I woke up this morning at 5:45 am to the sounds of the call-to-prayer here in Marrakech, Morocco. As my mind awoke from sad and longing dreams, I realize I'd drifted off to sleep last night without doing my own prayers and gratitude. It was almost as if the alarm had awoken me as a reminder of my own need for prayer and meditation. So as the Muslims around the city kneeled on their prayer rugs and bowed to their Allah, I prayed to my God too. While there any many different names: Allah, God, Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Mother Earth, the Universe... in my opinion, it is the exact same essence.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
Marrakech
I'm pretty certain you wouldn't like Marrakech. It's not a place to come to clear your mind. Clearing my mind was ever my intention, keeping it abuzz was more of the plan. Yet it's interesting because as I've moved through the maze of this city today – it's been one of the first times since you left that I thought, "Thank God Ted's not here!" The reason that's come to my mind is NOT because I don't want you here, but simply that I don't think you would want to be here.
It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.
I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.
You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist.
I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.
A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.
I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.
When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.
So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.
The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.
Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.
I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.
Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.
The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.
This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.
But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.
Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.
It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.
I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.
You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist.
I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.
A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.
I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.
When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.
So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.
The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.
Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.
I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.
Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.
The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.
This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.
But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.
Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.
Dust
The loneliest moment is right before I fall asleep. When I'm laying in the silence trying to pass into my dream world, everything gets very still. Stillness is hard for me, as you know. It's in stillness that I miss you the most.
I miss your warm body next to mine as we drifted off. If I was having trouble getting to sleep, I could rock to my side and snuggle into you. You, even in your unconscious, would murmur love and nestle in closer to me too. It was there, in that cocoon, when sleep would come. And if it didn't, it was ok, because I could just breath you.
Now, the path towards sleep is lonely. It's when I really, really cry. It's when I feel incredibly helpless. It's when the world feels very small, only as big as my body curled alone on a mattress. Alone. There is no you to spoon me. There is no ear to whisper love into. There is no body to arouse. There is no conversation to distract me. There is no excitement for the morning. There are no dreams to share. There is only the hope of sleep to distract me from the pain of waking. There are only tears.
I am trying to focus on the world's bigness. I am trying to focus on the light. I'm trying to show myself that while you are not here, there is so much else that IS here. I am searching for beauty in what is, while cherishing the memory of what is not.
A few months ago, we pulled up to the Burning Man Temple on our scooter. Kevin parked his bicycle behind us. The Temple is a spiritual, solemn, and sacred space for memorials, reflection, and commemorations of life transitions. Visiting the Temple is a stark contrast to experiencing the rest of the city. It was Friday. We had been on the Playa for five days already and were worn out. We were dusty and emotional. We locked up to the perimeter of the Temple of Grace and took deep breaths. We knew this was going to be hard.
It was dusk and a dust storm was setting in. As we entered the walls of the Temple, a whiteout prevented us from seeing anything outside. We all split up. I walked to the left, you went straight, Kevin headed right. The sacred area was full of grieving Burners. People who were broken. People who had loved and lost. The muffled sound of sobs filled the space like a soundtrack. My own tears came immediately. I grieved for my grandmother, who I'd lost a few months prior. I grieved because I knew you were grieving for Sarah, for Jane, and for the world. I grieved because I thought of Kevin's grief for his struggling nephew and his late father. I grieved for the sadness in everyone. The resonance of suffering made my heart throb and my throat tighten. For all the love I have in my heart, the suffering in the Universe is its equal, I thought.
I read the notes that were inscribed on every single beam of wood of the structure: a wallpaper of Sharpie'd messages. I read quotes. I read love notes. I read prayers. I saw altars constructed of memorabilia and soul. I saw photos adhered to the walls of people who had left this world for another dimension. I looked into their two dimensional eyes and offered them peace. I saw sorrow. I saw ashes of a friend who should have been there. I saw grandparents that had lived out their days fully. I saw a mother who died before her child could offer her an apology. I saw a father who was also a best friend. I saw a husband who would never get to meet his unborn child. I saw children who had never been able to take a breath in this lifetime. I saw soldiers who never made it home from war. I saw pets that had run into traffic. I saw tragedy. I saw accidents. I saw addiction that morphed innocence into helplessness. I saw fifty thousand names and offerings. I saw compassion. I saw effigies. I saw offerings. I saw religion. I saw art. I saw love. I saw a carpet of sorrowful tears.
