I went to sleep late on Monday night. I lay awake in bed at 1:45 a.m. with the reading light on overhead. I still think of it as Ted's reading light... on his side of the bed. As I readied myself for sleep, I noticed the light was acting up. It was dimming lighter and darker, lighter and darker. When I would stop and look, the light seemed to stop. And when I looked away, it would dim again. Freaked out, I called Kevin to come look at it. While we both thought it was strange, we passed it off as a electrical glitch and turned off the light. I went to sleep.
Late in the Summer of 2014, I was making coffee in the kitchen when I got a call from my mother. I sensed heaviness in her voice immediately, or maybe she had sent me a cryptic text so I expected bad news before even answering the phone, I can't remember the details but I knew it was bad. She informed me that our dear friend, essentially family, Jennifer Rockwood had been terminally diagnosed with cancer with maybe just months to live. This news was sudden and shocking. I had been blessed with living a mostly grief-free life up until that year. First my grandmother in the Spring of 2014, and now this news. I was devastated.
Jennifer was without a doubt the most "alive" woman I knew. How could she be dying? I cried. Ted held me. And then, just a couple months later, Ted died. I went home to Toledo for the holidays, cloaked in grief and confusion. And Jennifer held me.
Jennifer and her husband John have been two of my parents closest friends since sometime in the 1970s. My mom, Jenny, and Rayna were all pregnant at the same time, two or three times in a row. Decades of family potlucks, vacations, swim meets, school plays, and summer camps ensued. Between the three families, there were 7 boys... and me. Long before Jennys' sons Ian and Julian married beautiful women and Jenny finally had daughter-in-laws, she claimed that I was her 'adoptive' daughter. I remember her telling me that when I was very young. Jenny was the coolest, so obviously I was beyond honored that she wanted ME as the 'daughter' she'd never had. Ever since then, I felt a kindred spirit with Jenny – like we had a secret. I continued to always admire her unabashed glamour, her robust personality, her dramatic presence, her rockstar edginess, and her automatic role as the life-of-the-party. I sought to be like her as I grew up.
When I went home to Toledo last winter after Teddy passed, much of me resisted going, yet a huge pull towards home was that I needed to see Jenny. On my first night back, despite my own spirals, I met Jenny for dinner. You could hardly tell she was sick, her thinness was the only sign. As usual, she was vivacious and full of spirit (and spirits)! During dinner that night, while watching her throw back vodkas and hearing her belly-laughs echoing through the dark room, I remember feeling an ounce of nostaligic happiness. You see, I didn't feel happiness back then; so when I felt the emotion creep up, it was painfully hard to ignore.
Also that night, Jenny told me me that she did not believe in life after death. She did not believe in energy continuing on. She believed that death was the end of it all. So, she would live big until her end. Jenny's perspective was hard for me. My whole life had just been crumbled and I was rebuilding it on the faith in something bigger. I needed that faith. And, in my opinion, so did she. I bought Jenny a book to change her mind. I don't know if she ever read it. But in truth, as I look back, it was my own fear that felt the need to make her believe. I didn't want to hear her doubting, because what if I doubted?
Despite the difference of opinions, I asked Jenny a huge favor.
I asked that if she was wrong, and that when she passed she learned that indeed there was something after this realm, to let me know. I asked her to find Ted over there, wherever 'there' was, and to send me a sign. She agreed; although I knew it was just to be nice, because she didn't believe.
I woke up Tuesday morning with the news that around 1:45 a.m., the same time that my lights had been flickering, Jenny had passed away. I called my mom. Our conversation was brief because a call came in. My phone acted weird and I missed the call. I set my phone on the counter and before I could turn away the screen started to move. Buttons were pressed as if someone was operating the screen, but nobody was. The search page pulled up and letters were typed in as I stared, "W. A. L..." Then, the imaginary hand scrolled the cursor down, clicked on something and iTunes popped up. I don't use iTunes, and have almost no music synced to it, but somehow a song appeared that I didn't own, "Walking Far From Home" by Iron & Wine started to play. I stood and listened. I felt tears on my cheeks. I felt a knowingness. I felt a shiver of energy. I felt like I was getting a hug.
In the early days, weeks, and months after Ted passed many strange things happened – lights flickering, TVs turning on, electronics acting up, songs playing, animals appearing at opportune moments, weird things showing up in photos... the amount of occurrences was so large that I simply could not overlook them as coincidence or happenstance. Also, I didn't want to. It is often discovered that after a loved one passes on, they hang around for a while. They show their presence in different ways. I remember being scared by the way the energy appeared sometimes, like when I would feel it while lying alone in bed. I remember deciding that Ted didn't really know how to control his new state and that his ways of communicating were awkward or creepy. But I was still thankful that he was communicating.
As time has apparently continued (though my perception of 'time' is a whole other subject in itself) I have become less aware of these energetic happenings. Maybe Ted's place in the realm he is in now is more settled. He no longer has as much of a pull towards tinkering with where I am. Also, perhaps I am less open to noticing his paranormal tickles. I'm hardened. And my sadness has progressed to a constant numbness, versus a frantic hysteria. I now live with sorrow, instead of for sorrow.
