You and I used to fuel ourselves with oxytocin. We would lie in bed for hours – not eat, not sleep, just bury ourselves in one another's love. The hormone would secrete out of our pores, into the space cocooning us, and then settle back onto the opposite's body with a sigh. If the space around us had a soundtrack it would be the 'ooh's, 'aah's, and giggles of a Parisian love story. Eventually, after hours of whispers, love making, and kisses you would say, "Alright babe, my body can no longer survive purely on oxytocin." We'd rouse to get you some food.
The oxytocin that used to sustain me is flickering out like the dying wick of a candle. My body craves touch. Your touch. My heart had learned to beat in tune with yours. She quieted down, listened for the echo in your chest, and set her pace with yours – happy to have a mate to pulse with. But now she strains to hear you and you aren't there. My heart is tired.
Over the past week I took a dip. I celebrated life – yours, mine, ours. I celebrated the past year – the good, the beauty, the love. Then once this year arrived, I stopped in my tracks like a deer in headlights. In a sense, I laid down in the road and allowed myself to be run over. I felt the pain. I crawled under my covers and turned out the lights. I stopped moving. I hoped that when I fell asleep I wouldn't wake up – that I would drift off to be with you again. I was supposed to be with you.
I don't believe in suicide. I have a hard time respecting it as a choice for others and I certainly do not for myself. In my belief system, I think that exiting life by your own hand signs you up for karmic debt. I think it's a cop out for the lessons we are meant to learn in this life. Life is a gift, even in suffering. Even in the most painful of times, I refuse to believe that human life is ruled by a dark force. So, I know I would never take that route. I am too stubborn. I am too proud. I am too afraid. But, over the past week, I've wanted to drift off to the other side with you, accidentally. Just slip away, into thin air, like you did. One moment you were there – talking, breathing, loving, making promises – and the next you were gone – you were dust, ashes, memories, history, just a dream. I have felt that the only true happiness I will ever feel again, is whenever, wherever I can find you.
Today I decided to make a shift out of the darkness, one of many small shifts that are a part of this rollercoaster ride on the Sea of Shit. I decided that today, I would unglue my chin from my throat. I would lift my gaze from the mud to the clouds. Clouds though they may be, I know behind them is clear, somewhere.
I filled my day up with action. Small things – call the plumber, fold the laundry, shave my legs, call my mom, change the oil, get my dog groomed. These small tasks that seem so ordinary to the layman are like climbing Mount Everest for the grieving. When I can hardly stick my toe out from under my comforter and place my foot onto the earth, going to the grocery store seems like running a marathon with no training, food, or water. My body feels thirty times heavier then it actually is. I tried to move it at times over the past week and all I could do was lay on the ground and beg the Earth to keep holding me, to not let me go.
But today I made it up. I made it out of the house. And I accomplished a lot. In fact, I accomplished a lot for a normal, non-suffering person if I do say so myself. And it felt good. And feeling good, when you're grieving, is like being able to take one breath of air without gasping.
My intention for the day was "Operation: Seratonin". I figured since I can no longer live on oxytocin, I should fuel myself on other natural uppers. I took supplements that I know help me feel better: 5-Htp, Lumiday, St. Johns Wart, Stress-B Complex, Ashwaganda, and GABA. I got out of bed before nine. I ate food. And later in the day, I went to the pool.
My best friend had recommended that maybe swimming would be helpful during this time. She said it might be peaceful to float. Now, considering moving from my bed to the toilet has seemed like a walking on a tight rope across the Grand Canyon, my hopes weren't high. But once I submerged myself in the salt water, it was as though I had tapped into a resource of power deep in my body. I started to swim laps. I started to pass other swimmers. I moved to a faster lane. I started to swim how I can only imagine Michael Phelps swims – super fucking fast. I just kept swimming. I gave myself permission to take the next breath. And then the next breath. And then the next breath. When the tears came, it was OK. No one could see them and I couldn't even feel them because I was already submersed in salt water. I glided forward in the water. Just a little further, I told myself. Just a little further. Until I had no other option – forward motion was the only possible way. I didn't want to stop. Finally, swim team practice started and they made me leave the pool. I had probably swam from Alcatraz to San Fransisco. When I got out of the water, I felt the endorphins rushing through my body. Even when the heart is full of sorrow, the body reminds us of our strength. "Hang in there," my body told my heart, "I know you feel alone, but I've gotcha."