I inscribed my own tributes to the walls. I wrote a note to my grandmother. I wrote a note to your friend Sarah, who I had never met. I wrote a note to humanity. 'Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all.'
I found you and Kevin somewhere amidst the chorus of sobs, each of us uniquely contributing to the refrain. You and I embraced, chests heaving with sorrowful weeping. Kevin joined the hug. The three of us stood there for a long time, holding space for suffering. Eventually, we left the Temple. The ride back to our camp was quiet. We honored the mourning.
The three of us gathered again on Sunday night to watch the Temple of Grace burn, an effigy of light and heat. It's a silent burn. Tens of thousands of people stand in stillness and watch the offering. Weeping is generally the only sound you hear. Every so often, a broken heart will longingly cry out, "Mom...," "I miss you dad...," "I love you...".
I love you, Ted. I miss you, Ted. I miss you all of the time. But I especially miss you in the stillness, when movement can't distract me. I especially miss you in the night, when the sun can't illuminate the beauty of what is still here. I miss you when I am caught in between waking and sleeping and all I want is to reach out and embrace my soul mate. I miss you so much.
I miss your warm body next to mine as we drifted off. If I was having trouble getting to sleep, I could rock to my side and snuggle into you. You, even in your unconscious, would murmur love and nestle in closer to me too. It was there, in that cocoon, when sleep would come. And if it didn't, it was ok, because I could just breath you.
Now, the path towards sleep is lonely. It's when I really, really cry. It's when I feel incredibly helpless. It's when the world feels very small, only as big as my body curled alone on a mattress. Alone. There is no you to spoon me. There is no ear to whisper love into. There is no body to arouse. There is no conversation to distract me. There is no excitement for the morning. There are no dreams to share. There is only the hope of sleep to distract me from the pain of waking. There are only tears.
I am trying to focus on the world's bigness. I am trying to focus on the light. I'm trying to show myself that while you are not here, there is so much else that IS here. I am searching for beauty in what is, while cherishing the memory of what is not.
A few months ago, we pulled up to the Burning Man Temple on our scooter. Kevin parked his bicycle behind us. The Temple is a spiritual, solemn, and sacred space for memorials, reflection, and commemorations of life transitions. Visiting the Temple is a stark contrast to experiencing the rest of the city. It was Friday. We had been on the Playa for five days already and were worn out. We were dusty and emotional. We locked up to the perimeter of the Temple of Grace and took deep breaths. We knew this was going to be hard.
It was dusk and a dust storm was setting in. As we entered the walls of the Temple, a whiteout prevented us from seeing anything outside. We all split up. I walked to the left, you went straight, Kevin headed right. The sacred area was full of grieving Burners. People who were broken. People who had loved and lost. The muffled sound of sobs filled the space like a soundtrack. My own tears came immediately. I grieved for my grandmother, who I'd lost a few months prior. I grieved because I knew you were grieving for Sarah, for Jane, and for the world. I grieved because I thought of Kevin's grief for his struggling nephew and his late father. I grieved for the sadness in everyone. The resonance of suffering made my heart throb and my throat tighten. For all the love I have in my heart, the suffering in the Universe is its equal, I thought.
I read the notes that were inscribed on every single beam of wood of the structure: a wallpaper of Sharpie'd messages. I read quotes. I read love notes. I read prayers. I saw altars constructed of memorabilia and soul. I saw photos adhered to the walls of people who had left this world for another dimension. I looked into their two dimensional eyes and offered them peace. I saw sorrow. I saw ashes of a friend who should have been there. I saw grandparents that had lived out their days fully. I saw a mother who died before her child could offer her an apology. I saw a father who was also a best friend. I saw a husband who would never get to meet his unborn child. I saw children who had never been able to take a breath in this lifetime. I saw soldiers who never made it home from war. I saw pets that had run into traffic. I saw tragedy. I saw accidents. I saw addiction that morphed innocence into helplessness. I saw fifty thousand names and offerings. I saw compassion. I saw effigies. I saw offerings. I saw religion. I saw art. I saw love. I saw a carpet of sorrowful tears.
I inscribed my own tributes to the walls. I wrote a note to my grandmother. I wrote a note to your friend Sarah, who I had never met. I wrote a note to humanity. 'Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all.'
I found you and Kevin somewhere amidst the chorus of sobs, each of us uniquely contributing to the refrain. You and I embraced, chests heaving with sorrowful weeping. Kevin joined the hug. The three of us stood there for a long time, holding space for suffering. Eventually, we left the Temple. The ride back to our camp was quiet. We honored the mourning.