Time creeps towards the anniversary of Ted's death, now just a few weeks away. I don't care what calendars and clocks and scientists say, this year was without-a-doubt shorter than all of my thirty other years. On Monday night, when the lights began to dim, and the next morning, when my phone played that song, I again felt that familiar bittersweet nostalgia. I again felt that rush of lively, effervescent, unseen energy. I was reconnected to my own faith in the deeper web between us and the others. Jenny, in her playful exit from this place and her stubborn realization that perhaps she was wrong and there was more, reopened a door that I had turned my back to. She sent me the sign I had asked her for, and she reminded me of the beautiful magic that coincides with devastating loss.
The house feels particularly energized now. It's as though if I touch something, I'm more likely to get a static shock. A year ago, it felt eerie. But now, it feels comforting.
While I am heartbroken by Jenny's passing and particularly for those who now feel consuming loneliness without her, I also find comfort in knowing that the cosmic web just got a whole lot more charged. When a big life leaves here, that energy is consumed by what see as 'empty space' – but what is actually a plenum of the exact opposite.
So now, as I continue my countdown towards the sad anniversary that I am trying so hard not to anticipate, I will be more open to the magic. Jenny has unblocked a channel that allows me to feel closer to Ted. Her death and continuing life has helped cleared of the filter of judgement and doubt that I contend with in my ego-mind and my humanness. I find a sense of solace as she wraps her energetic, mother-like arms around me, her 'daughter,' allowing me to see into the eyes of my soulmate, and my truth.
Walking Far From Home: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fg5403yj4II
In loving memory of Jennifer Rockwood (1951-infinity)
Showing posts with label spirit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spirit. Show all posts
Bittersweet
A child has become silent as heaven birthed a new angel. Just hours after I wrote about little Bennett's courageous fight for life – he passed on. While his spirit displayed relentless courage, his kidneys lost their power. It's a fresh reminder that in this life our survival is fused with the body. In the end, we do not own our body – it is merely on lease. From the earth our body will rise and back to the earth it will descend. It is the cycle. Yet part of the cycle is continuance: from the soil that our body returns to, life begins again. Whether we fuel the blossom of a flower or tiny particles that once again return to the womb – new life is fertilized by old. And that is just the physical body. I believe that souls traveling without bodies fill the space around us. The air that appears empty to our naked eye, science shows is actually a plenum. It's when I lost touch with you as a physical soul that I was able to see your spirit glitz and shimmer in the space around me – magic, love, and memory filling what I previously thought was a void. In the immediate days and weeks following your death, I often saw strange lights, unearthly movements, and fractal shapes in places where I had always seen solidity. Because I was raw, I was open. With rawness, comes an ability to see things that our trained minds stopped seeing long ago – connection with other layers and realms beyond human comprehension. It was faith flirting with me. "Believe in more," she said. And because I was seeing the unbelievable and because I had no energy not to, I chose to believe.
Every evening before you and I went to sleep, we offered our nightly gratitudes as we closed the blinds overlooking the city-lights of Boulder and the acres of majestic mountains over which we reigned. The first night I was back in our bed after you died, Kevin came into the room and sat with me as I continued that ritual of thanks, even in a moment when thankfulness seemed impossible. There have been days (and weeks) when I simply don't open the blinds so that I can avoid my gratitude prayer, but mostly – I still keep this ritual. Yesterday morning, my first day back in my bed after ten days in Oklahoma, I opened the blinds. The beauty that unfolded as the blinds lifted took my breath away. I had to remind myself it was not a postcard, it was as real as is humanly possible.
Last night, after I'd received the news of Bennett's death, I sat on the phone with Kevin for a long time. He shared the experience of his day with me. His voice was heartbroken and his sobs were real, but he knew that Bennett's death was both bitter and sweet. This sweet child spent two-and-a-half of his three-years fighting a battle with a terminal condition. He had fought his battle and won it with graceful surrender. Kevin shared the story of what, through his words and my lens, was a truly peaceful passing. A crossing over where the whole family was there, where there was time for good-byes, and during which Kevin played guitar and sang Bennett's favorite song as he took his last struggled breaths in his body and his first in freedom. Earlier in the evening, when I knew the respirator had been removed and Bennett's last moments were near, I imagined you – an angel – kneeling, beaming smile, and arms wide open... ready to catch Bennett in a huge, loving hug. At the end of our phone conversation, as I closed the blinds in my bedroom, we said what we were grateful for. "A peaceful passing," Kevin said. "Yes. And I'm grateful Teddy has a new friend up there now," I said, guiltily noticing envy's pinprick.
Death is not peaceful to living. What we don't understand, we choose to reject. In some ways, I've come to accept death. With the passing of this poor child, I see that death can be a untroubled destination. Death can be a gentle surrender. It can catch those who struggle with peaceful and loving wings. With you, death plucked you suddenly and unfairly – you were not ready for it. None of us were ready. But sometimes, death can be more gracious. Death can offer relief. That doesn't mean the loss is any less painful, horrifying, or confusing. I don't undermine the suffering, trauma, or grief that will ensue. I don't compare. I simply offer a death an apology for my hatred of him, a loosening up of the reigns. I see that he can be both bitter and sweet.
