The path I walk these days is not only dark, but it’s also foggy. I can’t see much, and when I can make something out – it’s usually covered in a looming haze. Maybe a candle is lit along the way or a window opens and the sun shines into my tunnel. Sometimes I can make out the lightness: a gloomy warmth. Sometimes I shield my eyes from the lightness; it’s become comfortable to stay buried in the dark. And occasionally, I see the light – and I allow myself to bask in its warmth.
I am a vastly different woman than I was seven months ago... My head cocks to the side inquisitively as I typed that sentence. ‘Am i? Or am I the same woman?’
It’s more like I am a new version of the same woman I was seven months ago.
Imagine the Self like a glacier: a huge floating chunk of frozen, yet transformable solid. Sometimes, our glacier floats high in the water and other times, very much submerged in darkness. It’s always changing. Our mass floats high, low, or somewhere between, depending on circumstance. But at the center of the glacier, is our source. I truly believe that the core of each human is intrinsically good. Our source is the innocence that we possessed in the womb, and at the same time all the wisdom in our universe and the divine. It is the subtle body's access to Ananda (bliss).
But our glacier is huge and our source is buried deep, deep within. When we are aware, we can sense our source – it feels like a moment of enlightenment. When we start to remove the layers of ourselves, there is a knowing. Our source is far beneath the superficial layers of our day-to-day lives – the schedules, the stressors, the static rush of our society. It’s beneath our core values – our human desire to love and connect. It is even beneath the deeper, challenging components of our being – our fears, our shame, our judgements – the ailments that cloud our core values. Beneath all of our layers, all of our shadow, all of our questions, all of our ignorance, all of our anger, all of our trauma... that is where our source lives: like a shining sun inside of a dark cave.
We spend many lives chipping away at our glacier. Sometimes the chipping feels good – we hit a vein and out bubbles a glittering glimmer of our inner radiance, a hint of what’s beneath. Sometimes the chipping is incredibly painful – we remove a rock and uncover something we have been hiding for a very long time. We are given a choice: put the rock back on and run away, ignore what we see, or study it. Eventually, after going backwards, sideways, or being still – we keep digging. At times, along our individual journeys, we take each choice. Some of us are more comfortable with running, some of us with ignoring, some of us with sitting, and some of us with digging. And we learn the lessons we are supposed to be learning through every one of those choices. They are all right. They might not be the fastest, or the safest, or the healthiest, or the easiest – but they are all right.
We learn lessons when we run away, when then find ourselves further from our goal – alone and lost. We have to begin a trek back along a new path – which uncovers new rocks. We learn lessons when we ignore and numb ourselves – maybe it’s here where we learn about disconnection and loneliness. We learn lessons when we sit – maybe it's here where we learn about self-love and acceptance. And we learn lessons when we keep digging.
When you died, a monstrous chunk of my glacier was fractured and ripped out. I was left on my knees: the wind knocked out of me and heart cracked open, wallowing in a crater of raw wounds.
It has forced me to study all that was upturned and revealed. I have run away. I have hidden. I have numbed. I have sat. And I have dug. All while being encased in darkness and fog. In the deep depression of my glacier lies ugliness – parts of my being that are hard and humbling to face; there lies trauma – which is alarming and unfamiliar; there
lies grief – which is unpredictable and harrowing; but there also lies beauty – which is often disguised. But from within the dark fog, I see bits of bliss bleed from my
source. The knowing is
there.
So yes, I am a new version of the same woman you loved.
And while I have been sitting in darkness and fog for over six months, I have had more moments lately when I see the haze lifting and showing me the landscape – sometimes barren, sometimes lush, often somewhere in between. My wound is beginning to heal in some places. In other places, it’s gaping more than ever. But as I’ve sat in this cavity of my untethered self, I’ve been forced to really look around. In a courageous (because fuck yes, it is!), vulnerable, and confusing way – I’ve questioned many parts of my being. I’ve realized things that I thought were important to me, maybe are not at all. I’ve begun to understand what shapes my reactions and why. I’ve started to be OK with stillness and solitude. I have addressed the darker side of my spirit. I've begun forgive myself. I've noticed the presence of anger and allowed it to vent (even though it's through ways I can't yet control and don't think are pretty). I have felt inspired and not let myself feel guilty or run back into my comfortable cave of gloom. I have recognized ways in which I cause harm to myself and gently decided they aren't serving me for now. I’ve understood a need to actually love myself, rather than offering my love to others and hoping it reflects back to myself. With self-love comes opening up to the possibility of healing – through my own digging and also from teachers I meet along my path.
I know I have come closer to my source; maybe just centimeters in a journey of thousands of miles, but closer still. And I am bound to a knowing that within me is truth and light.
The path is rocky. But I will forge.
Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inspiration. Show all posts
Dream Realm
Over the past month, many people have reached out to me regarding dreams
you've appeared in. There have also been countless other signs -
particularly through nature, animals, children, and instinct that have
nearly proven that you're still around. Although that's a BIG nearly, because
proof will never actually exist until we meet again someday. Dreams,
however, were of supreme importance to you in your waking life. You felt
they carried much more weight than just the imagination having a
wander while the eyes had a rest. My friend Kris told me this weekend, "Sami, you can still spend
1/3 of your life with Ted, because that's about how much of your life
you'll spend asleep – and he can always appear in your dreams." I like
that.
You haven't been in my dreams that much yet, or at least from what I remember. Amazingly though, I have slept soundly nearly since day one of this tragedy, so maybe you are there. Maybe you're helping me sleep and just keeping the stories and adventures of our dreams in the unconscious. But I ask you nightly, before I go to sleep, when I kneel and do my gratitude and my prayers, that you come to me in my slumber – that you hold me while my body rests – that you be nearby me while my mind softens away from the claustrophobia of this tragedy and takes time to meditate – that I get to see your face, touch your skin, see the creases on your face when you smile, hear your gentle voice, and watch your eyes dance with love. I will hope for that every day for the rest of my life.
And while you may not have come to me quite that often yet – you did once a few weeks back, and it was worth the wait. But you've come to many others, and some of them have been willing to share with me.
You came to your friend Frenchy last week in a very vivid vision. You spoke in a kitchen, much like ours. He said it was so real that he could smell your smell and hear your breath traveling down your nostrils. He said the colors were incredibly intense. He knew you were dead in the dream, as did you. You hugged Frenchy and you both cried. You told Frenchy to ask you some quick questions. "Are you ok? What is it like? Is there a God? Have you seen Sarah?" You told him you are OK and it's kinda crazy there. You said that there are many people there to meet, that everyone is very nice, and happy to help. In terms of God, you paused, and then said there's a much higher force than anyone knows that's overseeing everything. You said you haven't seen Sarah yet, but everyone knows you're looking for her. You told him that as you died, you were peeling back layers of light and kept going in deeper. Then Frenchy rubbed his eyes and returned back to his original dream, but throughout the rest of his dreams he heard your voice whispering, "Don't forget! Write it down."
You appeared to your cousin Brooke in a dream. She was working in the mountains and turned around to say goodbye to friends and you were there. Again, you were full of life. She could feel your skin. She asked you if you had enjoyed the memorial and said how cool it had been that the String Cheese Incident guys had come to play in your honor. You responded warmly. You talked to her in a way that lacked human attachment and stories – you beamed with peace. Then, you showed her videos of some of the friends you'd met in the place where you reside now. Some of them were children, others were celebrities. You also told her you had learned how to appear to loved ones and friends on Earth in solid form.
You appeared to your Aunt Ginny in a vision just days after your death. She was in the exact same scenario as the tragic night you died. The three of us, her, Kevin, and myself were with your body in the hospital. She on one side of the gurney, Kevin on the other, and me next to your body, on the bed, cradling you and sobbing. She felt a presence enter the room behind her. She was irritated and thought it was the coroner who had kept barging in and disrupting our last moments with your body. It wasn't. It was you. You were enormous and filled up the entire room, literally by appearing as a giant, and figuratively with your peaceful energy. You held us in a warm embrace. You told her, "I am OK. Now is when Sami's journey really starts."
You came to my friend Claire. A dear girl friend with whom I'd fallen out of touch with. You had only met her a couple times in life and you unfortunately didn't get to know one another very well. Although you did know I was very sad that our friendship wasn't as strong lately. In her dream, when you appeared, she got upset with you. She yelled at you for taking me away from my home and friends in Texas. She was upset that you would leave me in so much pain. You heard her out, and then responded with love. You said, "I understand how you feel and I don't blame you. I never meant to bring Sami any pain. Please believe me when I say that Sami is exactly where she needs to be. All of this is part of her journey and destiny."
You came to another more distant friend, Lyndsey. She had periled for months with a newborn daughter on the brink of death. Though you never met the baby, you identified with her tragedy because of your compassionate heart and also the devastation you dealt with after your sister's loss of her baby girl, Jane. Lyndsey's infant daughter who had made a miraculous recovery, Eden, played with an iPad for her first time ever this week. As soon as the toy was in her mitts, she pulled up your contact information on the device. In Lyndsey's dream you came to her at a party. No one could see you except for her. You hugged one another and she expressed her condolences for your death. "I'm still here. No one can see me, but I'm still here," you said. And then you said, "Give that daughter of yours a squeeze for me."
These are only a few dreams. I've had other people reach out to me with beautiful connections as well. And I have a feeling this entry may open up the doors to more, which I welcome with open arms.
In your life, you were passionate about dreams. You would journal them nearly daily. One of the first things you'd say to me each day was, "Did you have any dreams last night?" You always encouraged me to write them down, teaching me the appropriate way to do so. You loved to analyze dreams, and had done a lot of work with your therapist and independently learning about different methods. It makes complete sense to me that you would choose to appear through the dream realm from your place in the afterlife.
I find it beautiful that through appearing in dreams, you're still creating connections. You're answering questions for people who have doubts. You're telling secrets about mortality and reassuring loved ones about your place in the afterlife. You are letting us know that you're around – and that this tragic path may actually be the right one. You're bringing old friends back together and fostering new relationships. You're holding space for children. You're giving us all hope. And you're tackling it through our subconscious.
Please continue to appear in dreams, my love. Appear to your family, to your loved ones, and hopefully, if you have time, you can still spend a third of my life, the time when I'm asleep, with me. And during that time, we won't be held back by the constraints of this earthly realm. We will be able to fly and skip around the Universe together. We will be able to stretch time and expand our consciousness beyond humanity's dynamics. We will be able to love, to create, to connect, and to share. We will make magic. And until the day arrives when I join you wherever you exist now, I'll continue to look for you in sleep.
You haven't been in my dreams that much yet, or at least from what I remember. Amazingly though, I have slept soundly nearly since day one of this tragedy, so maybe you are there. Maybe you're helping me sleep and just keeping the stories and adventures of our dreams in the unconscious. But I ask you nightly, before I go to sleep, when I kneel and do my gratitude and my prayers, that you come to me in my slumber – that you hold me while my body rests – that you be nearby me while my mind softens away from the claustrophobia of this tragedy and takes time to meditate – that I get to see your face, touch your skin, see the creases on your face when you smile, hear your gentle voice, and watch your eyes dance with love. I will hope for that every day for the rest of my life.
And while you may not have come to me quite that often yet – you did once a few weeks back, and it was worth the wait. But you've come to many others, and some of them have been willing to share with me.
You came to your friend Frenchy last week in a very vivid vision. You spoke in a kitchen, much like ours. He said it was so real that he could smell your smell and hear your breath traveling down your nostrils. He said the colors were incredibly intense. He knew you were dead in the dream, as did you. You hugged Frenchy and you both cried. You told Frenchy to ask you some quick questions. "Are you ok? What is it like? Is there a God? Have you seen Sarah?" You told him you are OK and it's kinda crazy there. You said that there are many people there to meet, that everyone is very nice, and happy to help. In terms of God, you paused, and then said there's a much higher force than anyone knows that's overseeing everything. You said you haven't seen Sarah yet, but everyone knows you're looking for her. You told him that as you died, you were peeling back layers of light and kept going in deeper. Then Frenchy rubbed his eyes and returned back to his original dream, but throughout the rest of his dreams he heard your voice whispering, "Don't forget! Write it down."
You appeared to your cousin Brooke in a dream. She was working in the mountains and turned around to say goodbye to friends and you were there. Again, you were full of life. She could feel your skin. She asked you if you had enjoyed the memorial and said how cool it had been that the String Cheese Incident guys had come to play in your honor. You responded warmly. You talked to her in a way that lacked human attachment and stories – you beamed with peace. Then, you showed her videos of some of the friends you'd met in the place where you reside now. Some of them were children, others were celebrities. You also told her you had learned how to appear to loved ones and friends on Earth in solid form.
You appeared to your Aunt Ginny in a vision just days after your death. She was in the exact same scenario as the tragic night you died. The three of us, her, Kevin, and myself were with your body in the hospital. She on one side of the gurney, Kevin on the other, and me next to your body, on the bed, cradling you and sobbing. She felt a presence enter the room behind her. She was irritated and thought it was the coroner who had kept barging in and disrupting our last moments with your body. It wasn't. It was you. You were enormous and filled up the entire room, literally by appearing as a giant, and figuratively with your peaceful energy. You held us in a warm embrace. You told her, "I am OK. Now is when Sami's journey really starts."
You came to my friend Claire. A dear girl friend with whom I'd fallen out of touch with. You had only met her a couple times in life and you unfortunately didn't get to know one another very well. Although you did know I was very sad that our friendship wasn't as strong lately. In her dream, when you appeared, she got upset with you. She yelled at you for taking me away from my home and friends in Texas. She was upset that you would leave me in so much pain. You heard her out, and then responded with love. You said, "I understand how you feel and I don't blame you. I never meant to bring Sami any pain. Please believe me when I say that Sami is exactly where she needs to be. All of this is part of her journey and destiny."