After my swim, I took a steam and then I went to yoga. I continued to ring myself out. I took the sludge, the buildup, the tar, the darkness, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the torture, and the pain and attempted to clean out a layer of it. But I realized that once I accelerate, it's easier to push forward. I remembered how being kind to myself comes more naturally than being cruel. Being hopeful is more inherent than being forlorn.
I'll never be fueled by oxytocin and love the way I was with you. But I still have the power to be lifted up. I will try to climb out of the dark holes and see a bit of sky, no matter how treacherous the clouds seem. When I feel suffocated by my own tears, I will swim in them. I'll remind myself of what I love about me – about the me that is still whole. While you are no longer here, as much as I fight it, you can't take me with you. That's just not how this life works. So I am here. And you are there. But we are still a part of the same stardust.
Showing posts with label sorrow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sorrow. Show all posts
Grief Etiquette
I've never learned very much about etiquette. I've gotten the basics over the years: elbows off the table, proper placement of silverware, don't sneeze on someone's face, no farting on airplanes or in elevators (both of which you rarely followed), what's appropriate cocktail attire, no white after Labor Day unless you live in the South, don't talk on your mobile at a restaurant, chew with your mouth closed, don't cuss in front of children – I mean, I can get by. Sometimes I can really fake it and appear quite classy. Other times, I can break the rules with the best of them.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
Empathy
I believe that we are all sent to this physical realm to learn a lesson. Each incarnation of our life offers us a new opportunity to learn something about our true nature – something that will bring us toward the light, reality, or nirvana – different words for the same theory. If we learn our lesson, we move forward towards an easier life that will offer us the opportunity to learn another great lesson. If we fail, we will have to take our issue with us into the next life, it will bear down on us, and cause us to live out that life karmically.
As I am confronted with this devastation, I wonder what my lesson in all of this? What is my lesson in this life? And what was yours? Did your death have to do with you learning a lesson, with mine, with someone else's lesson, or with them all? What can I do to prevent further suffering in the future? Was your death a matter of free will or destiny? Had you done everything you needed to do to learn? Were you leaving this incarnation so you could come back as my child, like you promised me you would, just days before your death? Will I ever know?
I have been meditating on the question, 'What is my lesson in this life?' I've run through a gamut of options: guilt, self-worth, desire, patience, and will continue to search and discover. My learning is no where near done in this life, as far as I know. My demons are present within me, just as your demons were there until your last breath (and who knows, maybe beyond).
We both wore our weaknesses on our sleeve. I think that's one reason why we fell in love with one another so deeply. Even though we were transparent with our emotions, we treated each other compassionately. We never used those weaknesses as weapons. We were gentle with one another's soft spots. But while we each had our struggles – we both shared deep empathy and compassion.
Thank god for empathy. Thank god for the compassion that you taught me and others, and that you're still teaching. Thank god for the support I've received over the past two months. Thank god for the love your family has gotten over the past two months. The empathetic source in humankind is beautiful. It's the tears that you get in your eyes when a kitten is saved from a tree by a fireman. It's the lift in your chest you feel when you see a man meet his wife at the airport with a bouquet of flowers. It's the increase in your heartbeat when you see a solider arriving home from war to his young daughter. It's the nostalgia that arises when you sing the national anthem. It's the excitement that breeds when you watch a video of an animal struggling and then another animal comes over to help. Scientifically, this act of empathy can be triggered by the mirror neuron, which allows the observer to feel as though they're in the role of the observed. Experientially, this is compassion – a beautiful side effect of being human.
While I wouldn't want anyone to feel the pain I have been dealing with over the past two months, at the same time I'm so thankful that others are witnessing the pain that's taken shape. Maybe it's self-preservation, I'm thankful other people are helping me make sure I'm safe. Maybe it's cooperation, being able to see the goodness in people, despite our world of competition and domination. Maybe it's truth, allowing myself and others to witness that the true joys in life are the simple ones, life and love.
Without love, we as humans, will be lonely. No matter how much 'stuff' we pad ourselves with to try to avoid feeling emptiness, it won't help. We will suffer. And when one person suffers, others will too because we are truly connected at the root of who we are. The pain of one person will ripple out onto a community or even global level. The offering, 'You are hurting. Let me love you,' is intrinsically good. Empathy is a true and divine power within humanity. It should not be only adapted for a grieving widow or family, but used for helping mankind at large. As Darwin said, 'Sympathy is the strongest instinct in human nature.'