My deepest condolences go out to Bennett's parents and family. I admire his mother Aimee's dedication and undying love for her son. A mother that could love so deeply that she held her child as he died naturally, instead of coerce him to live a little bit longer, in unconscious torture. Her selfless acceptance of his fate warmed my empty womb. I'm thankful for the heartfelt conversations we shared over the past couple weeks as we sat by Bennett's bedside. We talked about grief and suffering through the lenses of both the struggling and the departed. We talked about how strength doesn't apply during tragedy, it's surrendering to instinct. Healing wishes and tremendously big hugs go to my dear friend, Kevin. I will be here as his ally and his support as he boards a train of grief while he is still congruently riding on another. My prayers of peace travel to little Bennett as he relinquishes the grip on his spent body, takes his place as an angel, and lets his spirit twinkle in the air we breathe.
Every evening before you and I went to sleep, we offered our nightly gratitudes as we closed the blinds overlooking the city-lights of Boulder and the acres of majestic mountains over which we reigned. The first night I was back in our bed after you died, Kevin came into the room and sat with me as I continued that ritual of thanks, even in a moment when thankfulness seemed impossible. There have been days (and weeks) when I simply don't open the blinds so that I can avoid my gratitude prayer, but mostly – I still keep this ritual. Yesterday morning, my first day back in my bed after ten days in Oklahoma, I opened the blinds. The beauty that unfolded as the blinds lifted took my breath away. I had to remind myself it was not a postcard, it was as real as is humanly possible.
Last night, after I'd received the news of Bennett's death, I sat on the phone with Kevin for a long time. He shared the experience of his day with me. His voice was heartbroken and his sobs were real, but he knew that Bennett's death was both bitter and sweet. This sweet child spent two-and-a-half of his three-years fighting a battle with a terminal condition. He had fought his battle and won it with graceful surrender. Kevin shared the story of what, through his words and my lens, was a truly peaceful passing. A crossing over where the whole family was there, where there was time for good-byes, and during which Kevin played guitar and sang Bennett's favorite song as he took his last struggled breaths in his body and his first in freedom. Earlier in the evening, when I knew the respirator had been removed and Bennett's last moments were near, I imagined you – an angel – kneeling, beaming smile, and arms wide open... ready to catch Bennett in a huge, loving hug. At the end of our phone conversation, as I closed the blinds in my bedroom, we said what we were grateful for. "A peaceful passing," Kevin said. "Yes. And I'm grateful Teddy has a new friend up there now," I said, guiltily noticing envy's pinprick.
Death is not peaceful to living. What we don't understand, we choose to reject. In some ways, I've come to accept death. With the passing of this poor child, I see that death can be a untroubled destination. Death can be a gentle surrender. It can catch those who struggle with peaceful and loving wings. With you, death plucked you suddenly and unfairly – you were not ready for it. None of us were ready. But sometimes, death can be more gracious. Death can offer relief. That doesn't mean the loss is any less painful, horrifying, or confusing. I don't undermine the suffering, trauma, or grief that will ensue. I don't compare. I simply offer a death an apology for my hatred of him, a loosening up of the reigns. I see that he can be both bitter and sweet.
My deepest condolences go out to Bennett's parents and family. I admire his mother Aimee's dedication and undying love for her son. A mother that could love so deeply that she held her child as he died naturally, instead of coerce him to live a little bit longer, in unconscious torture. Her selfless acceptance of his fate warmed my empty womb. I'm thankful for the heartfelt conversations we shared over the past couple weeks as we sat by Bennett's bedside. We talked about grief and suffering through the lenses of both the struggling and the departed. We talked about how strength doesn't apply during tragedy, it's surrendering to instinct. Healing wishes and tremendously big hugs go to my dear friend, Kevin. I will be here as his ally and his support as he boards a train of grief while he is still congruently riding on another. My prayers of peace travel to little Bennett as he relinquishes the grip on his spent body, takes his place as an angel, and lets his spirit twinkle in the air we breathe.
Supple Beings
The human mindbody is profound. Our capacity for growth, connection, love, pleasure, joy, grief, and a plethora of other human experiences can occur simultaneously and often without us even being aware of them.
The mind. Yesterday, an incredible woman guided me through a past-life regression. I didn't think I would succumb to hypnosis. The left side of my brain is bossy. And yet, easily, I dropped into a channel of higher intuition. I regressed through a doorway and into a past life. I was able to speak and see my way through powerful and memorable events in the life I visited from five-hundred years ago. My body and soul, craving healing, knew I needed to see you. So when I accessed my past life, I saw you. You were my true love and my partner. I got to see your eyes. I got to see your soul. I saw that indeed we had experienced one another's love in the past. Through the power of the mind, I preserved the moment I recalled yesterday for centuries. It was written into the highlight reel of my soul. And when I needed hope, when I needed faith, when I needed answers, when I needed to see you – my mind offered it.