You came to another more distant friend, Lyndsey. She had periled for months with a newborn daughter on the brink of death. Though you never met the baby, you identified with her tragedy because of your compassionate heart and also the devastation you dealt with after your sister's loss of her baby girl, Jane. Lyndsey's infant daughter who had made a miraculous recovery, Eden, played with an iPad for her first time ever this week. As soon as the toy was in her mitts, she pulled up your contact information on the device. In Lyndsey's dream you came to her at a party. No one could see you except for her. You hugged one another and she expressed her condolences for your death. "I'm still here. No one can see me, but I'm still here," you said. And then you said, "Give that daughter of yours a squeeze for me."
These are only a few dreams. I've had other people reach out to me with beautiful connections as well. And I have a feeling this entry may open up the doors to more, which I welcome with open arms.
In your life, you were passionate about dreams. You would journal them nearly daily. One of the first things you'd say to me each day was, "Did you have any dreams last night?" You always encouraged me to write them down, teaching me the appropriate way to do so. You loved to analyze dreams, and had done a lot of work with your therapist and independently learning about different methods. It makes complete sense to me that you would choose to appear through the dream realm from your place in the afterlife.
I find it beautiful that through appearing in dreams, you're still creating connections. You're answering questions for people who have doubts. You're telling secrets about mortality and reassuring loved ones about your place in the afterlife. You are letting us know that you're around – and that this tragic path may actually be the right one. You're bringing old friends back together and fostering new relationships. You're holding space for children. You're giving us all hope. And you're tackling it through our subconscious.
Please continue to appear in dreams, my love. Appear to your family, to your loved ones, and hopefully, if you have time, you can still spend a third of my life, the time when I'm asleep, with me. And during that time, we won't be held back by the constraints of this earthly realm. We will be able to fly and skip around the Universe together. We will be able to stretch time and expand our consciousness beyond humanity's dynamics. We will be able to love, to create, to connect, and to share. We will make magic. And until the day arrives when I join you wherever you exist now, I'll continue to look for you in sleep.
What I know and what I don't know.
I can officially, without a drop of doubt in my mind, now say that the worst month of my life is behind me. You have been gone a month. It's been a month since we talked. It's been a month since we looked into each others eyes. It's been a month since we said "I love you". It's been a month since we kissed. And like all measures of time, it's one I can't take back.
Time is an interesting concept. One that I don't really even understand anymore, to be honest. I used to think we 'had time on our side'. That was not the case. Time robbed us. Or maybe something else robbed time. An hour seems long when you want it to be short. When you want an hour to last forever, it rushes by. Certain years of my life seem to have lasted ages, when others I had hardly remember because they whisked by. It seems like forever since I last saw you. But then it also seems like just a moment ago. I don't know what time is. I know you didn't either. We used to talk about quantum physics and agree, there was a lot more to space and time than humanity could calculate.
I remember our last kiss. It was at 8:20 pm on Friday, October 24th (2014). It was gentle and loving. We looked into each others eyes. It wasn't rushed. There is no way we could have ever known that was to be our last kiss, that you would take your last breath just five hours later. But considering it was, I have no regrets about that kiss. It was perfect.
I also remember our first kiss. It was on Sunday, January 27th 2013 at about 2 am. You said, "Can I kiss you now!?" It was as if you'd been waiting forever to do so. Maybe you had. Maybe you'd been waiting since our last lifetime together was cut short. No one knows when their first kiss will happen either. One may hope – or maybe it comes out of the blue. Eagerness and lust filling you up. Excitement standing in line with breath mints, chapstick, and impatience. Our first kiss was perfect.
I imagined our kiss on the altar thousands of times. The one that would happen after we got to say "I do". I imagined it as a collage of all the best romance movie kisses – expect better. It would be fueled with true love, excitement, passion, hope, destiny, and faith. It was going to be perfect. It still will be, someday, whatever that means.
What I never once imagined was that it wouldn't happen. I was so sure... wasn't I? Why hadn't I ever considered things could have taken a dark turn, as they did? Had I stuffed premonitions and ominous occurrences aside, and just assumed, with false hope, that we would get what we so thought we deserved – real happiness? Isn't that what the point of life is? Love? Did life deliver us what we deserved? Was our twenty months of true connection and love what life had in store for us? Did we get to squeeze as much love as most beings have in seventy years into that short time? I will never know.
There's not a lot of things I know right now. I am confused about this thing we call time. I am up in the air about the specifics of afterlife. I'm trying to decide if there's a difference between fate, destiny, and happenstance. I am hopeful, but not one-hundred-percent sure that you are watching over me. I'm not sure what to gather from the visions, the mediums, and the signs that have been appearing everywhere. I don't know where you are, I hope it's not just in dust and ashes inside of a cold urn. I don't know why you died. I don't know if there is anything I could have done. I don't know if this is a part of a master plan. I don't know what our children would have looked like, if they would have been blonde or brunette, like we often thought about. I don't know if I will ever be a mother. I don't know if we only have one soul mate. I don't know if I will ever love again. I don't know if you will come back as my child, like you told me you would. I don't know how I'm still standing. I don't know how the hair is still growing on my legs and how my cycle continues to flow, when my heart feels like it has stopped, though I can hear it beat.... beat... beat. I don't know what's next.
But, there's a few things I do know.
"I know that I am glad we had this time together. I am glad we shared our love, even though time cut it short. I also know that I still have all the love. It didn't go anywhere. In fact, it still grows. As the grief grows, the love grows. I have all this love, you gave it to me, and that is your gift to me. That is the biggest gift anyone could receive. Because now I know love, I own love, and I have your love inside of me. And I can share it, like you did. I know that my life will never be the same. I will be a new kind of woman. I will be a new kind of teacher. I will be a new kind of lover. I will be you, in some ways. I KNOW that you are inside of me – not in all the ways I want (giggity) – but you are here. I know that I would not be able to wake up, get out of bed, carry on a conversation, take care of myself, eat, even laugh, for god's sake, without you being in me. I know you are carrying me. In what way that is, I do not know at all, and I never will – but I know you are and that you always will be."
I love you.
Time is an interesting concept. One that I don't really even understand anymore, to be honest. I used to think we 'had time on our side'. That was not the case. Time robbed us. Or maybe something else robbed time. An hour seems long when you want it to be short. When you want an hour to last forever, it rushes by. Certain years of my life seem to have lasted ages, when others I had hardly remember because they whisked by. It seems like forever since I last saw you. But then it also seems like just a moment ago. I don't know what time is. I know you didn't either. We used to talk about quantum physics and agree, there was a lot more to space and time than humanity could calculate.
I remember our last kiss. It was at 8:20 pm on Friday, October 24th (2014). It was gentle and loving. We looked into each others eyes. It wasn't rushed. There is no way we could have ever known that was to be our last kiss, that you would take your last breath just five hours later. But considering it was, I have no regrets about that kiss. It was perfect.
I also remember our first kiss. It was on Sunday, January 27th 2013 at about 2 am. You said, "Can I kiss you now!?" It was as if you'd been waiting forever to do so. Maybe you had. Maybe you'd been waiting since our last lifetime together was cut short. No one knows when their first kiss will happen either. One may hope – or maybe it comes out of the blue. Eagerness and lust filling you up. Excitement standing in line with breath mints, chapstick, and impatience. Our first kiss was perfect.
I imagined our kiss on the altar thousands of times. The one that would happen after we got to say "I do". I imagined it as a collage of all the best romance movie kisses – expect better. It would be fueled with true love, excitement, passion, hope, destiny, and faith. It was going to be perfect. It still will be, someday, whatever that means.
What I never once imagined was that it wouldn't happen. I was so sure... wasn't I? Why hadn't I ever considered things could have taken a dark turn, as they did? Had I stuffed premonitions and ominous occurrences aside, and just assumed, with false hope, that we would get what we so thought we deserved – real happiness? Isn't that what the point of life is? Love? Did life deliver us what we deserved? Was our twenty months of true connection and love what life had in store for us? Did we get to squeeze as much love as most beings have in seventy years into that short time? I will never know.
There's not a lot of things I know right now. I am confused about this thing we call time. I am up in the air about the specifics of afterlife. I'm trying to decide if there's a difference between fate, destiny, and happenstance. I am hopeful, but not one-hundred-percent sure that you are watching over me. I'm not sure what to gather from the visions, the mediums, and the signs that have been appearing everywhere. I don't know where you are, I hope it's not just in dust and ashes inside of a cold urn. I don't know why you died. I don't know if there is anything I could have done. I don't know if this is a part of a master plan. I don't know what our children would have looked like, if they would have been blonde or brunette, like we often thought about. I don't know if I will ever be a mother. I don't know if we only have one soul mate. I don't know if I will ever love again. I don't know if you will come back as my child, like you told me you would. I don't know how I'm still standing. I don't know how the hair is still growing on my legs and how my cycle continues to flow, when my heart feels like it has stopped, though I can hear it beat.... beat... beat. I don't know what's next.
But, there's a few things I do know.
"I know that I am glad we had this time together. I am glad we shared our love, even though time cut it short. I also know that I still have all the love. It didn't go anywhere. In fact, it still grows. As the grief grows, the love grows. I have all this love, you gave it to me, and that is your gift to me. That is the biggest gift anyone could receive. Because now I know love, I own love, and I have your love inside of me. And I can share it, like you did. I know that my life will never be the same. I will be a new kind of woman. I will be a new kind of teacher. I will be a new kind of lover. I will be you, in some ways. I KNOW that you are inside of me – not in all the ways I want (giggity) – but you are here. I know that I would not be able to wake up, get out of bed, carry on a conversation, take care of myself, eat, even laugh, for god's sake, without you being in me. I know you are carrying me. In what way that is, I do not know at all, and I never will – but I know you are and that you always will be."
I love you.
Gracefully Patient
Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I have always found it difficult to live in the moment and enjoy spending life planning what's next. I have trouble staying focused on one thing and tend to multitask – often in front of multiple screens. For instance right now, I'm booking air travel, texting about yoga class, responding to email, drinking coffee, people watching, writing this, oh, and mourning intensely. You struggled with ADD as a student and continued to as an adult, but despite your diagnosis of lack of focus, I never met a man who was more patient.
When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.
Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.
I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.
A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.
So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?
I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.
But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.
A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:
In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.
One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.
And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.
I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.
When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.
Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.
I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.
A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.
So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?
I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.
But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.
A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:
In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.
One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.
And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.
I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.
My practice
In the days after your death, my dear friend Natalia called me from Spain. She, along with her prayers, condolences, and love, told me, "Now is when your yoga practice really starts." Before I even got off the phone, I ridiculed her comment in the back of my mind. I thought to myself, 'I'm supposed to think about yoga, now!? My soul mate died and she tells me to do yoga?' And for one week, I didn't do yoga. And that was OK.
But after those seven days, my body started to mourn its practice. My back started to hurt and my lack of eating started to take its toll. I got dizzy spells. I threw up constantly, my brain was traumatized. My spine throbbed from laying in bed and rolling around in the fetal position. My body couldn't handle the grief I was inflicting on it. So, if only to ease the pain in my lumbar spine and encourage an appetite – I went back to yoga.
But what I've gotten from my yoga practice isn't just a prescription for my back pain, it's peace.
Five days after your death a bear came into our garage. He made my heart sing because you'd known I'd really wanted to see a bear – so I felt he was a sign from you. But he did something else too. He climbed up onto a bench and left muddy bear prints all over my yoga mat. I don't remember why my mat was out of the car that day, where it always lived, but it was. And I didn't notice the prints until I went to unroll it a couple days later. But now when I unroll my mat, I see those prints and those scratches, and I know that you're reminding me to practice.
You want me to practice my coming back to my breath – because my breath can't escape the now like my mind can. You want me to practice coming back to my body – because my body needs to be strong to support the loss of my heart. You want me to practice coming back to my drishti (my focus) – because I need supreme attention to recognize intuition. You want me to practice coming back home – home was with you, so I am now homeless – but through my yoga practice I'm reminded that home is actually inside of me. And since you are now infinite, you are here too.
When we met, you had never been to a yoga class. But you embodied the yogic limbs more than I certainly did. And while over the next year and ten months, I taught you asana – you taught me breath, you taught me stillness, you taught me peacefulness, you taught me moderation, you taught me self-study, you taught me compassion, you taught me to breathe, you taught me purity, you taught me awareness, you taught me truth, and you taught me to surrender. Here I was, new to town, and desperately searching for a teacher – when I had him right there all along. You were my teacher. And you were a sage.
Lately, as I've moved through my practice, I've felt a chill shudder over my skin. Maybe it's a whisper from you that's awakening the hairs on my body. I close my eyes and I think of you. My breath deepens as I run through the pages in my memory of our love. The closest I get to intimacy now is the touch of my teacher. I close my eyes and imagine a conduit, a gentle caress from you. It's a desperate place to be. My body doesn't understand you're gone. My body craves you, but I can't give you to her. So I give her my practice, the other thing she knows.
So I am alone on my mat. I am alone with my breath, though it used to ebb and flow with yours. I am alone with my dance, though I used to have a partner. I am alone in my thoughts, making space for you to come join me. I am alone in my body, fantasizing about when I used to press it to yours. But I am not alone in my surrender, because you are there too.
So now, I practice in sadness. I practice in a soulful search for a crevice of peace. I practice in solitude because even if I'm in a room full of breath, I can't hear yours. But in my practice, I commit to hunt for the collective union of breath, for that "Om" that embodies me and you and all of spirit.
But after those seven days, my body started to mourn its practice. My back started to hurt and my lack of eating started to take its toll. I got dizzy spells. I threw up constantly, my brain was traumatized. My spine throbbed from laying in bed and rolling around in the fetal position. My body couldn't handle the grief I was inflicting on it. So, if only to ease the pain in my lumbar spine and encourage an appetite – I went back to yoga.
But what I've gotten from my yoga practice isn't just a prescription for my back pain, it's peace.
Five days after your death a bear came into our garage. He made my heart sing because you'd known I'd really wanted to see a bear – so I felt he was a sign from you. But he did something else too. He climbed up onto a bench and left muddy bear prints all over my yoga mat. I don't remember why my mat was out of the car that day, where it always lived, but it was. And I didn't notice the prints until I went to unroll it a couple days later. But now when I unroll my mat, I see those prints and those scratches, and I know that you're reminding me to practice.