As I am confronted with this devastation, I wonder what my lesson in all of this? What is my lesson in this life? And what was yours? Did your death have to do with you learning a lesson, with mine, with someone else's lesson, or with them all? What can I do to prevent further suffering in the future? Was your death a matter of free will or destiny? Had you done everything you needed to do to learn? Were you leaving this incarnation so you could come back as my child, like you promised me you would, just days before your death? Will I ever know?
I have been meditating on the question, 'What is my lesson in this life?' I've run through a gamut of options: guilt, self-worth, desire, patience, and will continue to search and discover. My learning is no where near done in this life, as far as I know. My demons are present within me, just as your demons were there until your last breath (and who knows, maybe beyond).
We both wore our weaknesses on our sleeve. I think that's one reason why we fell in love with one another so deeply. Even though we were transparent with our emotions, we treated each other compassionately. We never used those weaknesses as weapons. We were gentle with one another's soft spots. But while we each had our struggles – we both shared deep empathy and compassion.
Thank god for empathy. Thank god for the compassion that you taught me and others, and that you're still teaching. Thank god for the support I've received over the past two months. Thank god for the love your family has gotten over the past two months. The empathetic source in humankind is beautiful. It's the tears that you get in your eyes when a kitten is saved from a tree by a fireman. It's the lift in your chest you feel when you see a man meet his wife at the airport with a bouquet of flowers. It's the increase in your heartbeat when you see a solider arriving home from war to his young daughter. It's the nostalgia that arises when you sing the national anthem. It's the excitement that breeds when you watch a video of an animal struggling and then another animal comes over to help. Scientifically, this act of empathy can be triggered by the mirror neuron, which allows the observer to feel as though they're in the role of the observed. Experientially, this is compassion – a beautiful side effect of being human.
While I wouldn't want anyone to feel the pain I have been dealing with over the past two months, at the same time I'm so thankful that others are witnessing the pain that's taken shape. Maybe it's self-preservation, I'm thankful other people are helping me make sure I'm safe. Maybe it's cooperation, being able to see the goodness in people, despite our world of competition and domination. Maybe it's truth, allowing myself and others to witness that the true joys in life are the simple ones, life and love.
Without love, we as humans, will be lonely. No matter how much 'stuff' we pad ourselves with to try to avoid feeling emptiness, it won't help. We will suffer. And when one person suffers, others will too because we are truly connected at the root of who we are. The pain of one person will ripple out onto a community or even global level. The offering, 'You are hurting. Let me love you,' is intrinsically good. Empathy is a true and divine power within humanity. It should not be only adapted for a grieving widow or family, but used for helping mankind at large. As Darwin said, 'Sympathy is the strongest instinct in human nature.'
Stages
I have heard that there are five stages of grief. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross was the doctor to develop the theory – though in time she went back to say that she wish she'd explained the stages in a different way because society had taken them as being linear and universal – which she did not intend. Her work was meant as a kindness, not a cage. I have not looked up the stages of grief. I know anger is one, acceptance is one, and I think denial is another – but that's the extent that I'm familiar with. I have opted not to look up this process because like everyone, my sorrow will be unique. There is no sense in trying to assign a sequence of events or a right/wrong to what's happening in my body and mind. If I over-analyze (which is my natural tendency) I run the risk of harming myself more rather than allowing my natural process to unfold. At least that's where I am right now.
However, in this grief, I have been confronted by MANY emotions. Included are: guilt, confusion, denial, horror, anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion, fear, emptiness, astonishment, heaviness, constriction, nausea, inspiration, nostalgia, numbness, ambition, action, inaction, pity, self-judgment, bravery, insecurity, self-harm, depression, compassion, love, and sorrow. Some of these terms may be synonymous, but I have felt them all in various degrees, depths, and definitions.
I'm back in the States. I'm sitting in the bed at your sister Berkley's house that you and I slept in three weeks before your death. We spoke about the doorknobs in her house; they were the runner up choice for our renovation. You liked the wallpaper in her bathroom. We read poems written by a dog out of the book on the back of the toilet. We walked to yoga and really enjoyed the class we attended. You took a picture of me holding a giant leaf next to my face from a tree we passed by while walking to class. It was bigger than my face. I always liked giant leaves and I thought it was cool to see one in the middle of the city. You ate a Chicago-style hotdog, with pickles. I did too. But I added ketchup when no one was looking.