The body. Nine years ago, I was riding on the back of a motorcycle in flip flops, a mini-skirt, and a helmet with no chip strap. It was dusk and began to rain. As we took a sharp left turn, the driver lost control of the bike and swerved into oncoming traffic. We struck a Chevy Silverado head on. Both vehicles were traveling about 45 mph. Upon impact, I flew into the air and over the truck. I recall those three seconds in flight as if they lasted a lifetime. I saw what was in the bed of the truck as I flew over it. I realized I was upside-down. I felt the helmet fly off my head. I decided I was going to die. Then, I decided I was not going to die. I cradled my head in my arms and twisted my body to avoid landing on my spine, where I'd had a previous back surgery. Before hitting the ground, I remembered hearing about how drunk drivers often survive accidents because they don't tense up their bodies. I had not been drinking, but in a valiant effort to save myself, I loosened every muscle of my body and literally bounced off the asphalt when I struck the ground. I also felt the energy of being carried and set down softly by some higher power. I had the distinct knowledge that a dear friend, who'd passed away recently, was helping to save me. Adrenaline on high gear, after hitting the cement, I stood up immediately. I gathered my things that were strewn about. I saw the blood on my hands, feet, and back from the road rash. I spoke with the first responders. I checked on the driver, who had flown forward and impacted his groin on the gas tank of the bike. Within about twenty minutes, the pain settled in. EMS loaded me onto an ambulance. I had fractured my tailbone, pelvis, and hip and was in the hospital for a week. I had a six-inch screw inserted into the left side of my back to stabilize my hips. I didn't walk again for five-weeks. I was told that I may never be able to give birth to children naturally because of the fixed screw. I was told never to do impact sports again. Then, came yoga. For nine years I have practiced yoga to heal my body, to sooth my hips, and to open up (literally) to the possibility of being able to have children naturally some day. Now, I can do the splits in every direction. I can put my feet behind my head. I also have run a triathlon and a half-marathon since then. The accident taught me about the capacity for the human body to heal itself through trauma.
The connection. Now, I am witnessing how the human body can support the soul, when it needs to heal.
I was talking to one of my best friends last night about loss. I've known this friend for over half of my life. He lost his mother just over a year ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. The grief, though impossibly painful and unwarranted, has brought out a gentleness in him that is truly beautiful. It is a side of him that I had never seen before. And while I'm sure he'd rather have his mother back rather than access this alternate aspect of his being (and I wish that were possible), it's really a remarkable thing to witness a person change so profoundly. Grief made him grow. It makes me wonder what your death will bring out in me. How will I change for the better? I imagine it will bring out suppleness. It already has. Hard edges, aggression, and disbelief don't make coping easier. Suddenly, you just have to trust in something bigger, something unexplainable, and open your heart to connection – in whatever way that is, however fleeting.
Grief shines light onto priorities. The things that were important three months ago are nearly nonexistent to me now. The chatter that consumed the vast ocean of my mind is still. I don't have the energy to over-analyze. I am not concerned with drama. I am not provoked by lustful excitement. Day-to-day irritations and to-dos are meaningless. I am not caught up in appearances. I mean, I'm still human – but I've been forced to soften. My body and mind work on healing full-time. I have lost control of life. Or rather, your death made me realize I never had control of it in the first place. I thought I did; I thought I could manipulate life to make it go my way. But that was a false assumption. What I can do, is be present in this moment. What, in this moment, right now, will bring me peace? And that's where I go.
Today I spent about thirty minutes pacing back and forth in my living room. In that moment, pacing was the only thing that I could muster, it was a constant. Also today, I spent thirty minutes swimming laps. So essentially, pacing back and forth, but just in a pool. It gave me steadiness to balance out the uncertainty that has clogged my perspective of future. In my yoga practice tonight, I ended with Yoga Nidra, a guided svasana/meditation. During the practice, the teacher spoke about how our nervous system does not allow the human body to cope and to heal at the same time. We must focus on one. When the parasympathetic nervous system is dominant, the body is in rest and digest mode. This means its priority is to recover, to heal, to deeply nourish and restore itself. The body knows how to do these things, but we get so caught up in our busy lifestyles that we often live in reactive sympathetic nervous system mode, where the body’s priority is coping (fight or flight), not healing. I can no longer operate reactively. I must be gentle. I must heal. I don't know what the right way of doing that is, or if there is one at all, but I am living in the moment. That's all I have.
Now, I pace, I meditate, I sooth my mind and my body in whatever way I need. I am listening to her. I am honoring her needs. I've learned that she, my body, is the only thing I have even a touch of control over. And yet, by softening, I also relinquish that control and admire her power over me.
The mind. Yesterday, an incredible woman guided me through a past-life regression. I didn't think I would succumb to hypnosis. The left side of my brain is bossy. And yet, easily, I dropped into a channel of higher intuition. I regressed through a doorway and into a past life. I was able to speak and see my way through powerful and memorable events in the life I visited from five-hundred years ago. My body and soul, craving healing, knew I needed to see you. So when I accessed my past life, I saw you. You were my true love and my partner. I got to see your eyes. I got to see your soul. I saw that indeed we had experienced one another's love in the past. Through the power of the mind, I preserved the moment I recalled yesterday for centuries. It was written into the highlight reel of my soul. And when I needed hope, when I needed faith, when I needed answers, when I needed to see you – my mind offered it.