You want me to practice my coming back to my breath – because my breath can't escape the now like my mind can. You want me to practice coming back to my body – because my body needs to be strong to support the loss of my heart. You want me to practice coming back to my drishti (my focus) – because I need supreme attention to recognize intuition. You want me to practice coming back home – home was with you, so I am now homeless – but through my yoga practice I'm reminded that home is actually inside of me. And since you are now infinite, you are here too.
When we met, you had never been to a yoga class. But you embodied the yogic limbs more than I certainly did. And while over the next year and ten months, I taught you asana – you taught me breath, you taught me stillness, you taught me peacefulness, you taught me moderation, you taught me self-study, you taught me compassion, you taught me to breathe, you taught me purity, you taught me awareness, you taught me truth, and you taught me to surrender. Here I was, new to town, and desperately searching for a teacher – when I had him right there all along. You were my teacher. And you were a sage.
Lately, as I've moved through my practice, I've felt a chill shudder over my skin. Maybe it's a whisper from you that's awakening the hairs on my body. I close my eyes and I think of you. My breath deepens as I run through the pages in my memory of our love. The closest I get to intimacy now is the touch of my teacher. I close my eyes and imagine a conduit, a gentle caress from you. It's a desperate place to be. My body doesn't understand you're gone. My body craves you, but I can't give you to her. So I give her my practice, the other thing she knows.
So I am alone on my mat. I am alone with my breath, though it used to ebb and flow with yours. I am alone with my dance, though I used to have a partner. I am alone in my thoughts, making space for you to come join me. I am alone in my body, fantasizing about when I used to press it to yours. But I am not alone in my surrender, because you are there too.
So now, I practice in sadness. I practice in a soulful search for a crevice of peace. I practice in solitude because even if I'm in a room full of breath, I can't hear yours. But in my practice, I commit to hunt for the collective union of breath, for that "Om" that embodies me and you and all of spirit.
Destination Boulder
It's cold and snowy today. Winter has arrived. It's more frigid then ever.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
Cheesy
I've become an energy sponge these last couple weeks. My mood and strength are very impressionable. I'm porous and vulnerable. My therapist gave me sound advice. She said to notice my surroundings during the moments when I feel closest to you – where I am, how many people I'm with, who those people are, what's happening in the background – and to keep doing those things.
My friend April flew in from Chicago last night. I arrived at the Denver airport to pick her up a half-hour late. I was paralyzed by the sirens, emergency vehicles, and flipped car I'd passed on my icy drive and was simply out-of-sorts. She was unfazed by the delay when I began my series of apologies. She, a beautiful mess of punchy-colored leather, fur, blonde hair, and good energy, looked at me with an Are you freaking kidding me? As if you really need to apologize for anything right now expression, and climbed in the car. She gave me a two armed hug from the passenger seat and held me for longer than I held her. Before we exited the airport terminal, she had already reminded me of the one time that she had met you, and how it only took that one time for her to know how incredibly exceptional of a man you are, and how complete you had me. I knew immediately that she was the right person to have by my side right now.
Before going back to the house, we stopped at the grocery store where you and I always shopped. She helped me get through a few 'firsts'. The first time entering our local supermarket, where you generally would grab the cart for us, but this time, I did. The first time choosing avocados and knowing you weren't going to be there to eat them – spooning them right out of their skin with a dressing of coconut aminos and hemp seeds. The first time picking out cheese without you, you liked the raw mild cheddar. The first time stopping at the beverage section and realizing I didn't need to buy coconut water, because you liked it and I don't. Your 76% ChocoLove dark chocolate, your marinated rosemary chicken, your favorite free-range eggs, your unsprouted almonds, and your Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream… I walked past it all. I did not put it in my cart. I no longer shop for two. I paid and we made it out the door. I exhaled and a tear escaped the corner of my eye.
This morning April, Kira, and I drove three hours south of Boulder to Mount Princeton Hot Springs. I charged your phone and hooked it up to the stereo as we pulled out of the driveway. We turned on The String Cheese Incident, your favorite band and the artist that monopolizes your data usage. The feel-good bluegrass jams hit my porous ears like water to a sponge. Each song that played ignited a hazy memory.
I had never seen String Cheese until we started dating. In the beginning of our relationship, my little brother, who shares your taste in music, told me which album to listen to first. I would drive around Austin listening to that record. One of the first songs that stuck out to me was Sirens. I remember texting you the lyrics on day, out of the blue: I just want to say I love you / And make sure you feel it everyday / 'Cause if today had been my last chance / It's just something I wanted to say. You sent back a purple heart, an icon of cheese, and an excited response. You were psyched that your new girlfriend was doing her music homework. I remember that song being played at one of the shows we attended together later that year. We wrapped our arms around each other, swayed, and sang to each other. I remember that song being played again, two weeks ago, at your memorial.
As the Cheese songs continued to pour out of your iTunes today while April and I drove, I felt a sense of peaceful nostalgia. It was as if you were choosing each song for us to listen to. You were selecting the soundtrack for our mountain drive. We chatted, we cried, we listened. I imagined that you were sitting in the backseat of my car as we drove, adding in your perspective through the song. Sometimes, along the way, I would even hear your jokes or responses in the back of my head, a silent but distinct voice. I chose to believe in you.
I remember the first time we went to see The String Cheese Incident together – it was my first show and your one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth. It was in Austin on July 3rd, 2013. You were in my city visiting me, but you got to introduce me to your world.
From the moment we were dropped off in the lot, I had never seen someone so plugged in. You knew nearly every other person we passed. People were calling your name with excitement from all corners of the parking lot. You were hugging and smiling. You were introducing me to person after person, spouting off their name and the three other nicknames they also go by. Your eyes were twinkling. You were in the zone and it was incredible to witness. It was spectacular to be by your side, to be your girl. I was proud.
The first song the band played that evening was Lonesome Fiddle Blues. You were off to a good start at getting me to like this band because LFB is a bluegrass song that I recognized from my childhood. My mom is a fiddle player in a band, so the standards are familiar. The nostalgia grooved in my heart and I smiled at you and said, "I know this!" "Alright!" you responded with a proud grin.
Our love grew that night at the Cheese show. Me, seeing you in your light. You, seeing me dig your scene. It was beautiful for us. It got even more exciting when the band closed their first set with BollyMunster. As the bhangra-inspired dance tune flooded my ears, my hips started to shake. Synthe-electronica poured in over the Bollywood bluegrass, I gritted my teeth with anticipation of a bass-drop. I didn't even know what was happening, but I absolutely loved it. "If THAT is what this band is all about, I'm ALL over it," I told you after the song ended. You laughed, knowing I was hyped up over a shameless dance party jam but stoked by my excitement.
Later that summer, we went to Horning's Hideout for a String Cheese Festival. On Sunday, the last show of the weekend, I watched String Cheese play Struggling Angel, a song they had written after Sarah's death, in honor of her. I watched nearly the entire crowd of thousands of people, blanket their arms around one another and pull each other in close. I watched hundreds of people gather around Chris, Sarah's husband, and silently support him with hugs, love, tears, and meaningful appreciation for her life and her memory. You were by Chris's side the whole time, holding him. I watched you bawl through the entire song. I watched tears stream down Chris's face too. I saw so many tears during those six minutes and realized how much support this band was offering those in need. I cried too. They were carrying on your friend's memory with beauty, song, and hope. I never met Sarah, but because of what The String Cheese community created for her (and what she had helped create in them), I feel like I know her. I'm so glad you were so involved in a community of people who take those memories so seriously, that are so in touch with their own emotions and supporting emotions of others in need. It's a beautiful thing.
I haven't heard Struggling Angel live again, but we would listen to it on the new album when we needed a good cry at the house. I only heard BollyMunster one other time with you, at a free show in Boulder. And I haven't heard them do Lonesome Fiddle Blues live since that show in Austin. I thought that my seven shows in the past year and ten months was a good start. But I thought it was just that, a start. I never imagined that eighth show I'd see would be them playing at your memorial.
Music has been really hard for me since you died, my love. It was such an important part of you. It's hard to hear a song without making a direction comparison to you. It's hard to listen without being able to ask you, "Who is this again?" and you being able to chime in with an in-depth description of artist, genre, and song. The String Cheese Incident is the only band I've listened to since you left this place. I've listened to them more in the past few weeks then I did when you were alive. I hear you in their music. I see your smile in their rhythms. I feel your love in the lyrics. I imagine the shimmer of excitement in your eye and you lifting up your arms to shake your hands in your one gimmicky dance move that you always did at the end of a song, the final snap. It's giving me some solace to fill my soul with the music you loved so much.
When April and I pulled up to the hot springs resort, SCI's song Joyful Sound echoed through the car and our hearts. We recognized your actions and your life's meaning as a direct correlation to the words of the song. We sang along, out loud. I cried, because my heart is broken open, your hand isn't their for me to grab, and your hips aren't there for me to groove with. But I smiled because what you stand for remains. I opened myself up and let the music seep in to my porous soul, knowing you would be proud.
Take time to give thanks / Make time to be given / I'm going to stop and think twice / About the way that I'm living
Did I say a kind word / Am I proud of my actions / You know a job well done / Gives me satisfaction
Can I earn your trust / Your love and affection / Just one step at a time / In the right direction
Going to aim for the sky / Keep my feet on the ground / Raise my voice to the heavens / Make a joyful sound
My friend April flew in from Chicago last night. I arrived at the Denver airport to pick her up a half-hour late. I was paralyzed by the sirens, emergency vehicles, and flipped car I'd passed on my icy drive and was simply out-of-sorts. She was unfazed by the delay when I began my series of apologies. She, a beautiful mess of punchy-colored leather, fur, blonde hair, and good energy, looked at me with an Are you freaking kidding me? As if you really need to apologize for anything right now expression, and climbed in the car. She gave me a two armed hug from the passenger seat and held me for longer than I held her. Before we exited the airport terminal, she had already reminded me of the one time that she had met you, and how it only took that one time for her to know how incredibly exceptional of a man you are, and how complete you had me. I knew immediately that she was the right person to have by my side right now.
Before going back to the house, we stopped at the grocery store where you and I always shopped. She helped me get through a few 'firsts'. The first time entering our local supermarket, where you generally would grab the cart for us, but this time, I did. The first time choosing avocados and knowing you weren't going to be there to eat them – spooning them right out of their skin with a dressing of coconut aminos and hemp seeds. The first time picking out cheese without you, you liked the raw mild cheddar. The first time stopping at the beverage section and realizing I didn't need to buy coconut water, because you liked it and I don't. Your 76% ChocoLove dark chocolate, your marinated rosemary chicken, your favorite free-range eggs, your unsprouted almonds, and your Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream… I walked past it all. I did not put it in my cart. I no longer shop for two. I paid and we made it out the door. I exhaled and a tear escaped the corner of my eye.
This morning April, Kira, and I drove three hours south of Boulder to Mount Princeton Hot Springs. I charged your phone and hooked it up to the stereo as we pulled out of the driveway. We turned on The String Cheese Incident, your favorite band and the artist that monopolizes your data usage. The feel-good bluegrass jams hit my porous ears like water to a sponge. Each song that played ignited a hazy memory.
I had never seen String Cheese until we started dating. In the beginning of our relationship, my little brother, who shares your taste in music, told me which album to listen to first. I would drive around Austin listening to that record. One of the first songs that stuck out to me was Sirens. I remember texting you the lyrics on day, out of the blue: I just want to say I love you / And make sure you feel it everyday / 'Cause if today had been my last chance / It's just something I wanted to say. You sent back a purple heart, an icon of cheese, and an excited response. You were psyched that your new girlfriend was doing her music homework. I remember that song being played at one of the shows we attended together later that year. We wrapped our arms around each other, swayed, and sang to each other. I remember that song being played again, two weeks ago, at your memorial.
As the Cheese songs continued to pour out of your iTunes today while April and I drove, I felt a sense of peaceful nostalgia. It was as if you were choosing each song for us to listen to. You were selecting the soundtrack for our mountain drive. We chatted, we cried, we listened. I imagined that you were sitting in the backseat of my car as we drove, adding in your perspective through the song. Sometimes, along the way, I would even hear your jokes or responses in the back of my head, a silent but distinct voice. I chose to believe in you.
I remember the first time we went to see The String Cheese Incident together – it was my first show and your one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth. It was in Austin on July 3rd, 2013. You were in my city visiting me, but you got to introduce me to your world.
From the moment we were dropped off in the lot, I had never seen someone so plugged in. You knew nearly every other person we passed. People were calling your name with excitement from all corners of the parking lot. You were hugging and smiling. You were introducing me to person after person, spouting off their name and the three other nicknames they also go by. Your eyes were twinkling. You were in the zone and it was incredible to witness. It was spectacular to be by your side, to be your girl. I was proud.
The first song the band played that evening was Lonesome Fiddle Blues. You were off to a good start at getting me to like this band because LFB is a bluegrass song that I recognized from my childhood. My mom is a fiddle player in a band, so the standards are familiar. The nostalgia grooved in my heart and I smiled at you and said, "I know this!" "Alright!" you responded with a proud grin.
Our love grew that night at the Cheese show. Me, seeing you in your light. You, seeing me dig your scene. It was beautiful for us. It got even more exciting when the band closed their first set with BollyMunster. As the bhangra-inspired dance tune flooded my ears, my hips started to shake. Synthe-electronica poured in over the Bollywood bluegrass, I gritted my teeth with anticipation of a bass-drop. I didn't even know what was happening, but I absolutely loved it. "If THAT is what this band is all about, I'm ALL over it," I told you after the song ended. You laughed, knowing I was hyped up over a shameless dance party jam but stoked by my excitement.
