Rosemary Raven Hearth

I don’t know about you, but lately I feel like the whole world is vibrating—just beneath the surface. Buzzing with uncertainty, grief, outrage, and exhaustion. Everything feels too loud and too fragile. Too much, and not enough, all at once.

There are days I wake up feeling like I’ve lost the thread. Like I’m carrying stories and emotions that don’t quite belong to me, but I can’t seem to put them down either. Maybe you’ve felt it too—that ache in the background, a bone-deep sense that something is shifting, ending, or beginning. Or all three.

If we were together right now, I’d invite you to sit with me on a porch swing. Nothing fancy. Just a quiet place to land for a moment. Two cups of something warm, a breeze rustling the leaves, and the kind of conversation that starts in the heart and rolls out slow and soft, like honey.

And then I’d ask if I could tell you about my recent trip to Norway.

It wasn’t a sightseeing vacation—it was something deeper. A kind of return. I stayed on the land where my great-great-great-grandparents raised their first children, where my great-great-grandfather was born, and where generations of my family once lived and died. I didn’t stay in hotels or hover around tourist stops. I lived with locals.

I hiked trails where trees stood tall and moss clung to the bark—soft and deep green. I couldn’t resist running my fingers across it, like touching a memory. I was taught which plants and berries were safe to eat and which to leave alone. I bought pastries from a small city bakery and shared meals with people who didn’t treat life like a performance—but more like a rhythm they’d grown into.

The people weren’t in a rush to impress. There was no sense of entitlement, no urgency to take up space they hadn’t earned. They were warm when approached, helpful when needed, but never loud about it. What I noticed most was their self-awareness—a quiet knowing that each person is here to walk their own path, and that’s enough. No one seemed preoccupied with being seen. And yet, they were entirely present.

That energy—the quiet, rooted, respectful presence—stayed with me.

And in a world that so often feels like it’s shouting, burning, unraveling… that kind of steadiness feels sacred. Especially when we’re talking about something as tender and personal as death.

That’s part of why I continue hosting Death Cafés.

They’re not support groups or counseling sessions. They’re simply open conversations—spaces where people gather to talk honestly about death, dying, grief, and everything in between. There’s no agenda. No pressure to have the “right” words. Just a shared space for wondering out loud.

Starting in August, we’ll be gathering monthly at the Northside Library here in Des Moines—a space that feels grounded, accessible, and just right for these kinds of conversations. And we’re currently looking for a second location to host first Tuesday evening gatherings each month as well—somewhere cozy, welcoming, and open to the magic of honest dialogue. If you know of a place like that, I’d love to hear about it.

And if you’ve never been to a Death Café, but something about this is tugging at you, consider this your invitation. Come with your questions, your quiet fears, your sacred stories. Or come and just listen. You don’t have to be anything other than exactly where you are.

With everything happening in the world, and with Pride Month reminding us how vital it is to live as our full selves, I’ve been thinking a lot about how we die as our full selves too. How we honor our identities and our truths—not just in life, but in our endings.

No one should ever need permission to live—or die—with personal authenticity. Whether your truth is bold or quiet, messy or clear, queer or questioning—it’s yours. And it deserves to be honored, witnessed, and remembered.

To die queer, to die curious, to die remembered—that’s holy.

So if you’re feeling unmoored, uncertain, or just needing a place to say the quiet things out loud, you’re not alone. You’re welcome here.

Let’s swing between the worlds together. No map needed. Just breath, story, presence—and maybe a mug of something warm between us.

With love from the porch,
Erika
Rosemary Raven Hearth