The body. Nine years ago, I was riding on the back of a motorcycle in flip flops, a mini-skirt, and a helmet with no chip strap. It was dusk and began to rain. As we took a sharp left turn, the driver lost control of the bike and swerved into oncoming traffic. We struck a Chevy Silverado head on. Both vehicles were traveling about 45 mph. Upon impact, I flew into the air and over the truck. I recall those three seconds in flight as if they lasted a lifetime. I saw what was in the bed of the truck as I flew over it. I realized I was upside-down. I felt the helmet fly off my head. I decided I was going to die. Then, I decided I was not going to die. I cradled my head in my arms and twisted my body to avoid landing on my spine, where I'd had a previous back surgery. Before hitting the ground, I remembered hearing about how drunk drivers often survive accidents because they don't tense up their bodies. I had not been drinking, but in a valiant effort to save myself, I loosened every muscle of my body and literally bounced off the asphalt when I struck the ground. I also felt the energy of being carried and set down softly by some higher power. I had the distinct knowledge that a dear friend, who'd passed away recently, was helping to save me. Adrenaline on high gear, after hitting the cement, I stood up immediately. I gathered my things that were strewn about. I saw the blood on my hands, feet, and back from the road rash. I spoke with the first responders. I checked on the driver, who had flown forward and impacted his groin on the gas tank of the bike. Within about twenty minutes, the pain settled in. EMS loaded me onto an ambulance. I had fractured my tailbone, pelvis, and hip and was in the hospital for a week. I had a six-inch screw inserted into the left side of my back to stabilize my hips. I didn't walk again for five-weeks. I was told that I may never be able to give birth to children naturally because of the fixed screw. I was told never to do impact sports again. Then, came yoga. For nine years I have practiced yoga to heal my body, to sooth my hips, and to open up (literally) to the possibility of being able to have children naturally some day. Now, I can do the splits in every direction. I can put my feet behind my head. I also have run a triathlon and a half-marathon since then. The accident taught me about the capacity for the human body to heal itself through trauma.
The connection. Now, I am witnessing how the human body can support the soul, when it needs to heal.
I was talking to one of my best friends last night about loss. I've known this friend for over half of my life. He lost his mother just over a year ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. The grief, though impossibly painful and unwarranted, has brought out a gentleness in him that is truly beautiful. It is a side of him that I had never seen before. And while I'm sure he'd rather have his mother back rather than access this alternate aspect of his being (and I wish that were possible), it's really a remarkable thing to witness a person change so profoundly. Grief made him grow. It makes me wonder what your death will bring out in me. How will I change for the better? I imagine it will bring out suppleness. It already has. Hard edges, aggression, and disbelief don't make coping easier. Suddenly, you just have to trust in something bigger, something unexplainable, and open your heart to connection – in whatever way that is, however fleeting.
Grief shines light onto priorities. The things that were important three months ago are nearly nonexistent to me now. The chatter that consumed the vast ocean of my mind is still. I don't have the energy to over-analyze. I am not concerned with drama. I am not provoked by lustful excitement. Day-to-day irritations and to-dos are meaningless. I am not caught up in appearances. I mean, I'm still human – but I've been forced to soften. My body and mind work on healing full-time. I have lost control of life. Or rather, your death made me realize I never had control of it in the first place. I thought I did; I thought I could manipulate life to make it go my way. But that was a false assumption. What I can do, is be present in this moment. What, in this moment, right now, will bring me peace? And that's where I go.
Today I spent about thirty minutes pacing back and forth in my living room. In that moment, pacing was the only thing that I could muster, it was a constant. Also today, I spent thirty minutes swimming laps. So essentially, pacing back and forth, but just in a pool. It gave me steadiness to balance out the uncertainty that has clogged my perspective of future. In my yoga practice tonight, I ended with Yoga Nidra, a guided svasana/meditation. During the practice, the teacher spoke about how our nervous system does not allow the human body to cope and to heal at the same time. We must focus on one. When the parasympathetic nervous system is dominant, the body is in rest and digest mode. This means its priority is to recover, to heal, to deeply nourish and restore itself. The body knows how to do these things, but we get so caught up in our busy lifestyles that we often live in reactive sympathetic nervous system mode, where the body’s priority is coping (fight or flight), not healing. I can no longer operate reactively. I must be gentle. I must heal. I don't know what the right way of doing that is, or if there is one at all, but I am living in the moment. That's all I have.
Now, I pace, I meditate, I sooth my mind and my body in whatever way I need. I am listening to her. I am honoring her needs. I've learned that she, my body, is the only thing I have even a touch of control over. And yet, by softening, I also relinquish that control and admire her power over me.
Labyrinth
This past year at Burning Man, Kevin, you, and I took a ride out to Deep Playa. We were searching for nothing and everything at the same time. We had no plan, which was your favorite way to journey. Far away from the lights and bass of the city, almost to the trash fence, we stumbled upon a labyrinth carved into the earth. It was camouflaged, a facade amongst the clay earth. We headed to the entrance of the maze and began to walk.
The network of paths was narrow and we moved forward in a single file line. At first we moved in silence, one foot in front of the other, moving slowly. Then, we began to talk about unique experiences of our own life-wanderings. We shared, we laughed, we cried, and we walked within the web for a long time.
The labyrinth's network was unclear. We couldn't tell where we were in the system – at times we'd laugh and ask, "Are we even halfway through this?" The mid-point was unrecognizable from our place in the midst of the web. "Is this the beginning, middle or end?" I would ask, impatiently. "It doesn't matter," you would respond, "It could be anything." We continued on our pilgrimage.
Do we ever really know the end from the beginning? What I thought was the beginning for us, turned out to be our last day together. And yet, maybe that terrible night was just the beginning, or maybe a dot within the middle of our own odyssey together through consciousness.