Later that summer, we went to Horning's Hideout for a String Cheese Festival. On Sunday, the last show of the weekend, I watched String Cheese play Struggling Angel, a song they had written after Sarah's death, in honor of her. I watched nearly the entire crowd of thousands of people, blanket their arms around one another and pull each other in close. I watched hundreds of people gather around Chris, Sarah's husband, and silently support him with hugs, love, tears, and meaningful appreciation for her life and her memory. You were by Chris's side the whole time, holding him. I watched you bawl through the entire song. I watched tears stream down Chris's face too. I saw so many tears during those six minutes and realized how much support this band was offering those in need. I cried too. They were carrying on your friend's memory with beauty, song, and hope. I never met Sarah, but because of what The String Cheese community created for her (and what she had helped create in them), I feel like I know her. I'm so glad you were so involved in a community of people who take those memories so seriously, that are so in touch with their own emotions and supporting emotions of others in need. It's a beautiful thing.
I haven't heard Struggling Angel live again, but we would listen to it on the new album when we needed a good cry at the house. I only heard BollyMunster one other time with you, at a free show in Boulder. And I haven't heard them do Lonesome Fiddle Blues live since that show in Austin. I thought that my seven shows in the past year and ten months was a good start. But I thought it was just that, a start. I never imagined that eighth show I'd see would be them playing at your memorial.
Music has been really hard for me since you died, my love. It was such an important part of you. It's hard to hear a song without making a direction comparison to you. It's hard to listen without being able to ask you, "Who is this again?" and you being able to chime in with an in-depth description of artist, genre, and song. The String Cheese Incident is the only band I've listened to since you left this place. I've listened to them more in the past few weeks then I did when you were alive. I hear you in their music. I see your smile in their rhythms. I feel your love in the lyrics. I imagine the shimmer of excitement in your eye and you lifting up your arms to shake your hands in your one gimmicky dance move that you always did at the end of a song, the final snap. It's giving me some solace to fill my soul with the music you loved so much.
When April and I pulled up to the hot springs resort, SCI's song Joyful Sound echoed through the car and our hearts. We recognized your actions and your life's meaning as a direct correlation to the words of the song. We sang along, out loud. I cried, because my heart is broken open, your hand isn't their for me to grab, and your hips aren't there for me to groove with. But I smiled because what you stand for remains. I opened myself up and let the music seep in to my porous soul, knowing you would be proud.
Take time to give thanks / Make time to be given / I'm going to stop and think twice / About the way that I'm living
Did I say a kind word / Am I proud of my actions / You know a job well done / Gives me satisfaction
Can I earn your trust / Your love and affection / Just one step at a time / In the right direction
Going to aim for the sky / Keep my feet on the ground / Raise my voice to the heavens / Make a joyful sound
I Will Not Be Strong (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
Over
the last two and a half weeks since my brother died, people have said
to me, “you need to be strong.” Or complemented me: “Wow, you are so
strong.” They say it as they see me doing the things required of
me—taking my children to school, picking up groceries, organizing the
house, calling my parents and my sister, Berkley, to check in.
But strong is not what I want to be right now.
Ted
was my brother. He was my lifelong companion. Besides my parents, he
knew me the longest and the most completely. In high school, when people
asked me to name my best friend, I said Ted. He was there on every
family vacation, every Christmas, every family dinner. He was my bridesman at my wedding. He and Berkley are a part of me like no one else will ever be.
I
will not be strong because losing a brother should completely wreck
you. It should send you to your knees over and over again. It should
make you fall to pieces on your bedroom floor, force tears from your
eyes in the middle of a fitness class. It should make you cry every time
you drive to the grocery store and once inside the store, you will dry
your tears and you will tell yourself you can do this, you can do this, when all you’re trying to do is buy cereal. This grief should make you wonder if you will ever be okay again.
Weak with grief is what I want to be because that is what the loss of this relationship deserves.
In
tragic times, we assume that we need someone to stay strong so that
everyone else around them can fall apart. This time, it will not be me.
The truth is, I don’t think there needs to be a strong one. The most
supported I’ve felt in the last few weeks is when Sami, Berkley and I
laid on my Aunt Ginny’s bed the day that Ted died. We were a heap of
tears, hair, blankets and sobs. No one was being the strong one. We
cried together, shoulders shaking, tears flowing—there were no words of
comfort, no strong one to hold us together. Because this kind of loss
should make you completely fall apart.
I
understand why they say it—they want to see strength so they can be
assured that we will survive this. They need not worry. We will survive.
Sami, Berkley, my parents, friends: we will even thrive.
Someday,
I will have to choose strength. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year. Or
maybe I will choose strength for an hour or two a day. Strength will
come and healing will come—people who I trust have told me this. But for
now, I will be weak with grief. Because I lost Ted. I lost my brother.
And my weakness is my best and boldest tribute to who he was and what we
had.
Grey
We left Steamboat early this morning to make our way back to Boulder – hugs, goodbyes, gifts, and coffee passed around. Minutes before loading into the car, a bear was spotted in our host's backyard. It wandered down a path and onto a neighboring green from the golf course behind their property. I swallowed a hiccup of hope as I watched the animal. I see you in nature.
I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.
Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.
Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.
When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.
Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.
Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.
We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.
The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.
By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.
After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.
We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.
Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.
When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.
I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.
Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.
Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.
When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.
Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.
Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.
We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.
The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.
By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.
After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.
We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.
Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.
When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.
Happy Birthday, Big Brother (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
---
I
don’t remember most of Ted’s birthdays growing up. Memories of
childhood birthdays in our house are a blur of sheet cakes decorated by
Mom, birthday dinners with our grandparents around the formal dining
table, fighting over new presents, one of us ending up in tears…
But I do remember Ted’s 18th birthday. It was a Tuesday.
He was a senior, I was a sophomore, and Berkley was 13. Our parents
were out of town and our middle school math teacher, Ms. Winney, was
staying with us. Ted told me I was welcome to join in the birthday
festivities and I was beyond thrilled. Ted was cool, his friends were
cool and I got to be a part of it, if only for a Tuesday afternoon.
After
school, Ted and I drove around to various friends’ houses to pick them
up. We picked up Hunter. He had something wrapped in a gray sweatshirt. I
asked him what it was and he said it was his pet, José. “What is it???”
I asked, so naive. “Want to see?” Hunter replied. “No! If it’s a snake,
I am NOT touching it!” Ted and Hunter and the other friends laughed and
laughed.
By
four in the afternoon, a small group had assembled in our backyard,
drinking beer and tequila, smoking cigarettes, laughing in the gray
midwestern November. I have no idea where Ms. Winney was.
Somehow,
in the midst of the partying, Ted managed to get me to and from my
tennis lesson and I also ended up on time for my choir rehearsal, but I
think someone else drove me there. I didn’t drink or smoke anything that
day. “Someday, Hopie…” his friends taunted. “Hey, I think it’s cool
that she’s doing her own thing,” Ted said in my defense. “She’s here
chilling with us and making her own choices. That’s awesome.” It felt so
good to be tucked under Ted’s wing like that. I was so safe there. I
could be myself with Ted. Guaranteed.
It
was one of my best days in high school. Hanging out with all these guys
I thought were so cool. And feeling like I totally belonged, because my
big brother said I did.
After
choir rehearsal, I went back to my normal school-day routine—homework,
chatting with friends, going to bed at a decent hour. Ted’s celebration,
however, carried long into the night. They moved the party to Don
Pablo’s, a mediocre Mexican restaurant where Ted had worked and was
buddies with the bartender. He also got a tattoo that night—his
astrological sign, scorpio, on his calf.
On
Ted's more recent birthdays, I could always count on him to actually
pick up his phone--something he normally never did. We’d talk for a good
long time. He’d ask me all about what was going on in my life, how his
little nieces were doing. He’d listen to my stupid stories about the
cute stuff they were saying and he’d laugh. I always thought it was so
generous of him to have such a long phone conversation on his birthday
because I knew I wasn’t the only one he’d be talking to that day.
My
generous, welcoming and extremely accepting big brother, thank you for
making me feel awesome at the peak of my awkward years. Thank you
telling me I was okay for being the way I was, when all I felt was that I
should be something different.
I
will miss our birthday calls. I will miss hearing your laugh on the
other end of the phone. I will miss having someone to talk with who was
so validating, so affirming, so ready to tell me how awesome I’m doing,
without a hint of judgment.
Ted, you got some pretty awesome gifts for your birthdays over those years. But you gave even bigger ones.
---
Thank you Hopie for this beautiful submission.
The wind
I awoke this morning to the wind – restless and whirling. It whipped around the trees making them bounce unnaturally. It angrily ripped through the wind-chimes hanging on the deck that were given to us when we moved in together – their peaceful song now a tormented tango of tangles. I've been feeling you in nature – bears, foxes, rainbows, sunlight, butterflies, and the gentle wind. But why is nature angry today? We were never once angry with one another, not even a single time. We can't start now, my love.
I am going to Steamboat Springs today with my dad and three friends I went to prep school with. The four of us make up over ten percent of our 8th grade class. They are the old friends, the ones who come out of the woodwork to rally love and support. They all know you too, because you and I went to the same prep school, even though we didn't date until much later, and you were five-years older than I.
I think of you as a senior in high school, a very cool guy, even though you claimed you weren't. Me, a confused 8th grader, focusing on first-kisses and school dances and playing footsie with a cute boy at Assembly. You, soaking up art classes, playing bass, and singing lead vocals in a band called Endangered Feces at our school variety shows known as Coffeeshop. Me, overly concerned about my appearance. I was at a very high-tuition school but on an academic scholarship; all the kids in my class arrived, modeling the latest Abercrombie & Fitch khakis and flannels while I wore the J.C. Penny knockoffs. You, numbing your depression with a weed habit; sneaking out to the parking lot for a joint or a cigarette. You, looking for love in ways you weren't receiving it, unbeknownst to the fact that it was indeed embracing you always. You just wanted to fit in. Me, busted at Abercrombie & Fitch for shoplifting a pair of pants when I was supposed to be at ballet class. The noise of the security alarm still makes my heart skip a beat to this day. I just wanted to fit in.
You, always the jokester, heard that you could wear anything for your high school senior picture, so you decided that you'd shoot yours wearing nothing! Armed with a Tom-drum, you stood nude outside the school commons in front of the gazebo, your long hair pulled back into a ponytail making your ears look awkwardly large, eyes twinkling, you suspended the Tom in front of your privates. Mr. C, who's in-session class were witnesses to the photo shoot, cranked open his window and called out, "Ted, you're flattering yourself! All you need is a bongo!" You, unfazed (and knowing he was actually incorrect) grinned through your eyes as the camera clicked. A month later, the 8th grade me traded my photo for a copy of your photo. Maybe you didn't know, but they were being passed around the school like secret-underground Playboy magazines. I still have that photo, tattered in my wallet, it often falls out when I pull out my debit card or ID and I blush as I realize I'm holding the kiddie-porn version of the grown man I love, now a ghost.
You graduated, making your way to Oregon. And I continued at the school for another 4 years through high school: dancing, cheer-leading, high-jumping, sneaking into coat closets to make out with boys at school, sneaking out my window to go to a party, or sneaking boys into my window... always trying to be cooler than I thought I was and often acting pretty slutty. When I told you that, years later, you smiled and rolled your eyes, citing 'sexual liberation' as a better word. You admired me as a woman, even the teenage-version you never knew. Despite moving to Austin for college, I continued to generally date people from our school. Later, when we started dating, I told you that I always knew I was supposed to end up with someone from there, I just had to keep searching until I figured out who. It was you. I imagined the alumni newsletter arriving with news of our impending marriage:
"Ted Welles of '98 and Samantha Lipman of '02 are engaged to be married. They reside in Boulder, Colorado in a castle in the sky with their dog: Kira, cat: Beats, and roommate: Kevin. Their love is so off the charts that even our AP Statistics class can't chart it. When here at school, Mr. C favored Ted, but despised Sami; in fact, once he made her cry in front of the whole library. Sami always RSVPs them for alumni events, but they never show up because Ted doesn't actually want to go. Ted helped clean and organize the AV closet by the vendies: a true gentleman. Four-years later, Sami snuck in there to give a hand-job. They both were in Mrs. B's advisee and have dreams about the grammar they learned from her: Ted's are about being impeccably perfect and Sami's are about when she can break the rules. Maybe they'll get married in front of the Smead Building, in between the trees that smell like cum. We wish them a lifetime of love, happiness, Oxford commas, and financial contributions."
As the wind smacked the siding of our house this morning, it took me a long time to get out of bed. Every time I closed my eyes, trying to get a few more moments of rest, flashbacks from that terrible night would pop into my mind. I sighed and opened my eyes for the day. As the trauma of that night fades from immediacy, I think the PTSD is beginning to settle in. I heard a siren the other day and I felt my heart rise up through my throat to my crown. A bus pulled out into traffic, but not into my lane at all, and I swerved and cried out. I wonder if I'll be jumpy forever? I wonder if every time I feel love, I will also feel grief, like both sides of a hand: the back and the palm.
I opened the blinds and the sunlight wasn't there to greet me as it has been daily. The wind whirled and clouds moved in. Are you upset with me for leaving for the weekend?
I thought leaving the house would be good. It would give me a break from being completely engulfed in memories of you. Earlier this week I put away 3 baskets of your laundry. April stood chatting with me so I was less likely to stare at each t-shirt before hanging it, recall the last time I'd seen you in it and melt into the carpet sobbing, using each clean t-shirt to wipe my snot and dry my tears. I put each shirt back in your closet, color-coded, just how you like them. I felt a bit of guilt because I knew you would have ideally preferred me to tumble dry them all again for twenty-minutes; they were a bit crumpled after sitting in the baskets for a week and you would want them wrinkle-free. I put everything back in its place as if you were just gone on a trip or a tour or out walking the dog, about to pop back in, climb the stairs, kiss my forehead, and hop in the shower before sliding into a fresh shirt.
As I prepared to pack for the weekend trip, I pulled out my suitcase. It still had a luggage tag from our last trip. You always tore off the tags when unpacking, but I would leave them on: a reminder of the last time we went somewhere together. I studied it, trying to place where the tag was from. When was the last time I'd flown with that carry-on roller? My mind blank. My memory has been hazy these past couple weeks. I think the shock of the present is all my mind can wrap itself around, and my brain is saying "Don't worry about anything else right now, Sami. This is all you can handle for the time being."