The three of us gathered again on Sunday night to watch the Temple of Grace burn, an effigy of light and heat. It's a silent burn. Tens of thousands of people stand in stillness and watch the offering. Weeping is generally the only sound you hear. Every so often, a broken heart will longingly cry out, "Mom...," "I miss you dad...," "I love you...".
I love you, Ted. I miss you, Ted. I miss you all of the time. But I especially miss you in the stillness, when movement can't distract me. I especially miss you in the night, when the sun can't illuminate the beauty of what is still here. I miss you when I am caught in between waking and sleeping and all I want is to reach out and embrace my soul mate. I miss you so much.
Self Love
This morning, I pulled up photo albums on my iPhone. For one of the first times since your death, I began to scroll through recent photos we took together. I looked at the photos of us dressed to the nines in eclectic gear at Burning Man – in love, in feathers. I smiled at the image of us pointing out our twin bandaids from immunizations before traveling to South Africa this past summer. I saw the looks in our eyes as we were candidly caught sharing a joke at a recent wedding – wide-eyed, laughing, and mid-dance move. There was the photo I stole of you asleep – peaceful, naked, and with your slender arm draped across Kira. We shared gleeful grins and showed off custom hats at a summer theme wedding. There was an image of the two of us at the Chihuly exhibit at the Botanic Gardens – glorious smiles in front of beautiful artwork, right before we got rained on.
I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.
Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.
Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.
As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.
I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.
I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.
I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.
My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.
I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.
As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?
I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.
When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.
And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?
I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.
I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.
Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.
I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.
Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.
Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.
As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.
I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.
I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.
I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.
My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.
I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.
As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?
I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.
When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.
And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?
I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.
I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.
Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.
Two Realms
Imagine a horizon line. Between the horizon and the heavens is one realm – lightness, I'll call it. Between the horizon and the deepest depths of the earth or sea is another realm – darkness, I'll call it.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
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.
Foreign Ground
I walked up to a barista to get a coffee this morning and suddenly realized I didn't speak the language. That's when it hit me. Oh yeah, you're in Spain now. I decided to go look for beauty someplace I've never been before. Also, importantly, somewhere we've never been together. That sounds very sad to say. The way I feel inside is unfamiliar and now the outside is unfamiliar, too.
The travel over the past day, much like the last six weeks, has been a blur. After my friend Natalia's good advice to stay in tune with my yoga practice throughout this tragedy, I decided I'd follow some other advice she'd given me – visit her in the South of Spain. Here I sit, encompassed by language I don't understand, foreign surroundings, and people who look nothing like you – except when they do.
While some people escape into a bottle or a quick fix pill, I escape through travel.
I'm reminded again that there is no escape from this nightmare. No matter how far I run, your absence is always present. No matter where I put my own physical body, I'm confronted with the knowledge that your physical body is not here with me. My yoga teacher, Baron Baptiste, often says "You're either now here, or nowhere." Every time I would snag that quote for use in one of my classes, you would snicker. You thought it was a silly play on words. Well, my love, it's really landing for me now.
Being in an airport was very hard. Well, everything is very hard.
In the past couple years, airports have been a gateway to you. I was either flying to be with you, leaving a beautiful time we shared together, or traveling with you by my side. Being that we were long distance for half of our time together and that we both loved to travel, airports were a norm. But now, flying with the comprehension that you were not going to be on either end of the baggage claim or in the window seat next to me was yet another blow of reality.
As I went through security in Detroit, I reminisced about how I'd always race you to get through the security line first. First one with shoes on and bags in arms, wins! I won every time. OK, maybe you won once or twice when I had a particularly complicated pair of shoes to put back on. But, in general, I was the victor. Your slow pace at gathering your items was due to your meticulous organization when packing.
You always traveled with the same green Timbuktu carry-on bag. You'd had it since college, you told me. I was planning to get you a new one this Christmas.
Every item had its place: Keys in this pocket. Travel wallet in that pocket. Floss and Kind Bars in this zippered compartment. Laptop in main section. Laptop cord, wrapped perfectly, nestled in another section. Writing utensils in pen slots. Spare napkins and cutlery in another spot. Water bottle, slid in the main section, carefully. iPhone charger in its specific meshed area. Playboy magazines, always your favorite to whip out mid-flight – horrifying a neighbor, near laptop.
