her the truths of aging.

Where a Poem Resides

With a fleeting first glance,

I walked past you standing along the path,

instead giving more attention to my footing

and my morning conversation.

But something about your

weathered features struck me. I knew

I needed to see more of you.

So, I turned around.

Retraced my steps.

Approached you, reverently.

Raised my camera ready.

And at that moment,

the sun shone through the clouds,

and through your whole and broken branches,

giving me light enough to take you in.

To appreciate the gnarled beauty of your trunk

and your mottled bark skin, life force rallying

in your autumn leaves’ amber glory.

And at that moment,

I knew a truth of yours and mine.

That inside both of us is where a poem resides.

A poem that speaks to aging and how it takes us

to the edge. Makes us less visible, and eventually

barely there.

That despite our hard-won strength

and wizened beauty, our steadfast presence

through life’s seasons and storms, soon will come

the one that fells us. Breaks our limbs. Pulls us

from the ground of our being. Then falling

to the earth, or buried within,

we’ll become the compost for new life.

Our death our new beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lights add so much to this dark time of the year in the northern hemisphere.  November’s lingering foliage on birch and willow has been mostly blown off the trees by December’s storms. The prevailing colors of our landscape here are gray/green/brown. People in the Pacific Northwest talk about the arrival of The Big Dark. Our daylength is less than eight hours long. And if you count the general gloominess of the prevailing weather, it can seem like we are living in unrelenting shadow.

We seek the light. Inside are candles and twinkling light strings adorning plants and corners, decorated trees, lamps set to glowing, and fires in the hearth. Outside holiday lights outline houses, doorways, driveways, landscaping. I like to think that all this attention to small and beautiful lights inspires me and the people around me to tend to the small and beautiful gestures that light our way through winter shadows. A kind stranger opens the post office door for me, a neighbor brings over a baked treat, or one of my sisters calls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

People helping people in challenging times

And this year, we not only have The Big Dark, but we are also experiencing record breaking flooding all over western Washington—The Great Flood. In the midst of natural disaster,  stories of mutual aid rise as fast as river waters: neighbors help neighbors, rescue workers risk their lives for strangers, people sandbag homes and businesses located in 100-year flood plains, farm animals arrive at the county fairgrounds, and in an amazing few hours, an animal shelter found foster homes for 120 cats and dogs. The goodness of human beings helping one another in challenging times shines incredible light into dark moments. What’s happening here—and so many places in the world is that “first responders” are ordinary folks stepping into the needs that show up. When we change our day for our community, we mend the larger picture of what’s going wrong to what’s going right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Connect to the more than just human world

I have also been gratified to hear radio and television reports that include Nature in the scope of disaster. How the Chinook salmon eggs in all our rivers where the run just completed are being destroyed by raging currents, how trees are being swept downstream, how Puget Sound is being muddied and afloat with logs and toxic debris. Nature cannot move out of the way of its own forces. There is no shelter from its own storms.

Never underestimate the importance of appreciation. Whether you live in a snowy environment or you are in the far south, take time to step outside. What plants or animals do you see? One of the first things I hear outside this time of the year are hundreds of robins singing their happy chirpy songs as they feed on the beautiful red/orange berries of the evergreen madrone trees. Abundance of robins. Abundance of berries. There is abundance of food and life outside my window even if at superficial glance it seems dreary and even lifeless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tend to something outdoors—a hummingbird or seed or suet feeder, even a weather station. Or make daily observations of something out your window—a given time of the day watching your bird bath for squirrel or bird activity. Appreciation and observation are important gifts to the world even, if they are not verbal.

My invitation to you if you are feeling overwhelmed and discouraged by today’s news cycles is to step outside yourself and find a way to light up the world around you—literally a candle or the extension of kindness—whether it is your partner, your pet, your neighbor, your local clerk, your healthcare worker or your wildlife. It certainly will make YOU feel better.