I've avoided looking at pictures of us, watching the videos people are posting, or listening to the voicemails on my phone from you – even the one that's forty-seconds long and I've never listened to before. I feel so much pain without needing to see or hear the reminders. I'm living amongst the reminders. I changed the toilet paper roll yesterday thinking "he was the last one to change this roll". I touch everything gently: the shower handle, each piece of cutlery, the cat – maybe he was the last one to touch right here. I walk through the house in a daze, stopping to run my hand along the banister, remembering how just months ago you carefully wrapped it in streamers for my birthday party, redoing my half-assed attempt. I stop at the bookshelf; I read the titles and pull out books, leafing through them and gingerly touching earmarked pages. I have a huge stack of your books to read, dying to fill my mind with everything that was in your mind.
As I pack my clothes, I realize how painfully sad I am. I'm choosing outfits you won't see me in. "Why even bother," I ask myself. I'm leaving the house that's still full of you even though you aren't physically here. I tell myself it will be good to get away for a few days, noting to myself sensibly that I'm sitting in your tomb, suffocating in memories. But I love this tomb and each memory is beautiful and the thought of going away into the mountains and creating memories without you is fucking heartbreaking. My mind retorts. My heart cracks more, like a car's broken windshield in the dry mountain air or the Liberty Bell. How can it keep breaking more? I moved to the mountains to be with you. I would have chosen the sea if it were up to me alone, but I chose you and the mountains and I fell in love with their grounding and their strength and mostly I fell in love with YOU. And I need YOU. And I don't want to leave you, like you left me.
Last night I went out with the girls. Angie, Elizabeth, Signe, and I got our nails done and grabbed a bite of food. Ted, do you know that I have had a manicure every day for the past year in case you ever proposed to me? So that my hands would be a canvas for the beautiful, sparkling symbol of our love and our oath to be together forever? Do you know that when your family gathered around me and proposed to me on your behalf, my manicure was torn off, exposing layers of brittle nails and ripped cuticles? Not that it matters at all anymore, but it used to. I used to painstakingly choose a color every two weeks, over-analyzing, "Should this be the color I'm wearing when it happens?" My nail lady would smile through the language barrier, she got it. So last night, I chose a color. I chose it nearly as quickly as I chose the dress I wore to your funeral. Because those things don't matter anymore. Maybe they never should have mattered, but now they truly don't. Is that a lesson this is supposed to teach me? Did this happen so that I would be forced to see what's actually important? Love, not nails? Love, not fashion? Love, not marriage? Couldn't you have taught me this a different way, God?
All snuggled into a booth at a Mexican restaurant, the tears began. I'd been doing pretty well until that point. I told the girls how I was feeling scared about two things in particular, right now:
One. I'm scared of being alone. I have had boyfriends since I was 18-years-old. I've never been single for more than two months. I am now 30. That's twelve years of partnerships.
When relationships have ended in the past, it's because one or both partners decide it's time: everything has been gained from the relationship that can be. You glean from it and you learn what is right and what is not right for each individual. You probably leave some of your love with that person, a special place for their memory, but mainly, you take your love back. Then you have all that love that you are ready to give to the next person. And then more love is created in the next relationship and the cycle continues. Love grows and awareness sharpens.
So here I am, with many relationships behind me (maybe too many), and so much love. But this one is different. It doesn't match the cycle. I am not done. I don't want anyone else ever at all (the thought of it literally makes me sick to my stomach). I wasn't done gleaning from my relationship with Ted, I never would have been. He was the relationship all the other ones had lead me to, had carved the way for. And now I have all this love and no matter how many times I say to myself 'give it to his spirit' and 'give it to yourself,' I don't really know how, and that is a very, very lonely feeling. People tell me, 'it will take time'. I hear that and I trust that, but 'time' for a woman who has never been alone for more than two months is terrifying. I am trying to just stuff this concern back into my brain and not focus on it, kind of like the photos, the voicemails, and the clothes in the closet that I'll deal with someday, maybe.
Two. I'm scared that Ted is sad. I don't know what my beliefs are exactly, but I do have confidence that in whatever way the realms work, that Ted is an angel. I had never really given too much thought to angels but prior to all this, I just kind of assumed they fly around being compassionate and shooting arrows of love at people and animals. Ted did that during his life, so I would hope that he's doing it now! But then I had a conversation with Ted's mentor... who is now my therapist. She pointed out that compassion, in it's purest state, would be hard to achieve without an understanding of pain or anguish. It made sense to me completely. How can an angel, or a spirit, or a master, or whatever you want to call it, feel true love without feeling it's opposite? Again, like two sides of your hand, love on the palm, anguish on the back.
So as I woke to the wind ripping through the trees, I feared that Ted was sad. That he was crying from whatever the bigger place is where he resides now. He doesn't have all of the thousands of people who've reached out to me, to help me, to hold me... there, with him, to help and to hold him. How can he? I mean, maybe we're doing it right and giving him peace, but maybe we're not. How do we know?
So probably the most difficult part of all of this to me right now, is the fear that Ted is suffering and that I can't help him: that he is asking for help through the wind. Maybe he's asking me not to leave the house for the weekend, because maybe he won't be able to see me in the mountains. But I don't know. And there's no way for me to ever know, for certain. But, Ted, my love, I hope that you are at peace, and that only those of us on Earth have to feel this sadness. And that the wind is just a breeze coming from a weather pattern that used to be a storm somewhere else, that has nothing to do with anger, sadness, or us. I love you.
I am going to Steamboat Springs today with my dad and three friends I went to prep school with. The four of us make up over ten percent of our 8th grade class. They are the old friends, the ones who come out of the woodwork to rally love and support. They all know you too, because you and I went to the same prep school, even though we didn't date until much later, and you were five-years older than I.
I think of you as a senior in high school, a very cool guy, even though you claimed you weren't. Me, a confused 8th grader, focusing on first-kisses and school dances and playing footsie with a cute boy at Assembly. You, soaking up art classes, playing bass, and singing lead vocals in a band called Endangered Feces at our school variety shows known as Coffeeshop. Me, overly concerned about my appearance. I was at a very high-tuition school but on an academic scholarship; all the kids in my class arrived, modeling the latest Abercrombie & Fitch khakis and flannels while I wore the J.C. Penny knockoffs. You, numbing your depression with a weed habit; sneaking out to the parking lot for a joint or a cigarette. You, looking for love in ways you weren't receiving it, unbeknownst to the fact that it was indeed embracing you always. You just wanted to fit in. Me, busted at Abercrombie & Fitch for shoplifting a pair of pants when I was supposed to be at ballet class. The noise of the security alarm still makes my heart skip a beat to this day. I just wanted to fit in.
You, always the jokester, heard that you could wear anything for your high school senior picture, so you decided that you'd shoot yours wearing nothing! Armed with a Tom-drum, you stood nude outside the school commons in front of the gazebo, your long hair pulled back into a ponytail making your ears look awkwardly large, eyes twinkling, you suspended the Tom in front of your privates. Mr. C, who's in-session class were witnesses to the photo shoot, cranked open his window and called out, "Ted, you're flattering yourself! All you need is a bongo!" You, unfazed (and knowing he was actually incorrect) grinned through your eyes as the camera clicked. A month later, the 8th grade me traded my photo for a copy of your photo. Maybe you didn't know, but they were being passed around the school like secret-underground Playboy magazines. I still have that photo, tattered in my wallet, it often falls out when I pull out my debit card or ID and I blush as I realize I'm holding the kiddie-porn version of the grown man I love, now a ghost.
You graduated, making your way to Oregon. And I continued at the school for another 4 years through high school: dancing, cheer-leading, high-jumping, sneaking into coat closets to make out with boys at school, sneaking out my window to go to a party, or sneaking boys into my window... always trying to be cooler than I thought I was and often acting pretty slutty. When I told you that, years later, you smiled and rolled your eyes, citing 'sexual liberation' as a better word. You admired me as a woman, even the teenage-version you never knew. Despite moving to Austin for college, I continued to generally date people from our school. Later, when we started dating, I told you that I always knew I was supposed to end up with someone from there, I just had to keep searching until I figured out who. It was you. I imagined the alumni newsletter arriving with news of our impending marriage:
"Ted Welles of '98 and Samantha Lipman of '02 are engaged to be married. They reside in Boulder, Colorado in a castle in the sky with their dog: Kira, cat: Beats, and roommate: Kevin. Their love is so off the charts that even our AP Statistics class can't chart it. When here at school, Mr. C favored Ted, but despised Sami; in fact, once he made her cry in front of the whole library. Sami always RSVPs them for alumni events, but they never show up because Ted doesn't actually want to go. Ted helped clean and organize the AV closet by the vendies: a true gentleman. Four-years later, Sami snuck in there to give a hand-job. They both were in Mrs. B's advisee and have dreams about the grammar they learned from her: Ted's are about being impeccably perfect and Sami's are about when she can break the rules. Maybe they'll get married in front of the Smead Building, in between the trees that smell like cum. We wish them a lifetime of love, happiness, Oxford commas, and financial contributions."
As the wind smacked the siding of our house this morning, it took me a long time to get out of bed. Every time I closed my eyes, trying to get a few more moments of rest, flashbacks from that terrible night would pop into my mind. I sighed and opened my eyes for the day. As the trauma of that night fades from immediacy, I think the PTSD is beginning to settle in. I heard a siren the other day and I felt my heart rise up through my throat to my crown. A bus pulled out into traffic, but not into my lane at all, and I swerved and cried out. I wonder if I'll be jumpy forever? I wonder if every time I feel love, I will also feel grief, like both sides of a hand: the back and the palm.
I opened the blinds and the sunlight wasn't there to greet me as it has been daily. The wind whirled and clouds moved in. Are you upset with me for leaving for the weekend?
I thought leaving the house would be good. It would give me a break from being completely engulfed in memories of you. Earlier this week I put away 3 baskets of your laundry. April stood chatting with me so I was less likely to stare at each t-shirt before hanging it, recall the last time I'd seen you in it and melt into the carpet sobbing, using each clean t-shirt to wipe my snot and dry my tears. I put each shirt back in your closet, color-coded, just how you like them. I felt a bit of guilt because I knew you would have ideally preferred me to tumble dry them all again for twenty-minutes; they were a bit crumpled after sitting in the baskets for a week and you would want them wrinkle-free. I put everything back in its place as if you were just gone on a trip or a tour or out walking the dog, about to pop back in, climb the stairs, kiss my forehead, and hop in the shower before sliding into a fresh shirt.
As I prepared to pack for the weekend trip, I pulled out my suitcase. It still had a luggage tag from our last trip. You always tore off the tags when unpacking, but I would leave them on: a reminder of the last time we went somewhere together. I studied it, trying to place where the tag was from. When was the last time I'd flown with that carry-on roller? My mind blank. My memory has been hazy these past couple weeks. I think the shock of the present is all my mind can wrap itself around, and my brain is saying "Don't worry about anything else right now, Sami. This is all you can handle for the time being."
I've avoided looking at pictures of us, watching the videos people are posting, or listening to the voicemails on my phone from you – even the one that's forty-seconds long and I've never listened to before. I feel so much pain without needing to see or hear the reminders. I'm living amongst the reminders. I changed the toilet paper roll yesterday thinking "he was the last one to change this roll". I touch everything gently: the shower handle, each piece of cutlery, the cat – maybe he was the last one to touch right here. I walk through the house in a daze, stopping to run my hand along the banister, remembering how just months ago you carefully wrapped it in streamers for my birthday party, redoing my half-assed attempt. I stop at the bookshelf; I read the titles and pull out books, leafing through them and gingerly touching earmarked pages. I have a huge stack of your books to read, dying to fill my mind with everything that was in your mind.
As I pack my clothes, I realize how painfully sad I am. I'm choosing outfits you won't see me in. "Why even bother," I ask myself. I'm leaving the house that's still full of you even though you aren't physically here. I tell myself it will be good to get away for a few days, noting to myself sensibly that I'm sitting in your tomb, suffocating in memories. But I love this tomb and each memory is beautiful and the thought of going away into the mountains and creating memories without you is fucking heartbreaking. My mind retorts. My heart cracks more, like a car's broken windshield in the dry mountain air or the Liberty Bell. How can it keep breaking more? I moved to the mountains to be with you. I would have chosen the sea if it were up to me alone, but I chose you and the mountains and I fell in love with their grounding and their strength and mostly I fell in love with YOU. And I need YOU. And I don't want to leave you, like you left me.
Last night I went out with the girls. Angie, Elizabeth, Signe, and I got our nails done and grabbed a bite of food. Ted, do you know that I have had a manicure every day for the past year in case you ever proposed to me? So that my hands would be a canvas for the beautiful, sparkling symbol of our love and our oath to be together forever? Do you know that when your family gathered around me and proposed to me on your behalf, my manicure was torn off, exposing layers of brittle nails and ripped cuticles? Not that it matters at all anymore, but it used to. I used to painstakingly choose a color every two weeks, over-analyzing, "Should this be the color I'm wearing when it happens?" My nail lady would smile through the language barrier, she got it. So last night, I chose a color. I chose it nearly as quickly as I chose the dress I wore to your funeral. Because those things don't matter anymore. Maybe they never should have mattered, but now they truly don't. Is that a lesson this is supposed to teach me? Did this happen so that I would be forced to see what's actually important? Love, not nails? Love, not fashion? Love, not marriage? Couldn't you have taught me this a different way, God?
All snuggled into a booth at a Mexican restaurant, the tears began. I'd been doing pretty well until that point. I told the girls how I was feeling scared about two things in particular, right now:
One. I'm scared of being alone. I have had boyfriends since I was 18-years-old. I've never been single for more than two months. I am now 30. That's twelve years of partnerships.
When relationships have ended in the past, it's because one or both partners decide it's time: everything has been gained from the relationship that can be. You glean from it and you learn what is right and what is not right for each individual. You probably leave some of your love with that person, a special place for their memory, but mainly, you take your love back. Then you have all that love that you are ready to give to the next person. And then more love is created in the next relationship and the cycle continues. Love grows and awareness sharpens.