As I sat on Natalia's patio for la comida (a leisurely lunch) this afternoon, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore blended in the distance with Nati's partner, Jaime's classical guitar melody. As I heard the sounds I felt a sense of clairaudience. You are here even in your absence. It's all connected. I suddenly knew. It's all one and the same. As clear as it is that you are not here, it is also clear that you are here.
I heard you in the soulful conversation at lunch. I heard the ideas that you loved to discuss. I heard the music that you loved to create. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and it reminded me of the dream I had last night where you appeared and we had a new adventure together. I saw you in the love of Nati and Jamie. They met not long after we did, but after Natalia told me she was inspired by our love. So, in some ways, we helped foster their love, and therefore, you are inside of them. And I felt it absolutely.
The morning after your death, as I clung to your Aunt Ginny's mattress, trying to ground myself and understand this new emotion – grief – my friend Amirah was the first person to arrive. Her face stained with tears and mind aghast at the tragedy, she simply held space for my devastation. She brought her baby, Sora, with her to the house. As she entered the bedroom, she apologized for bringing the baby. She hadn't been able to find someone to watch her on such short notice. I told her not to worry. I was glad Sora was there, but I didn't know why yet.
As Amirah sat with me, in essence she cradled both her baby and her friend. All of a sudden, Sora, with huge brown eyes of innocence, looked into my grief-stricken eyes and reached out towards me. She grabbed your necklace, which was on my neck. It was the necklace you wore beneath your shirt every day – a wrap that contained both sides of an ammonite nested within a alkaline dust of gold, silver, and burning man ash. It was the necklace that only a few hours before, in the hospital, I'd removed from your neck and placed on mine. The baby reached for the necklace, grasped it in her tiny hand, and looked into my eyes, and I gasped. "Ted is inside of Sora," I told Amirah, "I'm so glad you brought her." It was the first time I saw your spirit in something other than your physical self.
William Blake wrote:
To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
We are all connected. You are here. You are in the ocean. You are in each grain of sand. You are in my voice. You are in the dog's tongue that kisses my cheek. You are in the conversation I'm having and the one the strangers down the beach are having too. You are in a star that makes up the farthest constellation away from this place. You are in your friends' rituals. You are in the love I offer to myself. You are in your mother's heartbeat.
Quantum physicist, Michael Talbot, who authored your favorite book, The Holographic Universe, says that the energy of a trillion atomic bombs is in every cubic centimeter of space. Space is not empty, as we often see. Instead, it is full. It is more dense than any other matter – a plenum as opposed to a vacuum. So when your soul ascended from your body that night and I watched your spirit leave its physical habitat, you became a part of the fabric of the universe. You became the light. You became time. You became space.
So I continue on my journey. What I thought was the beginning of our life was redefined by the Universe's lesson. Is it the beginning, the middle, or the end? It is all three. Am I alone or among all? I am both. I have learned that placing faith in the future is fruitless. I cannot trust the future – not even this very breath. Though expectations and plans are not entirely futile – they are an important exercise in patience and uncertainty.
For now, I walk with myself on this journey. Myself – which is the sum of everything I am and have been, all I've learned, all my memories, all I love, all I've touched – and I honor this very moment in my understanding of time, this very lesson in my own pilgrimage, and seize an openness to the connectedness of us all, you included, within this labyrinth of consciousness.
The network of paths was narrow and we moved forward in a single file line. At first we moved in silence, one foot in front of the other, moving slowly. Then, we began to talk about unique experiences of our own life-wanderings. We shared, we laughed, we cried, and we walked within the web for a long time.
The labyrinth's network was unclear. We couldn't tell where we were in the system – at times we'd laugh and ask, "Are we even halfway through this?" The mid-point was unrecognizable from our place in the midst of the web. "Is this the beginning, middle or end?" I would ask, impatiently. "It doesn't matter," you would respond, "It could be anything." We continued on our pilgrimage.
Do we ever really know the end from the beginning? What I thought was the beginning for us, turned out to be our last day together. And yet, maybe that terrible night was just the beginning, or maybe a dot within the middle of our own odyssey together through consciousness.
As I sat on Natalia's patio for la comida (a leisurely lunch) this afternoon, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore blended in the distance with Nati's partner, Jaime's classical guitar melody. As I heard the sounds I felt a sense of clairaudience. You are here even in your absence. It's all connected. I suddenly knew. It's all one and the same. As clear as it is that you are not here, it is also clear that you are here.
I heard you in the soulful conversation at lunch. I heard the ideas that you loved to discuss. I heard the music that you loved to create. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and it reminded me of the dream I had last night where you appeared and we had a new adventure together. I saw you in the love of Nati and Jamie. They met not long after we did, but after Natalia told me she was inspired by our love. So, in some ways, we helped foster their love, and therefore, you are inside of them. And I felt it absolutely.
The morning after your death, as I clung to your Aunt Ginny's mattress, trying to ground myself and understand this new emotion – grief – my friend Amirah was the first person to arrive. Her face stained with tears and mind aghast at the tragedy, she simply held space for my devastation. She brought her baby, Sora, with her to the house. As she entered the bedroom, she apologized for bringing the baby. She hadn't been able to find someone to watch her on such short notice. I told her not to worry. I was glad Sora was there, but I didn't know why yet.