When you had to take your computer out of the bag to go through security, it took a few extra moments for you to put it back in – the Ted way – making sure everything was in its place. Your belt would come off carefully. Your shoes would come off deliberately. They would also be put back on very carefully. I would stand there watching you with a taunting smile, my boots already slipped on and computer tossed haphazardly back into my unzipped bag. "Bunny ears technique?" I'd joke as you tied your shoes slowly, taking the time to double knot. You'd shoot me a grin back, knowing I'd won.
However, when it came time to find headphones later while in-flight, you'd win. I'd dig around in my giant bag, tossing aside keys, old receipts, unkempt power cords, makeup compacts, iPhone, keys again. "Why can I always find my keys when I don't need them, and not when I do!" I'd ask. "Maybe you should find a spot for everything?" you'd suggest. "That sounds like a terrible idea. What's the fun of knowing where everything is," I'd joke. I'd find my headphones after you already finished listening to a song and then I'd spend the next five minutes untangling them. You'd ask for a pen, your bag being carefully stowed overhead to give you leg-room and mine being at my feet with me stepping all over it. "Sure thing! One sec, let me find one," I'd say. I'd reach into my bag and pull out a chapstick, a mascara, a lipstick, and a tampon before finding a pen for you to use. I may have won in security, but you won at packing.
Some people try to join the Mile High Club while traveling. We agreed that it would be an awkward situation and not worth the risk of being caught (and let's be honest, we were both already members). We made up our own sexy air travel club. We made it our goal to visit as many family restrooms as possible across the globe. And not to use the toilet. From San Diego to Johannesburg, and Bangor to Cancun, we enjoyed each others company in family bathrooms. We had a joke that we would someday actually make our own family in one of them, and until then we'd practice. As I've traveled today, I've seen three family bathrooms. My reaction is a combination of nostalgia, humor, arousal, and deep loneliness. We had so many more family bathrooms to visit together, Teddy!
Friends and family have said to me over the past week or so, "Have fun in Spain!" or asked, "Are you excited?" No. It's the honest answer. And as a woman who has lived her whole life in a state of excitement for what's to come – not being excited is a really shitty place to be.
Spain will be a place where I did not go with you. It will be a change of scenery from our home in Colorado or our home in Ohio, where memories of you fill every inch of my periphery and hindsight. But, the lack of memories will also make it deeply lonely. It's alarming and painful to make new memories without you.
I constantly imagine you being by my side. As I stood in line at the coffee shop and realized I'd forgotten my conversational Spanish, I thought about how if you were there we would get by just fine. You would have remembered how to order a coffee, and I wouldn't have ended up just repeating what the person in front of me said and getting something I didn't really want.
I think about what I want to say to you in casual moments. Like when I was on my international flight and horrendous versions of Christmas carols were playing. I knew we'd be laughing at the backing tracks and the terrible harmonies. Instead of being able to laugh, I cried. The carols taunted me. No, this Christmas WON'T be a very special Christmas for me.
I want to board a flight and have you in the seat beside me. I want to rest my cheek on your chest as you wrap your strong arm around me. I want to hear your heartbeat and your breath as we fly through the clouds. Instead, I opened my window and stared out at the sky, looking for you. I wondered if I was actually closer to you there then when I was on the ground. And maybe if I looked really hard, I'd see you soaring on a cloud, with giant wings, carrying a harp, and smiling at me.
This has become my reality.
The travel over the past day, much like the last six weeks, has been a blur. After my friend Natalia's good advice to stay in tune with my yoga practice throughout this tragedy, I decided I'd follow some other advice she'd given me – visit her in the South of Spain. Here I sit, encompassed by language I don't understand, foreign surroundings, and people who look nothing like you – except when they do.
While some people escape into a bottle or a quick fix pill, I escape through travel.
I'm reminded again that there is no escape from this nightmare. No matter how far I run, your absence is always present. No matter where I put my own physical body, I'm confronted with the knowledge that your physical body is not here with me. My yoga teacher, Baron Baptiste, often says "You're either now here, or nowhere." Every time I would snag that quote for use in one of my classes, you would snicker. You thought it was a silly play on words. Well, my love, it's really landing for me now.
Being in an airport was very hard. Well, everything is very hard.
In the past couple years, airports have been a gateway to you. I was either flying to be with you, leaving a beautiful time we shared together, or traveling with you by my side. Being that we were long distance for half of our time together and that we both loved to travel, airports were a norm. But now, flying with the comprehension that you were not going to be on either end of the baggage claim or in the window seat next to me was yet another blow of reality.