So here I am, with many relationships behind me (maybe too many), and so much love. But this one is different. It doesn't match the cycle. I am not done. I don't want anyone else ever at all (the thought of it literally makes me sick to my stomach). I wasn't done gleaning from my relationship with Ted, I never would have been. He was the relationship all the other ones had lead me to, had carved the way for. And now I have all this love and no matter how many times I say to myself 'give it to his spirit' and 'give it to yourself,' I don't really know how, and that is a very, very lonely feeling. People tell me, 'it will take time'. I hear that and I trust that, but 'time' for a woman who has never been alone for more than two months is terrifying. I am trying to just stuff this concern back into my brain and not focus on it, kind of like the photos, the voicemails, and the clothes in the closet that I'll deal with someday, maybe.
Two. I'm scared that Ted is sad. I don't know what my beliefs are exactly, but I do have confidence that in whatever way the realms work, that Ted is an angel. I had never really given too much thought to angels but prior to all this, I just kind of assumed they fly around being compassionate and shooting arrows of love at people and animals. Ted did that during his life, so I would hope that he's doing it now! But then I had a conversation with Ted's mentor... who is now my therapist. She pointed out that compassion, in it's purest state, would be hard to achieve without an understanding of pain or anguish. It made sense to me completely. How can an angel, or a spirit, or a master, or whatever you want to call it, feel true love without feeling it's opposite? Again, like two sides of your hand, love on the palm, anguish on the back.
So as I woke to the wind ripping through the trees, I feared that Ted was sad. That he was crying from whatever the bigger place is where he resides now. He doesn't have all of the thousands of people who've reached out to me, to help me, to hold me... there, with him, to help and to hold him. How can he? I mean, maybe we're doing it right and giving him peace, but maybe we're not. How do we know?
So probably the most difficult part of all of this to me right now, is the fear that Ted is suffering and that I can't help him: that he is asking for help through the wind. Maybe he's asking me not to leave the house for the weekend, because maybe he won't be able to see me in the mountains. But I don't know. And there's no way for me to ever know, for certain. But, Ted, my love, I hope that you are at peace, and that only those of us on Earth have to feel this sadness. And that the wind is just a breeze coming from a weather pattern that used to be a storm somewhere else, that has nothing to do with anger, sadness, or us. I love you.
Ritual
As I write this morning, I'm sitting out on our deck. I can hear a woodpecker pecking at a tree. I wonder if it's the same bird that just a few weeks ago was hammering at our stucco as we sat in this same spot, enjoying the Colorado morning. You pelted the bird with one of the buckeyes your mom had sent from autumn Ohio. It flew off and then landed again, continuing to peck on another side of the house. We sat, in silence. You, staring into nature and sipping your tea. Me, checking social media, emailing with my co-workers, and drinking my daily half cup of coffee. "I wish there was a coffee cup that stayed warm so that my coffee wouldn't get cold by the time I'm halfway done," I'd say. "Maybe it's a sign you only need a half cup, you seem pretty awake already!" you'd joke. You, peaceful. Me, frantic, some minor work stress would have me yammering already.
My phone buzzed, it was an old friend I rarely talk to, "Oh my goddddd, guess who it is?" One of the ones that it's probably best that I only rarely talk to. You, knowing this completely and knowing who it was, smiled understandingly and without a drop of judgment. You know how painstaking it is for me to cut off love and people I have cared about, you asked how she was. You sent her your love. I get up off my chair and scoot in next to you, throwing my arms around you, and more importantly, putting down my phone. We kiss. You tell me I taste like coffee. You like the taste of coffee.
Cuddled up on the patio sofa, we quietly admire Boulder from the top of our mountain. You sing, quoting your favorite band, "Colorado bluebird sky, we could live a mile high...Colorado, bluebird sky!" I snuggle in more, you know it's because I love when you sing. Our 'castle in the sky,' we called it. Thirty-six acres of untouched nature. You planned on making secret trails, rock formations, and forts hidden throughout the property, so that one day our children would find them when exploring.
Kira meanders through the ripped screen door, one of her doggy-boyfriends had busted through it a few months ago, and we decided to wait for the renovations before fixing it. Kira sniffs into the Colorado air, her tail gently wags as she reminds us how happy she is here, now a mountain-dog instead of an Austin-Texas-suburbia-dog.
Kira lays down on the edge of the deck, her front paws fit under where the deck's railing begins, and her chin resting gently on one of the grates. "She's so adorable when she lays like that," you say. Her ears perk as she spots deer. "They're looking for the salt-lick, I need to remember to pick one up from McGuckin's," you say. Kira watches the deer intently. She'd never seen deer in her 9-years until moving to Colorado. I grab my phone and hop up from my perch next to you and sprawl across the deck as I capture a picture of both Kira's cuteness and the deer in the distance. I send the picture to my old friend. You throw another buckeye at the woodpecker who's returned to the stucco above us, an odd act of violence considering your constant gentle nature. You miss drastically. I think it's adorable.
I hear your stomach rumble and automatically we get up to go make breakfast together. As we walk back inside we stop to watch a hummingbird at the feeder. "Damnit, I need to fill that feeder too," you remember. "I will do it right now," I respond. It's still not done. Another hummingbird arrives and scares off the first. You tell me a fact about how hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive birds despite their cuteness.
As we walk inside, we slide into our customary morning ritual. You make the breakfast salads: soft boiled eggs over organic salad greens, avocado, hemp seeds, broccoli sprouts, tomatoes, pickled-something, and any other leftovers from the fridge that make sense, topped with health tonic or a mix of apple cider vinegar, coconut aminos, tumeric, cayenne, Himalayan sea salt, and olive oil. I make the fruit salad: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and maybe a peach or mango dressed with lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, and shredded pickled ginger. You have a distinct nutritional reason for each ingredient. I don't remember them, but trust you. We chat about our day as we glide around each other in the kitchen. I notice you glancing at the clock. You like to be in front of your drum-kit practicing by nine, and it's 8:39. Twenty-one minutes is not much time for you to eat. You like to move slow, especially in the mornings. "You should chew each bite at least ten-times in order to get the full nutritional value of the food," you'd remind me often as I wolfed down my meals. One of the very few things we differed on was our pace. Why did you die so quickly, Teddy? Why didn't you take your time?
We finish the food prep and sit down at the table together. We chat about what yoga class we want to go to that day. We would go to yoga together a few times a week, but also felt comfortable attending classes independently, always honoring the practice, teacher, and timing that worked for each others mood or schedule. You fill me in on the latest detail about a rehearsal or upcoming gig. I'd offer my thoughts or request a song for the setlist. I'd let you know how many pages I was planning to design that day for my magazine. I'd tell you about a certain interview or celebrity we were featuring and read you a pull-quote I thought you'd like from the content. Whichever one of us felt less crunched for time would offer to do the dishes. We'd say "I love you," hug, kiss, and then part ways – you down to the music studio in the basement, me up to my office upstairs. Morning ritual complete.
Yesterday was really hard.
I haven't 'heard' from you in a while. I saw the bear over a week ago. The high of your memorial has passed, and a dreary lull has set in. Your friends who all flew in are now gone, back at work. I'd been asking to see a fox for over a week, with no luck. I've only seen two foxes ever, so it's no surprise.
When we first started dating and were still long-distance, you went on a hut trip with a group of friends. You told me a story about how it was late at night and you all decided to go on a long hike. Most of the people had been drinking throughout the evening, but you were sober and led the way. You all hiked up Vail mountain, the moonlight reflected on the white snow as your guide. You made it to your destination, only a few people left in the group, most having turned back along the way, probably ready to pass out or refill a flask. Once at the top, you told me how you sat down on a rock or a log to eat a Kind-Bar, you snacked nearly every hour. Suddenly, you noticed a fox standing very nearby. You slowly held out the bar, and shockingly, the fox came and ate it, right out of your gloved-hand, then darted off. You were incredibly moved. Since then, you decided your spirit animal must be a fox.
Months later, when I was visiting you in Boulder, we went into a gem shop and read about animal totems. I read you the fox and the bear. I felt that you fit the bear description more, and later, purchased you a Native-American bear carving which I'd strung to a necklace and given you for your 34th birthday. But I knew you still loved the fox, especially after that incident.
A year after I gave you that gift, yesterday, your 35th birthday, I went into the Bill Cronin Goldsmiths with your Aunt Ginny. The aunt that I'd deeply connected with every time I'd talked to her during your life. The aunt whose incredible book I inhaled, feeling as though I was reading her intimate journal. The aunt I called that night of the sirens and the detectives as I watched the ambulance pull away from our house, the EMS refusing to let me ride along. The aunt who caught me in the hospital, as I fell to the ground screaming, after a stoic male nurse ushered us into a windowless, chair-less closet and said, "David is no longer with us." His name is Ted.
Ginny and I went to the jewelers together to hear the story of the engagement ring you had designed for me. I was doing OK yesterday morning until I walked through those doors. A girl who worked there said, "Are you Sami?" Her voice was thick with pity. "Yes." I started to cry. She told me how sorry she was. "Thank you," I muttered, my most repeated words of the past couple weeks. The jewelers, Bill and Carrie, took us and a box of Kleenex into the back room. They told me about how they are generally so lucky to work with people during the happiest times of their lives, during the birth of new partnerships, the anniversaries of love, the precious moments. Not deaths before engagements. "Nothing like this has ever happened," they tell me. I'm relieved for that, relieved that no one else has had to feel this despair. But why me? I thought that a lot yesterday.
They told me how they see couples all the time. They see men choosing rings for women daily. And because of that, they have an eye for the 'good ones'. You were a good one. We were a good one. They told me that you took more care and interest than most men in the process of creating this beautiful ring: designing it hand-in-hand with them, incorporating diamonds from your grandparent's broach, and choosing a flawless center pear-shape stone, just like the one I'd shown you. You were going to pick it up last Thursday. Five days after your death. They cried. Ginny cried. I cried. Probably some of the only tears of sadness that have ever hit the floor of that goldsmith shop. This was not how it was supposed to be.
I went to yoga again yesterday. I remembered how we had gone to yoga together on my 30th birthday this year. No one else had shown up for class, so it was a private for just you and I. I knew that, no matter how hard it was, it was important to go to yoga on your birthday. For you and for me, our ritual. I went to a different studio and a different teacher than I had a few days ago when I'd returned to my practice for the first time since this disaster. I'm being incredibly careful with the classes I choose because I'm so incredibly vulnerable right now. Elizabeth joined me. We went to the back. Her on one side, a wall on the other. Before your death, I was front and center, now I hide. The class didn't go as well as I expected. The room was packed, mat to mat. The music was loud, lyrical, and sad. The teacher had us balancing a lot, on one foot, with bound-arm variations. I sensed immediately that I don't need to be balancing in yoga right now. I don't need to be on one-foot, with my arms wrapped asymmetrically. My life is already the most chilling, bound-up balancing act I've ever experienced, by far. I need to be low to the earth, on two feet, grounded. I want to hug the earth for security, not try to fly. I was flying two weeks ago, soaring. And I crashed.
After yoga, on my drive home, I was crying so hard that it looked like I was driving through a storm. I pull over, unwilling to drive recklessly. I cry loudly and call out your name. I punch the steering wheel and scream at the heavens. Why??? It's his birthday!!! I realize that I'm really, really missing you, my best friend. I think about how during yoga, the teacher had played the same song that she had a couple weeks before. I'd come home and you'd asked me how class was. "Good. But she played the world's worst song for yoga," I'd answered. A quiz! You lit up, and started guessing. "Krishna Das?" You joked. Knowing I liked him, you always referred to him as drunk Eddie Veder.' "Wagon-wheel!?" Getting warmer. I couldn't wait, "FREE-FALLING!" "Noooooooooooooo," you replied. We laughed. Who would I tell these stories to now? Who would I tell that this time, not only had she played it again, but it had been a cover, sung by a woman, which obviously topped the badness-chart in comparison to the original.
I wiped my eyes and drove home. I cried the whole way, the most crying I'd done in a few days. Helpless, woeful, and really sad. Keeping my eyes wiped only to look for other drivers on the road and mostly, a fox. I was exhausted, but knew I had to pull it together. I was going out with thirty of your friends for sushi, your all-time favorite meal, to celebrate your birthday. Without you. I sure hope they serve sushi in heaven.
Dinner was touching. I quietly wondered what the turnout would have been if you were still alive. Uni was ordered in your honor. Quail-egg shots were slurped. Boat after boat of sushi arrived. I ordered some of your favorites, even though they weren't mine, like saba and tobiko. I thought of you as every piece of roe exploded and gushed in my mouth. A cheers was made, "To Ted's life! Kampai" Glasses were clinked, smiles all around.
I couldn't do it. I excused myself to the bathroom. I wasn't ready for their smiles, I want your smile. The girls knocked at the door. The girls who just a few weeks ago were the girlfriends of your friends who I was just getting to know, but now are my roots and my lifeline and so incredibly important to me. They hugged me, understanding. No words needed.
On the drive home I was so tired. Luckily, I've been able to sleep a lot throughout this nightmare, completely exhausted. I keep telling myself that it's you helping me get through the nights. I am not certain, because there's no way to prove it, which drives me nuts. But I try to have faith that your soul is snuggling up with me every night, guiding me to sleep, and holding me in your wings as I dream peacefully and wake up with no memory of what I've dreamt. Strange, because I used to always remember my dreams. So, I curl up in the back of the car as Kevin drives and my dad sits shotgun – they talk about music and I drift off to sleep like a baby in a carseat, rocked by the rhythm of the road.
Suddenly, Kevin yells, "SAMI! Wake up!" I shoot up, we're nearing our driveway, angling around the last turn on our road. Off to the right of the road, where I instinctively looked, stands a small red fox. We make eye contact, then he disappears into the darkness.