But now the visit is much different. I have cried more since I've been here than I have in weeks. The last time I was here, I was the happiest I had ever been. Now, I'm the saddest.
My grief is manifesting in a new way. It's as though the protective sheaths my body has offered me – the cushions – are deflating. The reality is really sinking in – again. I already thought it was real, that this had already hit me. But it hits in new ways now. The meat cleaver has been sharpened. The pain is fresh and palpable all over again. I feel paralyzed by the pain.
When Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist, died tragically – Jesus got on a boat and traveled to a desolate place to think and pray. When he arrived, crowds had heard of his arrival. They journeyed by foot to meet him and ask for his ministry. And when he saw them, he turned outward rather than inward. He helped others. While Jesus had intended to be alone and mourn, he was able to turn his sorrow into deep empathetic compassion when he saw that's what the world needed. He allowed the grief to empower him.
There have been moments, days, and even weeks through this process when I've felt ambitious. Where I've felt that I can take this pain and create something out of it. I will use it to help others. I will write a memoir. I will use this loss to create something beautiful to memorialize you. I have gone so far as to be in action and planning. That inspiration felt good. It kept me moving. It kept me nurturing. I can understand how such deep sorrow can liberate selfless action.
Until it can't. Until the adrenaline runs out. Until the blood wears thin. Until the body simply drops. And that's where I'm hanging now. I'm in a dark causeway.
Even though I'm surrounded by beautiful support. I am with your sister, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I hold your nephew in my arms and look into his innocent eyes, and I ask for you to shine out to me through him. But I am so, so raw. I am stuck in a pit of self-woe. I know this is part of the nonlinear and bewildering process. I realize my feelings, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, are not crazy, they are probably very much in line with the five stages I am supposedly experiencing. But nevertheless, I do not feel strong, I do not feel connected, and I do not feel motivated to be empowered. I need my legs back underneath of me.
So today, my sweet love, I ask for your help. I ask you to pull me up in whatever way you can. Make a light twinkle around my periphery. Meet me in my dreams with a kiss or even a fart. Smile at me through invisible space so I can feel your aura. Let me know you're here, somewhere or everywhere. Let me know you still love me. Let me know, so I can go back to being brave.
However, in this grief, I have been confronted by MANY emotions. Included are: guilt, confusion, denial, horror, anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion, fear, emptiness, astonishment, heaviness, constriction, nausea, inspiration, nostalgia, numbness, ambition, action, inaction, pity, self-judgment, bravery, insecurity, self-harm, depression, compassion, love, and sorrow. Some of these terms may be synonymous, but I have felt them all in various degrees, depths, and definitions.
I'm back in the States. I'm sitting in the bed at your sister Berkley's house that you and I slept in three weeks before your death. We spoke about the doorknobs in her house; they were the runner up choice for our renovation. You liked the wallpaper in her bathroom. We read poems written by a dog out of the book on the back of the toilet. We walked to yoga and really enjoyed the class we attended. You took a picture of me holding a giant leaf next to my face from a tree we passed by while walking to class. It was bigger than my face. I always liked giant leaves and I thought it was cool to see one in the middle of the city. You ate a Chicago-style hotdog, with pickles. I did too. But I added ketchup when no one was looking.
But now the visit is much different. I have cried more since I've been here than I have in weeks. The last time I was here, I was the happiest I had ever been. Now, I'm the saddest.
My grief is manifesting in a new way. It's as though the protective sheaths my body has offered me – the cushions – are deflating. The reality is really sinking in – again. I already thought it was real, that this had already hit me. But it hits in new ways now. The meat cleaver has been sharpened. The pain is fresh and palpable all over again. I feel paralyzed by the pain.
When Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist, died tragically – Jesus got on a boat and traveled to a desolate place to think and pray. When he arrived, crowds had heard of his arrival. They journeyed by foot to meet him and ask for his ministry. And when he saw them, he turned outward rather than inward. He helped others. While Jesus had intended to be alone and mourn, he was able to turn his sorrow into deep empathetic compassion when he saw that's what the world needed. He allowed the grief to empower him.
There have been moments, days, and even weeks through this process when I've felt ambitious. Where I've felt that I can take this pain and create something out of it. I will use it to help others. I will write a memoir. I will use this loss to create something beautiful to memorialize you. I have gone so far as to be in action and planning. That inspiration felt good. It kept me moving. It kept me nurturing. I can understand how such deep sorrow can liberate selfless action.