As I went through security in Detroit, I reminisced about how I'd always race you to get through the security line first. First one with shoes on and bags in arms, wins! I won every time. OK, maybe you won once or twice when I had a particularly complicated pair of shoes to put back on. But, in general, I was the victor. Your slow pace at gathering your items was due to your meticulous organization when packing.
You always traveled with the same green Timbuktu carry-on bag. You'd had it since college, you told me. I was planning to get you a new one this Christmas.
Every item had its place: Keys in this pocket. Travel wallet in that pocket. Floss and Kind Bars in this zippered compartment. Laptop in main section. Laptop cord, wrapped perfectly, nestled in another section. Writing utensils in pen slots. Spare napkins and cutlery in another spot. Water bottle, slid in the main section, carefully. iPhone charger in its specific meshed area. Playboy magazines, always your favorite to whip out mid-flight – horrifying a neighbor, near laptop.
When you had to take your computer out of the bag to go through security, it took a few extra moments for you to put it back in – the Ted way – making sure everything was in its place. Your belt would come off carefully. Your shoes would come off deliberately. They would also be put back on very carefully. I would stand there watching you with a taunting smile, my boots already slipped on and computer tossed haphazardly back into my unzipped bag. "Bunny ears technique?" I'd joke as you tied your shoes slowly, taking the time to double knot. You'd shoot me a grin back, knowing I'd won.
However, when it came time to find headphones later while in-flight, you'd win. I'd dig around in my giant bag, tossing aside keys, old receipts, unkempt power cords, makeup compacts, iPhone, keys again. "Why can I always find my keys when I don't need them, and not when I do!" I'd ask. "Maybe you should find a spot for everything?" you'd suggest. "That sounds like a terrible idea. What's the fun of knowing where everything is," I'd joke. I'd find my headphones after you already finished listening to a song and then I'd spend the next five minutes untangling them. You'd ask for a pen, your bag being carefully stowed overhead to give you leg-room and mine being at my feet with me stepping all over it. "Sure thing! One sec, let me find one," I'd say. I'd reach into my bag and pull out a chapstick, a mascara, a lipstick, and a tampon before finding a pen for you to use. I may have won in security, but you won at packing.
Some people try to join the Mile High Club while traveling. We agreed that it would be an awkward situation and not worth the risk of being caught (and let's be honest, we were both already members). We made up our own sexy air travel club. We made it our goal to visit as many family restrooms as possible across the globe. And not to use the toilet. From San Diego to Johannesburg, and Bangor to Cancun, we enjoyed each others company in family bathrooms. We had a joke that we would someday actually make our own family in one of them, and until then we'd practice. As I've traveled today, I've seen three family bathrooms. My reaction is a combination of nostalgia, humor, arousal, and deep loneliness. We had so many more family bathrooms to visit together, Teddy!
Friends and family have said to me over the past week or so, "Have fun in Spain!" or asked, "Are you excited?" No. It's the honest answer. And as a woman who has lived her whole life in a state of excitement for what's to come – not being excited is a really shitty place to be.
Spain will be a place where I did not go with you. It will be a change of scenery from our home in Colorado or our home in Ohio, where memories of you fill every inch of my periphery and hindsight. But, the lack of memories will also make it deeply lonely. It's alarming and painful to make new memories without you.
I constantly imagine you being by my side. As I stood in line at the coffee shop and realized I'd forgotten my conversational Spanish, I thought about how if you were there we would get by just fine. You would have remembered how to order a coffee, and I wouldn't have ended up just repeating what the person in front of me said and getting something I didn't really want.
I think about what I want to say to you in casual moments. Like when I was on my international flight and horrendous versions of Christmas carols were playing. I knew we'd be laughing at the backing tracks and the terrible harmonies. Instead of being able to laugh, I cried. The carols taunted me. No, this Christmas WON'T be a very special Christmas for me.
I want to board a flight and have you in the seat beside me. I want to rest my cheek on your chest as you wrap your strong arm around me. I want to hear your heartbeat and your breath as we fly through the clouds. Instead, I opened my window and stared out at the sky, looking for you. I wondered if I was actually closer to you there then when I was on the ground. And maybe if I looked really hard, I'd see you soaring on a cloud, with giant wings, carrying a harp, and smiling at me.
This has become my reality.
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