My phone buzzed, it was an old friend I rarely talk to, "Oh my goddddd, guess who it is?" One of the ones that it's probably best that I only rarely talk to. You, knowing this completely and knowing who it was, smiled understandingly and without a drop of judgment. You know how painstaking it is for me to cut off love and people I have cared about, you asked how she was. You sent her your love. I get up off my chair and scoot in next to you, throwing my arms around you, and more importantly, putting down my phone. We kiss. You tell me I taste like coffee. You like the taste of coffee.
Cuddled up on the patio sofa, we quietly admire Boulder from the top of our mountain. You sing, quoting your favorite band, "Colorado bluebird sky, we could live a mile high...Colorado, bluebird sky!" I snuggle in more, you know it's because I love when you sing. Our 'castle in the sky,' we called it. Thirty-six acres of untouched nature. You planned on making secret trails, rock formations, and forts hidden throughout the property, so that one day our children would find them when exploring.
Kira meanders through the ripped screen door, one of her doggy-boyfriends had busted through it a few months ago, and we decided to wait for the renovations before fixing it. Kira sniffs into the Colorado air, her tail gently wags as she reminds us how happy she is here, now a mountain-dog instead of an Austin-Texas-suburbia-dog.
Kira lays down on the edge of the deck, her front paws fit under where the deck's railing begins, and her chin resting gently on one of the grates. "She's so adorable when she lays like that," you say. Her ears perk as she spots deer. "They're looking for the salt-lick, I need to remember to pick one up from McGuckin's," you say. Kira watches the deer intently. She'd never seen deer in her 9-years until moving to Colorado. I grab my phone and hop up from my perch next to you and sprawl across the deck as I capture a picture of both Kira's cuteness and the deer in the distance. I send the picture to my old friend. You throw another buckeye at the woodpecker who's returned to the stucco above us, an odd act of violence considering your constant gentle nature. You miss drastically. I think it's adorable.
I hear your stomach rumble and automatically we get up to go make breakfast together. As we walk back inside we stop to watch a hummingbird at the feeder. "Damnit, I need to fill that feeder too," you remember. "I will do it right now," I respond. It's still not done. Another hummingbird arrives and scares off the first. You tell me a fact about how hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive birds despite their cuteness.
As we walk inside, we slide into our customary morning ritual. You make the breakfast salads: soft boiled eggs over organic salad greens, avocado, hemp seeds, broccoli sprouts, tomatoes, pickled-something, and any other leftovers from the fridge that make sense, topped with health tonic or a mix of apple cider vinegar, coconut aminos, tumeric, cayenne, Himalayan sea salt, and olive oil. I make the fruit salad: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and maybe a peach or mango dressed with lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, and shredded pickled ginger. You have a distinct nutritional reason for each ingredient. I don't remember them, but trust you. We chat about our day as we glide around each other in the kitchen. I notice you glancing at the clock. You like to be in front of your drum-kit practicing by nine, and it's 8:39. Twenty-one minutes is not much time for you to eat. You like to move slow, especially in the mornings. "You should chew each bite at least ten-times in order to get the full nutritional value of the food," you'd remind me often as I wolfed down my meals. One of the very few things we differed on was our pace. Why did you die so quickly, Teddy? Why didn't you take your time?
We finish the food prep and sit down at the table together. We chat about what yoga class we want to go to that day. We would go to yoga together a few times a week, but also felt comfortable attending classes independently, always honoring the practice, teacher, and timing that worked for each others mood or schedule. You fill me in on the latest detail about a rehearsal or upcoming gig. I'd offer my thoughts or request a song for the setlist. I'd let you know how many pages I was planning to design that day for my magazine. I'd tell you about a certain interview or celebrity we were featuring and read you a pull-quote I thought you'd like from the content. Whichever one of us felt less crunched for time would offer to do the dishes. We'd say "I love you," hug, kiss, and then part ways – you down to the music studio in the basement, me up to my office upstairs. Morning ritual complete.
Yesterday was really hard.
I haven't 'heard' from you in a while. I saw the bear over a week ago. The high of your memorial has passed, and a dreary lull has set in. Your friends who all flew in are now gone, back at work. I'd been asking to see a fox for over a week, with no luck. I've only seen two foxes ever, so it's no surprise.
When we first started dating and were still long-distance, you went on a hut trip with a group of friends. You told me a story about how it was late at night and you all decided to go on a long hike. Most of the people had been drinking throughout the evening, but you were sober and led the way. You all hiked up Vail mountain, the moonlight reflected on the white snow as your guide. You made it to your destination, only a few people left in the group, most having turned back along the way, probably ready to pass out or refill a flask. Once at the top, you told me how you sat down on a rock or a log to eat a Kind-Bar, you snacked nearly every hour. Suddenly, you noticed a fox standing very nearby. You slowly held out the bar, and shockingly, the fox came and ate it, right out of your gloved-hand, then darted off. You were incredibly moved. Since then, you decided your spirit animal must be a fox.
Months later, when I was visiting you in Boulder, we went into a gem shop and read about animal totems. I read you the fox and the bear. I felt that you fit the bear description more, and later, purchased you a Native-American bear carving which I'd strung to a necklace and given you for your 34th birthday. But I knew you still loved the fox, especially after that incident.
A year after I gave you that gift, yesterday, your 35th birthday, I went into the Bill Cronin Goldsmiths with your Aunt Ginny. The aunt that I'd deeply connected with every time I'd talked to her during your life. The aunt whose incredible book I inhaled, feeling as though I was reading her intimate journal. The aunt I called that night of the sirens and the detectives as I watched the ambulance pull away from our house, the EMS refusing to let me ride along. The aunt who caught me in the hospital, as I fell to the ground screaming, after a stoic male nurse ushered us into a windowless, chair-less closet and said, "David is no longer with us." His name is Ted.
Ginny and I went to the jewelers together to hear the story of the engagement ring you had designed for me. I was doing OK yesterday morning until I walked through those doors. A girl who worked there said, "Are you Sami?" Her voice was thick with pity. "Yes." I started to cry. She told me how sorry she was. "Thank you," I muttered, my most repeated words of the past couple weeks. The jewelers, Bill and Carrie, took us and a box of Kleenex into the back room. They told me about how they are generally so lucky to work with people during the happiest times of their lives, during the birth of new partnerships, the anniversaries of love, the precious moments. Not deaths before engagements. "Nothing like this has ever happened," they tell me. I'm relieved for that, relieved that no one else has had to feel this despair. But why me? I thought that a lot yesterday.
They told me how they see couples all the time. They see men choosing rings for women daily. And because of that, they have an eye for the 'good ones'. You were a good one. We were a good one. They told me that you took more care and interest than most men in the process of creating this beautiful ring: designing it hand-in-hand with them, incorporating diamonds from your grandparent's broach, and choosing a flawless center pear-shape stone, just like the one I'd shown you. You were going to pick it up last Thursday. Five days after your death. They cried. Ginny cried. I cried. Probably some of the only tears of sadness that have ever hit the floor of that goldsmith shop. This was not how it was supposed to be.
I went to yoga again yesterday. I remembered how we had gone to yoga together on my 30th birthday this year. No one else had shown up for class, so it was a private for just you and I. I knew that, no matter how hard it was, it was important to go to yoga on your birthday. For you and for me, our ritual. I went to a different studio and a different teacher than I had a few days ago when I'd returned to my practice for the first time since this disaster. I'm being incredibly careful with the classes I choose because I'm so incredibly vulnerable right now. Elizabeth joined me. We went to the back. Her on one side, a wall on the other. Before your death, I was front and center, now I hide. The class didn't go as well as I expected. The room was packed, mat to mat. The music was loud, lyrical, and sad. The teacher had us balancing a lot, on one foot, with bound-arm variations. I sensed immediately that I don't need to be balancing in yoga right now. I don't need to be on one-foot, with my arms wrapped asymmetrically. My life is already the most chilling, bound-up balancing act I've ever experienced, by far. I need to be low to the earth, on two feet, grounded. I want to hug the earth for security, not try to fly. I was flying two weeks ago, soaring. And I crashed.
After yoga, on my drive home, I was crying so hard that it looked like I was driving through a storm. I pull over, unwilling to drive recklessly. I cry loudly and call out your name. I punch the steering wheel and scream at the heavens. Why??? It's his birthday!!! I realize that I'm really, really missing you, my best friend. I think about how during yoga, the teacher had played the same song that she had a couple weeks before. I'd come home and you'd asked me how class was. "Good. But she played the world's worst song for yoga," I'd answered. A quiz! You lit up, and started guessing. "Krishna Das?" You joked. Knowing I liked him, you always referred to him as drunk Eddie Veder.' "Wagon-wheel!?" Getting warmer. I couldn't wait, "FREE-FALLING!" "Noooooooooooooo," you replied. We laughed. Who would I tell these stories to now? Who would I tell that this time, not only had she played it again, but it had been a cover, sung by a woman, which obviously topped the badness-chart in comparison to the original.
I wiped my eyes and drove home. I cried the whole way, the most crying I'd done in a few days. Helpless, woeful, and really sad. Keeping my eyes wiped only to look for other drivers on the road and mostly, a fox. I was exhausted, but knew I had to pull it together. I was going out with thirty of your friends for sushi, your all-time favorite meal, to celebrate your birthday. Without you. I sure hope they serve sushi in heaven.
Dinner was touching. I quietly wondered what the turnout would have been if you were still alive. Uni was ordered in your honor. Quail-egg shots were slurped. Boat after boat of sushi arrived. I ordered some of your favorites, even though they weren't mine, like saba and tobiko. I thought of you as every piece of roe exploded and gushed in my mouth. A cheers was made, "To Ted's life! Kampai" Glasses were clinked, smiles all around.
I couldn't do it. I excused myself to the bathroom. I wasn't ready for their smiles, I want your smile. The girls knocked at the door. The girls who just a few weeks ago were the girlfriends of your friends who I was just getting to know, but now are my roots and my lifeline and so incredibly important to me. They hugged me, understanding. No words needed.
On the drive home I was so tired. Luckily, I've been able to sleep a lot throughout this nightmare, completely exhausted. I keep telling myself that it's you helping me get through the nights. I am not certain, because there's no way to prove it, which drives me nuts. But I try to have faith that your soul is snuggling up with me every night, guiding me to sleep, and holding me in your wings as I dream peacefully and wake up with no memory of what I've dreamt. Strange, because I used to always remember my dreams. So, I curl up in the back of the car as Kevin drives and my dad sits shotgun – they talk about music and I drift off to sleep like a baby in a carseat, rocked by the rhythm of the road.
Suddenly, Kevin yells, "SAMI! Wake up!" I shoot up, we're nearing our driveway, angling around the last turn on our road. Off to the right of the road, where I instinctively looked, stands a small red fox. We make eye contact, then he disappears into the darkness.
Happy Birthday
That night, after the ambulances finally arrived, 16 gut-wrenching minutes after I called 911, our house was swarmed with EMS, detectives, police, sirens, lights-flashing. Kevin and I had followed every single instruction from the dispatcher in those long minutes. 700 chest compressions, Kevin had counted them without missing a beat. I had checked your airways repeatedly in case you were choking. You'd only eaten a few bites of yogurt and washed it down with some coconut milk. Your airways were clear, you weren't choking. What was wrong? At one point you took three very, very faint and raspy breaths. The vice-grip in my chest loosened, "He's breathing! He's breathing!" We stopped compressions. No more breaths. Kevin started them again. I called your name repeatedly, put my hand in yours, you didn't respond. No eyes. No grip. No breath. Nothing. You were talking to me one second, and then you were gone the next. I had said, "What are you most afraid of?" You said, "Anger." Then you were gone.
When the first sheriff arrived, I could tell he was nervous. Boulder cops don't see this often. He fumbled with the CPR mask. I couldn't believe he was bothering with it. HELP HIM NOW. I ran upstairs to let the EMS in. They were trying to back down our long driveway. "Just leave the ambulance there! Someone get inside NOW! Please! He's not breathing! PLEASSSSSE, " I cried, adrenaline pumping. What was probably only a minute seemed like ten. Then, suddenly, there were dozens of EMS and police in the basement. "Someone get this dog OUT of here," a policeman shouted. Kira was going back and forth between licking your face and barking at the men in hats. She loves you. I put her outside. "Who owns this house? Who lives here?" Unnecessary questions. "He does. We all live here," I said, numb. "I'm assuming you don't know this man's birthday," one of them shouted at me. "Of course I do. November 5, 1979," I answered his non-question. Assholes. Help him, please. I watched them drill a hole in your perfect leg, right by your Scorpio tattoo, and yell "Clear!" as they shocked your heart. Then they made us go upstairs to answer questions. Kevin held me tightly, holding me upright, reminding me to breath. He did everything right.
Happy birthday Teddy, my love. My hands are shaking as I type. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
I have been keeping a list of gifts for you in my phone for the past 6 months. Every time you've mentioned something you've wanted, liked, or thought was 'cool', I've written it down. You are a hard man to shop for because if you really want something, you can get it for yourself. I had already purchased many of your gifts for your birthday and Christmas. I'd gotten you two books you'd asked for: Heaven is Real, a story about a little boys trip to Heaven and back when he'd died for 3 minutes. (I've already read it over the past week. Now I believe in heaven, but only if I go to church. Strange, for a Jew.) I bought you A Wrinkle in Time, which you wanted to re-read as an adult and I thought was simply adorable. I'd been conferring with a couple members of your band to find the perfect case for your drum hardware. You'd been carrying it in an old ski-bag. It was to have handles and wheels and fit everything in the perfectly organized fashion you so loved.
I'd gotten you a pair of funny one-piece-footie-pajamas. They have a butt you can unsnap to use the bathroom. You would have thought they were hilarious. I imagined you wearing them on cold days after skiing when we were snuggled up drinking hot toddies by the fire. You, a 35 year old man, with the spirit and pjs of an 8-year-old. Along the same line, I'd gotten you a Phil Lewis coloring book for grown-ups. You mentioned how fun it would be to have one a few weeks ago to a friend. You didn't even know I was listening, but I was. You hated your iPhone case. It was hard to remove to charge and plug into the mp3 player and we always laughed because when you pulled out your phone other items in your pocket would stick to it, like your keys or wallet. I got you a new case, one that wasn't sticky rubber, with an Alex Grey painting on it called "Theologue". The painting is described as "The union of human and divine consciousness weaving the fabric of space and time in which the self and its surroundings are embedded". When it arrived in the mail I noticed the print wasn't perfectly centered, which I knew you'd notice. I considered returning it, but never did.