Until it can't. Until the adrenaline runs out. Until the blood wears thin. Until the body simply drops. And that's where I'm hanging now. I'm in a dark causeway.
Even though I'm surrounded by beautiful support. I am with your sister, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I hold your nephew in my arms and look into his innocent eyes, and I ask for you to shine out to me through him. But I am so, so raw. I am stuck in a pit of self-woe. I know this is part of the nonlinear and bewildering process. I realize my feelings, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, are not crazy, they are probably very much in line with the five stages I am supposedly experiencing. But nevertheless, I do not feel strong, I do not feel connected, and I do not feel motivated to be empowered. I need my legs back underneath of me.
So today, my sweet love, I ask for your help. I ask you to pull me up in whatever way you can. Make a light twinkle around my periphery. Meet me in my dreams with a kiss or even a fart. Smile at me through invisible space so I can feel your aura. Let me know you're here, somewhere or everywhere. Let me know you still love me. Let me know, so I can go back to being brave.
Thanksgiving
Last night I curled up in my bed in the home I grew up in, one-thousand miles away from our home, but just miles away from the home where you also grew up in. I laid in bed with Kira snuggled by my side and studied the situation. I thought about the thirty Thanksgivings that have come and gone for me, and the thirty four for you. I thought about all the nights I had fallen asleep in this bed, mind abuzz with wonder, romance, excitement, and heartbreak. I wondered if it was the sadness night I'd ever had in that bed. And as I drifted off, I thought about how hard today would be, Thanksgiving.
I woke up this morning in that nostalgic spot – my childhood bedroom. Kira yawned lazily and stretched out long beside me, happy to have escaped from the two other boisterous dogs who rule the house now. I thought about my best friend, Aliyah, who is hosting Thanksgiving in New York City for her family and in-laws. There were major storms there last night so I hoped that everyone had made it safely and in time to help prep turkey.
It's fair to assume that everyone is missing someone today. Maybe it's a relative who can't get in town because of a storm. Maybe it's a loved one who is on the outs. Maybe it's a friend who can't afford to travel or has other plans. Maybe it's a partner or child who is spending time with the other family. But, in the spirit of thanksgiving, I ask that we look deeply at what it means to miss someone. Chris Gewald pointed out to me that after his wife Sarah died, he doesn't say "I miss you" to people anymore. They're still here. Maybe you can't touch them or share the same room with them – but they are just a phone call away. They are present in this life. And while I don't intend to preach, know that death can reshape what missing someone truly is.
We all have issues come up around the holidays. For some it's travel and weather, for others it's stressful in-laws and family, some don't have enough money for food or gifts, others may not have a place to go, in some households a burnt turkey may ruin everything, or maybe a relative drinks to much and embarrasses himself, and for some – it's a bright yellow highlighter over loneliness or loss. As I woke up this morning, I realized that every single problem people may be experiencing is absolutely legitimate. Its not worth it to assign a grade or a measure to issues that arise. It's all relative. But while we can't always control what happens, we can control our reaction to what happens. And today, on my most sorrowful Thanksgiving, I choose gratitude.
I remember last Thanksgiving. We spent it with my close friend Lauren. It was my last weekend in Austin before we woke up on Monday to move me to Colorado. After a nice dinner and a lot of wine at her house, we went to another friend's house. A couple hours later, an incredibly expensive bottle of wine was opened. We had already consumed a fair amount of wine, our pallets were by no means cleansed. We knew the wine was good, but we knew it was good because we were told it was good, we knew the price, and mainly, we knew all wine tasted good at that moment. After that experience we often used that situation to measure relativity. (We also often drank the expensive wine first, so we could actually enjoy it.) We are conditioned to know what's good, what's bad, what's right, what's wrong. You have to taste all the wine, and make your own call or simply trust.
Even though this is my first Thanksgiving without my best friend and soul mate, without a man who has shaped the lives of so many people with love, depth, and grace – I choose to react with gratitude instead of wallowing in self pity. I choose to be thankful for what I do have, instead of what I don't. This year, I have the knowledge that TRUE love exists – while I may not physically have it by my side, I know its real. This year, I have a warm blanket of loved ones holding me. This year, I have not only one family – but two – mine and yours. I have two sisters that I never had before. They may not be sisters through law, but they are sisters through love and through grief. I have a seat at my family's table and a seat at your table; it's because of you that I am blessed with that offering. I have my health, and I am deeply grateful because my body needs its strength in order to hold my cracked heart. I have security – my job has allowed me to take all the time I need to heal before coming back to work. I have my yoga practice and my students – and I know that because of you, your life, and your death, my practice and teaching will never be the same. I have help – friends, family, therapy, and the world have all opened their arms. I have my life. And this year, most importantly, I have you. In what form, I do not know – maybe a spirit, maybe an angel, maybe a memory – but I hold you in my heart with gratitude.