As Amirah sat with me, in essence she cradled both her baby and her friend. All of a sudden, Sora, with huge brown eyes of innocence, looked into my grief-stricken eyes and reached out towards me. She grabbed your necklace, which was on my neck. It was the necklace you wore beneath your shirt every day – a wrap that contained both sides of an ammonite nested within a alkaline dust of gold, silver, and burning man ash. It was the necklace that only a few hours before, in the hospital, I'd removed from your neck and placed on mine. The baby reached for the necklace, grasped it in her tiny hand, and looked into my eyes, and I gasped. "Ted is inside of Sora," I told Amirah, "I'm so glad you brought her." It was the first time I saw your spirit in something other than your physical self.
William Blake wrote:
To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
We are all connected. You are here. You are in the ocean. You are in each grain of sand. You are in my voice. You are in the dog's tongue that kisses my cheek. You are in the conversation I'm having and the one the strangers down the beach are having too. You are in a star that makes up the farthest constellation away from this place. You are in your friends' rituals. You are in the love I offer to myself. You are in your mother's heartbeat.
Quantum physicist, Michael Talbot, who authored your favorite book, The Holographic Universe, says that the energy of a trillion atomic bombs is in every cubic centimeter of space. Space is not empty, as we often see. Instead, it is full. It is more dense than any other matter – a plenum as opposed to a vacuum. So when your soul ascended from your body that night and I watched your spirit leave its physical habitat, you became a part of the fabric of the universe. You became the light. You became time. You became space.
So I continue on my journey. What I thought was the beginning of our life was redefined by the Universe's lesson. Is it the beginning, the middle, or the end? It is all three. Am I alone or among all? I am both. I have learned that placing faith in the future is fruitless. I cannot trust the future – not even this very breath. Though expectations and plans are not entirely futile – they are an important exercise in patience and uncertainty.
For now, I walk with myself on this journey. Myself – which is the sum of everything I am and have been, all I've learned, all my memories, all I love, all I've touched – and I honor this very moment in my understanding of time, this very lesson in my own pilgrimage, and seize an openness to the connectedness of us all, you included, within this labyrinth of consciousness.
Eulogy
Delivered at Ted's memorial on Wednesday Oct 29, 2014
--
Thank you all so much for being here. I had no doubt the outpouring of love and support today would be so huge. Teddy was a beacon of light and love to every single person he touched, even indirectly.
I’ve known Ted and his family for 18 years. But Ted and I really met on Jan. 26, 2013 at a fundraiser celebration for his sister Berkley’s late daughter Jane. It’s said love finds you when you aren’t looking for it, and that’s exactly what happened for us.
The love that we have together is indefinable. We use the word “love” to describe so many things that its true depth can be tarnished. It’s different than the love we felt for say – our animals, or our favorite vacation destination, sushi, bacon or mayonnaise. The closest words Ted and I had was “soul mates.”
We both truly believe that our souls have traveled together for many lives. Last Thursday night, Ted and I watched Robin Williams in “What Dreams May Come.” For those who haven’t seen it, it’s about a man’s journey through Earth, heaven and hell to reconnect with his soul mate. Ted wept deeply as we watched it and asked me if I thought we’d been life partners in a previous life. I told him I felt that we’d traveled together for many lifetimes and realms but that this was finally the chance we had to be together forever. He agreed.
I guess our time together was just a preview. A preview that I am so lucky to have had but also beyond the depths devastation to be physically over. I have SO much more love to give Teddy. I had barely started.
Some of Ted’s family and close friends informed that that Ted was planning to propose in the coming weeks. I knew it was about to happen – we’d talked about our wedding and future plans every day. I thought maybe it would happen on his birthday, a week from today.
We dreamt of celebrating our love with hundreds of friends and family somewhere that displayed nature’s spirit in a beautiful and sublime way. We wanted to have purple flowers. We wanted to honor little Jane, his niece, for bringing us together. He wanted String Cheese, the Motet, N8tron and the Drunken Hearts to play on multiple stages.
We wanted the love that filled the space to be unlike anything anyone had ever witnessed, because that’s truly how our love is. And we wanted to write our own vows. I’ve thought about those vows since just weeks after we began dating. And now, while a wedding, a ring and all of those “things” seem so inconsequential, my love and my vows to him remain. This is what I promise because of who he is and what we were together.
Teddy, my heart:
I vow to shower you in the everlasting embrace of my love forever. No ‘till death do us part.’ This is only the beginning.
I vow to look at situations, people, and happenstance not just at face value with silver linings but with a deep introspection for the love, the good and the lesson within.
I vow to always believe you are with me as an angel because you were nothing short of that here on Earth.
I vow to be grateful for something everyday, no matter how hopeless I feel at times not having you there to do it with me.
I vow to take care of my body and mind – just like you did up until your last breath.
I vow to cherish the memory of your enrapturing spirit, your brilliant mind, your teachings, and your gorgeous, beautiful and perfect body.
I vow to create something that will allow your legacy to live on, so you can still shine your bright light, your hope, and your pure, pure innocent love out to others – just like you spoke of doing for the family we wanted to create.
And I vow to not give up on loving again, only because I know you wouldn’t want me to. And because on the Sunday before you left us, you told me if you ever died, you would return as my child. I was so upset at the time for you bringing up something so devastating. But now, I see that as a glimmer of hope that I’ll see you again while I’m on this Earth. This time.