We had gone to Burning Man this past year and both loved the sculpture, Embrace. We hadn't seen it burn because it was at sunrise, and I was never very good at staying up until sunrise. You loved being up all night, seeing the sun peek over the playa, a new day ahead. I felt guilty and like I should be asleep. So we'd missed the burn and we never had a chance to go inside it. But, I'd gotten you a piece of it. Android Jones had done a limited print for Embrace. You had seem the tube arrive in the mail with "Andrew Jones" as the return sender. "I didn't mean to look! It just jumped out at me," you'd told me. I believed you. I knew you wanted another one of his prints to hang near the "Love is a Riot" piece I'd gotten you last year. I didn't know why that piece spoke to me so much at the time, but now it's ominous every time I walk by it hanging on our wall.
After our summer of non-stop travel last year, you'd mentioned wanting a new dopp kit. "I like how yours has a hanger and is bigger than mine," you'd said. Yours was organized perfectly, albeit smaller. Mine was gooey from stolen-hotel-shampoos leaking in air pressure. Mine had empty band-aid packs, always fooling us when we needed one. Yours had sensible items like Aleve, in case of a bad hangover and nail clippers for a hangnail. I always forgot Aleve, but had at least 3 or 4 perfumes even though I only ever wore the one, "Tainted Love," it's called. When we would go to a hotel together, I would move in, hoarding the vanity: hairbrushes, deodorant, oozing Colgate toothpaste, nail polish in case my gel manicure came off, curling iron accidentally left 'on', glitter spilled everywhere, lipstick left open, one fake eyelash in the sink, one on the floor that would later get stuck to your foot.
Your items would be perfectly laid out. Sonicare toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, Tom's deodorant, and maybe one hair product: all in a row. You'd walk into the bathroom, hand me a glass of champagne (you knew how much I loved getting ready in a hotel with a glass of champagne). I flail around getting ready, always running late for the reservation, meetup, or show. You'd joke, "Women get annoyed when men leave the toilet seat up, and this is what we get to deal with!" I'd laugh, totally in agreement, and knowing how ridiculous it was. I'd slide all my shit over to one side, probably knocking your items over and burning myself en-route, and say, "OK! Now you have half of the space." We'd giggle. You'd tell me I look beautiful. I'd complain about my hair and say I felt fat. You'd look at me and tell me my hair is beautiful and that you wouldn't even dare to address the second half of that statement. I'd spray my hair for the 4th time. You'd start dramatically coughing. I'd say "How much time do I have?" You'd say, "Negative 2 minutes." I'd look at my full glass of bubbles, and say, "Oh shit!" We'd share it, quickly, then dash out the door, hand in hand, down the elevator and off to the next thing, looking fucking beautiful and being so fucking in love, anyone in the lift with us would see it immediately. You'd look at me and I would know immediately that you were thinking of how funny it would be if you farted in the elevator. I'd widen my eyes in a don't you dare kind of way. You never did (at least when there were others in it with us).
I'd gotten you the new dopp kit for your birthday, handmade canvas and leather, with a hanger. It has a silver button with your initials monogrammed on it. We always laughed about how we'd monogram things. You go by Ted, but your name is actually David Edwin... DWE, DTW, TWE... TED? We'd laugh. "Maybe we just won't monogram anything," you'd say. You, the preppiest hippie that existed, not even believing yourself. "But we have to have monogrammed towels somedayyyyyy......" I'd carry the 'y' so there was no doubt you'd know what I meant. Someday, when we had a registry. Someday, when we were married. Someday, when I took your name and joined your family, by law. When we became officially "we". When I could take out my IUD and we could start trying for a family, and then have little wash clothes, with ducks on them, with little baby monograms. Someday, that won't ever come anymore.
Today we celebrate your birth. I try to keep reminding myself of that this morning. Birth, not death. Birth. Without today, I wouldn't have ever met him, loved him, had him as my best friend. Without today, neither of us would have ever known what love really is. And your birthday is even more important now than it was before. Because we're celebrating the birth of a man who is now an angel. You are looking down, in whatever way you can, and wrapping your grace around me and all of your loved ones. I try to see it in everything. I tried to see it when I woke up at 5 am and tossed and turned, and asked you to let me fall back asleep, and I did. I tried to see it when I awoke to both Beats, our cat, AND Kira, our dog, both on the bed, together, gently snoring, one on each side of me. They'd only gotten on the bed together two times before and I'd coerced them into it both times. I tried to see it when I opened the blinds and the sun blinded me completely, basking me in it's warmth. I'm trying, and I see your grace – but I can't prove it and that drives me crazy.
I wish you were here, Ted. I celebrated you everyday, completely devoted, but today I would have done it it even more. I would have brought you breakfast in bed: a breakfast salad, like you had everyday. 2 soft boiled eggs for you, 1 for me. But today I would have added bacon. And instead of your homemade health tonic dressing, today I would have given you avocado vinaigrette, your guilty pleasure. You would have had 2 pieces of dark chocolate after breakfast, a special morning treat. You'd joke about how it might keep you awake all day. I would have given you a present right away. One I was really excited about, maybe the Embrace print, and saved the others until later. I would bake you something sweet, you wouldn't care what because you aren't huge on sweets other than dark chocolate, so it probably would have been a pie, because I love to make (and eat) pie. It would have been the perfect day, just like every day was with you, back when I could see you and touch you and hear you. I love you, Ted. Happy birthday my sweet angel. I miss you so much.
When the first sheriff arrived, I could tell he was nervous. Boulder cops don't see this often. He fumbled with the CPR mask. I couldn't believe he was bothering with it. HELP HIM NOW. I ran upstairs to let the EMS in. They were trying to back down our long driveway. "Just leave the ambulance there! Someone get inside NOW! Please! He's not breathing! PLEASSSSSE, " I cried, adrenaline pumping. What was probably only a minute seemed like ten. Then, suddenly, there were dozens of EMS and police in the basement. "Someone get this dog OUT of here," a policeman shouted. Kira was going back and forth between licking your face and barking at the men in hats. She loves you. I put her outside. "Who owns this house? Who lives here?" Unnecessary questions. "He does. We all live here," I said, numb. "I'm assuming you don't know this man's birthday," one of them shouted at me. "Of course I do. November 5, 1979," I answered his non-question. Assholes. Help him, please. I watched them drill a hole in your perfect leg, right by your Scorpio tattoo, and yell "Clear!" as they shocked your heart. Then they made us go upstairs to answer questions. Kevin held me tightly, holding me upright, reminding me to breath. He did everything right.
Happy birthday Teddy, my love. My hands are shaking as I type. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
I have been keeping a list of gifts for you in my phone for the past 6 months. Every time you've mentioned something you've wanted, liked, or thought was 'cool', I've written it down. You are a hard man to shop for because if you really want something, you can get it for yourself. I had already purchased many of your gifts for your birthday and Christmas. I'd gotten you two books you'd asked for: Heaven is Real, a story about a little boys trip to Heaven and back when he'd died for 3 minutes. (I've already read it over the past week. Now I believe in heaven, but only if I go to church. Strange, for a Jew.) I bought you A Wrinkle in Time, which you wanted to re-read as an adult and I thought was simply adorable. I'd been conferring with a couple members of your band to find the perfect case for your drum hardware. You'd been carrying it in an old ski-bag. It was to have handles and wheels and fit everything in the perfectly organized fashion you so loved.
I'd gotten you a pair of funny one-piece-footie-pajamas. They have a butt you can unsnap to use the bathroom. You would have thought they were hilarious. I imagined you wearing them on cold days after skiing when we were snuggled up drinking hot toddies by the fire. You, a 35 year old man, with the spirit and pjs of an 8-year-old. Along the same line, I'd gotten you a Phil Lewis coloring book for grown-ups. You mentioned how fun it would be to have one a few weeks ago to a friend. You didn't even know I was listening, but I was. You hated your iPhone case. It was hard to remove to charge and plug into the mp3 player and we always laughed because when you pulled out your phone other items in your pocket would stick to it, like your keys or wallet. I got you a new case, one that wasn't sticky rubber, with an Alex Grey painting on it called "Theologue". The painting is described as "The union of human and divine consciousness weaving the fabric of space and time in which the self and its surroundings are embedded". When it arrived in the mail I noticed the print wasn't perfectly centered, which I knew you'd notice. I considered returning it, but never did.
We had gone to Burning Man this past year and both loved the sculpture, Embrace. We hadn't seen it burn because it was at sunrise, and I was never very good at staying up until sunrise. You loved being up all night, seeing the sun peek over the playa, a new day ahead. I felt guilty and like I should be asleep. So we'd missed the burn and we never had a chance to go inside it. But, I'd gotten you a piece of it. Android Jones had done a limited print for Embrace. You had seem the tube arrive in the mail with "Andrew Jones" as the return sender. "I didn't mean to look! It just jumped out at me," you'd told me. I believed you. I knew you wanted another one of his prints to hang near the "Love is a Riot" piece I'd gotten you last year. I didn't know why that piece spoke to me so much at the time, but now it's ominous every time I walk by it hanging on our wall.
After our summer of non-stop travel last year, you'd mentioned wanting a new dopp kit. "I like how yours has a hanger and is bigger than mine," you'd said. Yours was organized perfectly, albeit smaller. Mine was gooey from stolen-hotel-shampoos leaking in air pressure. Mine had empty band-aid packs, always fooling us when we needed one. Yours had sensible items like Aleve, in case of a bad hangover and nail clippers for a hangnail. I always forgot Aleve, but had at least 3 or 4 perfumes even though I only ever wore the one, "Tainted Love," it's called. When we would go to a hotel together, I would move in, hoarding the vanity: hairbrushes, deodorant, oozing Colgate toothpaste, nail polish in case my gel manicure came off, curling iron accidentally left 'on', glitter spilled everywhere, lipstick left open, one fake eyelash in the sink, one on the floor that would later get stuck to your foot.
Your items would be perfectly laid out. Sonicare toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, Tom's deodorant, and maybe one hair product: all in a row. You'd walk into the bathroom, hand me a glass of champagne (you knew how much I loved getting ready in a hotel with a glass of champagne). I flail around getting ready, always running late for the reservation, meetup, or show. You'd joke, "Women get annoyed when men leave the toilet seat up, and this is what we get to deal with!" I'd laugh, totally in agreement, and knowing how ridiculous it was. I'd slide all my shit over to one side, probably knocking your items over and burning myself en-route, and say, "OK! Now you have half of the space." We'd giggle. You'd tell me I look beautiful. I'd complain about my hair and say I felt fat. You'd look at me and tell me my hair is beautiful and that you wouldn't even dare to address the second half of that statement. I'd spray my hair for the 4th time. You'd start dramatically coughing. I'd say "How much time do I have?" You'd say, "Negative 2 minutes." I'd look at my full glass of bubbles, and say, "Oh shit!" We'd share it, quickly, then dash out the door, hand in hand, down the elevator and off to the next thing, looking fucking beautiful and being so fucking in love, anyone in the lift with us would see it immediately. You'd look at me and I would know immediately that you were thinking of how funny it would be if you farted in the elevator. I'd widen my eyes in a don't you dare kind of way. You never did (at least when there were others in it with us).
I'd gotten you the new dopp kit for your birthday, handmade canvas and leather, with a hanger. It has a silver button with your initials monogrammed on it. We always laughed about how we'd monogram things. You go by Ted, but your name is actually David Edwin... DWE, DTW, TWE... TED? We'd laugh. "Maybe we just won't monogram anything," you'd say. You, the preppiest hippie that existed, not even believing yourself. "But we have to have monogrammed towels somedayyyyyy......" I'd carry the 'y' so there was no doubt you'd know what I meant. Someday, when we had a registry. Someday, when we were married. Someday, when I took your name and joined your family, by law. When we became officially "we". When I could take out my IUD and we could start trying for a family, and then have little wash clothes, with ducks on them, with little baby monograms. Someday, that won't ever come anymore.
Today we celebrate your birth. I try to keep reminding myself of that this morning. Birth, not death. Birth. Without today, I wouldn't have ever met him, loved him, had him as my best friend. Without today, neither of us would have ever known what love really is. And your birthday is even more important now than it was before. Because we're celebrating the birth of a man who is now an angel. You are looking down, in whatever way you can, and wrapping your grace around me and all of your loved ones. I try to see it in everything. I tried to see it when I woke up at 5 am and tossed and turned, and asked you to let me fall back asleep, and I did. I tried to see it when I awoke to both Beats, our cat, AND Kira, our dog, both on the bed, together, gently snoring, one on each side of me. They'd only gotten on the bed together two times before and I'd coerced them into it both times. I tried to see it when I opened the blinds and the sun blinded me completely, basking me in it's warmth. I'm trying, and I see your grace – but I can't prove it and that drives me crazy.
I wish you were here, Ted. I celebrated you everyday, completely devoted, but today I would have done it it even more. I would have brought you breakfast in bed: a breakfast salad, like you had everyday. 2 soft boiled eggs for you, 1 for me. But today I would have added bacon. And instead of your homemade health tonic dressing, today I would have given you avocado vinaigrette, your guilty pleasure. You would have had 2 pieces of dark chocolate after breakfast, a special morning treat. You'd joke about how it might keep you awake all day. I would have given you a present right away. One I was really excited about, maybe the Embrace print, and saved the others until later. I would bake you something sweet, you wouldn't care what because you aren't huge on sweets other than dark chocolate, so it probably would have been a pie, because I love to make (and eat) pie. It would have been the perfect day, just like every day was with you, back when I could see you and touch you and hear you. I love you, Ted. Happy birthday my sweet angel. I miss you so much.
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