And for all of that, today, I give thanks.
I woke up this morning in that nostalgic spot – my childhood bedroom. Kira yawned lazily and stretched out long beside me, happy to have escaped from the two other boisterous dogs who rule the house now. I thought about my best friend, Aliyah, who is hosting Thanksgiving in New York City for her family and in-laws. There were major storms there last night so I hoped that everyone had made it safely and in time to help prep turkey.
It's fair to assume that everyone is missing someone today. Maybe it's a relative who can't get in town because of a storm. Maybe it's a loved one who is on the outs. Maybe it's a friend who can't afford to travel or has other plans. Maybe it's a partner or child who is spending time with the other family. But, in the spirit of thanksgiving, I ask that we look deeply at what it means to miss someone. Chris Gewald pointed out to me that after his wife Sarah died, he doesn't say "I miss you" to people anymore. They're still here. Maybe you can't touch them or share the same room with them – but they are just a phone call away. They are present in this life. And while I don't intend to preach, know that death can reshape what missing someone truly is.
We all have issues come up around the holidays. For some it's travel and weather, for others it's stressful in-laws and family, some don't have enough money for food or gifts, others may not have a place to go, in some households a burnt turkey may ruin everything, or maybe a relative drinks to much and embarrasses himself, and for some – it's a bright yellow highlighter over loneliness or loss. As I woke up this morning, I realized that every single problem people may be experiencing is absolutely legitimate. Its not worth it to assign a grade or a measure to issues that arise. It's all relative. But while we can't always control what happens, we can control our reaction to what happens. And today, on my most sorrowful Thanksgiving, I choose gratitude.
I remember last Thanksgiving. We spent it with my close friend Lauren. It was my last weekend in Austin before we woke up on Monday to move me to Colorado. After a nice dinner and a lot of wine at her house, we went to another friend's house. A couple hours later, an incredibly expensive bottle of wine was opened. We had already consumed a fair amount of wine, our pallets were by no means cleansed. We knew the wine was good, but we knew it was good because we were told it was good, we knew the price, and mainly, we knew all wine tasted good at that moment. After that experience we often used that situation to measure relativity. (We also often drank the expensive wine first, so we could actually enjoy it.) We are conditioned to know what's good, what's bad, what's right, what's wrong. You have to taste all the wine, and make your own call or simply trust.
Even though this is my first Thanksgiving without my best friend and soul mate, without a man who has shaped the lives of so many people with love, depth, and grace – I choose to react with gratitude instead of wallowing in self pity. I choose to be thankful for what I do have, instead of what I don't. This year, I have the knowledge that TRUE love exists – while I may not physically have it by my side, I know its real. This year, I have a warm blanket of loved ones holding me. This year, I have not only one family – but two – mine and yours. I have two sisters that I never had before. They may not be sisters through law, but they are sisters through love and through grief. I have a seat at my family's table and a seat at your table; it's because of you that I am blessed with that offering. I have my health, and I am deeply grateful because my body needs its strength in order to hold my cracked heart. I have security – my job has allowed me to take all the time I need to heal before coming back to work. I have my yoga practice and my students – and I know that because of you, your life, and your death, my practice and teaching will never be the same. I have help – friends, family, therapy, and the world have all opened their arms. I have my life. And this year, most importantly, I have you. In what form, I do not know – maybe a spirit, maybe an angel, maybe a memory – but I hold you in my heart with gratitude.
And for all of that, today, I give thanks.
Love Song
You told me you were going to write a song about me one day. I always wanted to be the subject of your verse. I tried to imagine what the lyrics would be; you spoke so eloquently so I had no doubt it would paint a picture of a woman more lovely than I am, and show the world how pure our love is. I used to joke that I'd be your muse. An emotional track of bliss: the musical definition of a love song. I wish I could hear the song you were going to write someday. I wish I had it as a keepsake to enjoy over and over. That way I could hear your poetry forever, etched through lyrics, percussion, and cadence. My writing and my memories are my love song to you.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
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