When Ted and I attended Burning Man last August, we watched Andrew Horn give a TedX Talk entitled “Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late.” Andrew spoke of the term “eulogy” which translated from Greek to “good words.” He spoke about how our culture has assigned a eulogy to accompany a death, when actually those “good words” should be constant throughout life.
Teddy was very generous with the amount of “good words” he gave out. As our friend Dave Nelson told me this week: “You’d have to be a real asshole for Ted not to love you.” I’m also very confident that Ted knows the love he shared was reflected right back to him intensely. He heard it. He hears it.
Ted often said that glitter is like energy. It cannot be destroyed, only changed from one form to another. Ted’s love is like glitter: sparkling magic that will never disappear. Also, we’re blessed that some of Ted’s physical body lives on too. We were notified that his tissue went on to help 50 people. That’s so Ted.
I stand here before you mainly speaking of Ted’s love. And I’ve now learned that as powerful as love is, grief is its equal. Many of us have never met, or only in passing, but we are now the container for Ted’s memory. We can all lead bigger lives to carry on his spirit.
You are all the stardust of what remains of my shining star, Ted.
Thank you.
--
Thank you all so much for being here. I had no doubt the outpouring of love and support today would be so huge. Teddy was a beacon of light and love to every single person he touched, even indirectly.
I’ve known Ted and his family for 18 years. But Ted and I really met on Jan. 26, 2013 at a fundraiser celebration for his sister Berkley’s late daughter Jane. It’s said love finds you when you aren’t looking for it, and that’s exactly what happened for us.
The love that we have together is indefinable. We use the word “love” to describe so many things that its true depth can be tarnished. It’s different than the love we felt for say – our animals, or our favorite vacation destination, sushi, bacon or mayonnaise. The closest words Ted and I had was “soul mates.”
We both truly believe that our souls have traveled together for many lives. Last Thursday night, Ted and I watched Robin Williams in “What Dreams May Come.” For those who haven’t seen it, it’s about a man’s journey through Earth, heaven and hell to reconnect with his soul mate. Ted wept deeply as we watched it and asked me if I thought we’d been life partners in a previous life. I told him I felt that we’d traveled together for many lifetimes and realms but that this was finally the chance we had to be together forever. He agreed.
I guess our time together was just a preview. A preview that I am so lucky to have had but also beyond the depths devastation to be physically over. I have SO much more love to give Teddy. I had barely started.
Some of Ted’s family and close friends informed that that Ted was planning to propose in the coming weeks. I knew it was about to happen – we’d talked about our wedding and future plans every day. I thought maybe it would happen on his birthday, a week from today.
We dreamt of celebrating our love with hundreds of friends and family somewhere that displayed nature’s spirit in a beautiful and sublime way. We wanted to have purple flowers. We wanted to honor little Jane, his niece, for bringing us together. He wanted String Cheese, the Motet, N8tron and the Drunken Hearts to play on multiple stages.
We wanted the love that filled the space to be unlike anything anyone had ever witnessed, because that’s truly how our love is. And we wanted to write our own vows. I’ve thought about those vows since just weeks after we began dating. And now, while a wedding, a ring and all of those “things” seem so inconsequential, my love and my vows to him remain. This is what I promise because of who he is and what we were together.
Teddy, my heart:
I vow to shower you in the everlasting embrace of my love forever. No ‘till death do us part.’ This is only the beginning.
I vow to look at situations, people, and happenstance not just at face value with silver linings but with a deep introspection for the love, the good and the lesson within.
I vow to always believe you are with me as an angel because you were nothing short of that here on Earth.
I vow to be grateful for something everyday, no matter how hopeless I feel at times not having you there to do it with me.
I vow to take care of my body and mind – just like you did up until your last breath.
I vow to cherish the memory of your enrapturing spirit, your brilliant mind, your teachings, and your gorgeous, beautiful and perfect body.
I vow to create something that will allow your legacy to live on, so you can still shine your bright light, your hope, and your pure, pure innocent love out to others – just like you spoke of doing for the family we wanted to create.
And I vow to not give up on loving again, only because I know you wouldn’t want me to. And because on the Sunday before you left us, you told me if you ever died, you would return as my child. I was so upset at the time for you bringing up something so devastating. But now, I see that as a glimmer of hope that I’ll see you again while I’m on this Earth. This time.
When Ted and I attended Burning Man last August, we watched Andrew Horn give a TedX Talk entitled “Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late.” Andrew spoke of the term “eulogy” which translated from Greek to “good words.” He spoke about how our culture has assigned a eulogy to accompany a death, when actually those “good words” should be constant throughout life.
Teddy was very generous with the amount of “good words” he gave out. As our friend Dave Nelson told me this week: “You’d have to be a real asshole for Ted not to love you.” I’m also very confident that Ted knows the love he shared was reflected right back to him intensely. He heard it. He hears it.
Ted often said that glitter is like energy. It cannot be destroyed, only changed from one form to another. Ted’s love is like glitter: sparkling magic that will never disappear. Also, we’re blessed that some of Ted’s physical body lives on too. We were notified that his tissue went on to help 50 people. That’s so Ted.
I stand here before you mainly speaking of Ted’s love. And I’ve now learned that as powerful as love is, grief is its equal. Many of us have never met, or only in passing, but we are now the container for Ted’s memory. We can all lead bigger lives to carry on his spirit.
You are all the stardust of what remains of my shining star, Ted.
Thank you.
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