I have been told that someday the memories of you will bring a smile to my face rather than a storm of tears. Until then, I choke through the memories like taking my vitamins. I know they're good. I know they'll make me feel better. But they're so damn hard to swallow. They get stuck in my throat. I want to remember them, but I keep forgetting. Maybe someday looking at our photos will make me happy too. When I see them now it feels like someone is reaching their hand through my chest and grabbing my beating heart out of my body and squishing it until it's purple with bruises.
You're so handsome in all the photos, more handsome then I ever realized, in fact. I just look at your gorgeous face and think, "But he's supposed to be mine. We knew it. We were so sure!" It makes me so confused. The photos document that you were here. But also remind me again that you are not. That you were so beautiful and now you are intangible. That you were mine and now you're not. I don't understand.
Looking at you in a photo, I see how alive your eyes are. I stare at them and wait for you to blink. But they don't. I see how warm your skin looks. I run my hand on the image and try to feel your pulse. But I can't find it. I notice the clothes you're wearing. They are hanging in the closet. They are still here. Where are you? I see your smile in the photos. You had a little dimple on one cheek. You had slightly crooked teeth and gold crowns that shined when you smiled big. I want to see you smile again, Teddy. When you smiled my whole body came alive!
When I smiled with you it was the most genuine grin I ever flashed. All of my smiles had been fakes until I was by your side. I was always happy when I was with you. I don't think I'll ever smile again and actually mean it. I feel like I'm rotting without you. I want my heart to just stop beating but instead it beats faster.
Sometimes I yell at God, "When will you see how sad I am and help me? Do something! Do anything! Perform a miracle, please!!!? Just bring him back. He didn't deserve to die. He was the most amazing man in the Universe. Can't you see how many people loved him? How he did NO wrong, ever? Please. Take anyone but him. Take me. Anyone but him."
I don't understand it. I never will. Why would you be the one to be taken? You had so much more to give. You had so much more joy to feel and love to share. You and I were going to show the whole world what true love was. Maybe it was just a glitch in the system. That some angel turned his head or took a pee break, and like that, you were gone. It was an accident. I hope God got really mad up there after that happened. I hope that the angel who turned his head got fired. Fuck, I hope he got beheaded.
I miss you so much. You were the only one who could just look into my eyes and tell me everything would be OK. You were the only one who could touch me and make me turn from sorrow to joy. You were the only one who could make me smile like that. You were the only one who could make me enjoy doing something I never thought I'd enjoy. You were the only one I ever saw down the aisle when I was dressed in white in my dreams. You were simply the one. I knew it. I couldn't wait to be yours forever. Life was supposed to be so beautiful. And now I don't know anything. I can't find you anywhere. I miss you so much.
Stages
I have heard that there are five stages of grief. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross was the doctor to develop the theory – though in time she went back to say that she wish she'd explained the stages in a different way because society had taken them as being linear and universal – which she did not intend. Her work was meant as a kindness, not a cage. I have not looked up the stages of grief. I know anger is one, acceptance is one, and I think denial is another – but that's the extent that I'm familiar with. I have opted not to look up this process because like everyone, my sorrow will be unique. There is no sense in trying to assign a sequence of events or a right/wrong to what's happening in my body and mind. If I over-analyze (which is my natural tendency) I run the risk of harming myself more rather than allowing my natural process to unfold. At least that's where I am right now.
However, in this grief, I have been confronted by MANY emotions. Included are: guilt, confusion, denial, horror, anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion, fear, emptiness, astonishment, heaviness, constriction, nausea, inspiration, nostalgia, numbness, ambition, action, inaction, pity, self-judgment, bravery, insecurity, self-harm, depression, compassion, love, and sorrow. Some of these terms may be synonymous, but I have felt them all in various degrees, depths, and definitions.
I'm back in the States. I'm sitting in the bed at your sister Berkley's house that you and I slept in three weeks before your death. We spoke about the doorknobs in her house; they were the runner up choice for our renovation. You liked the wallpaper in her bathroom. We read poems written by a dog out of the book on the back of the toilet. We walked to yoga and really enjoyed the class we attended. You took a picture of me holding a giant leaf next to my face from a tree we passed by while walking to class. It was bigger than my face. I always liked giant leaves and I thought it was cool to see one in the middle of the city. You ate a Chicago-style hotdog, with pickles. I did too. But I added ketchup when no one was looking.
But now the visit is much different. I have cried more since I've been here than I have in weeks. The last time I was here, I was the happiest I had ever been. Now, I'm the saddest.
My grief is manifesting in a new way. It's as though the protective sheaths my body has offered me – the cushions – are deflating. The reality is really sinking in – again. I already thought it was real, that this had already hit me. But it hits in new ways now. The meat cleaver has been sharpened. The pain is fresh and palpable all over again. I feel paralyzed by the pain.
When Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist, died tragically – Jesus got on a boat and traveled to a desolate place to think and pray. When he arrived, crowds had heard of his arrival. They journeyed by foot to meet him and ask for his ministry. And when he saw them, he turned outward rather than inward. He helped others. While Jesus had intended to be alone and mourn, he was able to turn his sorrow into deep empathetic compassion when he saw that's what the world needed. He allowed the grief to empower him.
There have been moments, days, and even weeks through this process when I've felt ambitious. Where I've felt that I can take this pain and create something out of it. I will use it to help others. I will write a memoir. I will use this loss to create something beautiful to memorialize you. I have gone so far as to be in action and planning. That inspiration felt good. It kept me moving. It kept me nurturing. I can understand how such deep sorrow can liberate selfless action.
Until it can't. Until the adrenaline runs out. Until the blood wears thin. Until the body simply drops. And that's where I'm hanging now. I'm in a dark causeway.
Even though I'm surrounded by beautiful support. I am with your sister, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I hold your nephew in my arms and look into his innocent eyes, and I ask for you to shine out to me through him. But I am so, so raw. I am stuck in a pit of self-woe. I know this is part of the nonlinear and bewildering process. I realize my feelings, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, are not crazy, they are probably very much in line with the five stages I am supposedly experiencing. But nevertheless, I do not feel strong, I do not feel connected, and I do not feel motivated to be empowered. I need my legs back underneath of me.
So today, my sweet love, I ask for your help. I ask you to pull me up in whatever way you can. Make a light twinkle around my periphery. Meet me in my dreams with a kiss or even a fart. Smile at me through invisible space so I can feel your aura. Let me know you're here, somewhere or everywhere. Let me know you still love me. Let me know, so I can go back to being brave.
However, in this grief, I have been confronted by MANY emotions. Included are: guilt, confusion, denial, horror, anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion, fear, emptiness, astonishment, heaviness, constriction, nausea, inspiration, nostalgia, numbness, ambition, action, inaction, pity, self-judgment, bravery, insecurity, self-harm, depression, compassion, love, and sorrow. Some of these terms may be synonymous, but I have felt them all in various degrees, depths, and definitions.
I'm back in the States. I'm sitting in the bed at your sister Berkley's house that you and I slept in three weeks before your death. We spoke about the doorknobs in her house; they were the runner up choice for our renovation. You liked the wallpaper in her bathroom. We read poems written by a dog out of the book on the back of the toilet. We walked to yoga and really enjoyed the class we attended. You took a picture of me holding a giant leaf next to my face from a tree we passed by while walking to class. It was bigger than my face. I always liked giant leaves and I thought it was cool to see one in the middle of the city. You ate a Chicago-style hotdog, with pickles. I did too. But I added ketchup when no one was looking.
But now the visit is much different. I have cried more since I've been here than I have in weeks. The last time I was here, I was the happiest I had ever been. Now, I'm the saddest.
My grief is manifesting in a new way. It's as though the protective sheaths my body has offered me – the cushions – are deflating. The reality is really sinking in – again. I already thought it was real, that this had already hit me. But it hits in new ways now. The meat cleaver has been sharpened. The pain is fresh and palpable all over again. I feel paralyzed by the pain.
When Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist, died tragically – Jesus got on a boat and traveled to a desolate place to think and pray. When he arrived, crowds had heard of his arrival. They journeyed by foot to meet him and ask for his ministry. And when he saw them, he turned outward rather than inward. He helped others. While Jesus had intended to be alone and mourn, he was able to turn his sorrow into deep empathetic compassion when he saw that's what the world needed. He allowed the grief to empower him.
There have been moments, days, and even weeks through this process when I've felt ambitious. Where I've felt that I can take this pain and create something out of it. I will use it to help others. I will write a memoir. I will use this loss to create something beautiful to memorialize you. I have gone so far as to be in action and planning. That inspiration felt good. It kept me moving. It kept me nurturing. I can understand how such deep sorrow can liberate selfless action.
Until it can't. Until the adrenaline runs out. Until the blood wears thin. Until the body simply drops. And that's where I'm hanging now. I'm in a dark causeway.
Even though I'm surrounded by beautiful support. I am with your sister, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I hold your nephew in my arms and look into his innocent eyes, and I ask for you to shine out to me through him. But I am so, so raw. I am stuck in a pit of self-woe. I know this is part of the nonlinear and bewildering process. I realize my feelings, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, are not crazy, they are probably very much in line with the five stages I am supposedly experiencing. But nevertheless, I do not feel strong, I do not feel connected, and I do not feel motivated to be empowered. I need my legs back underneath of me.
So today, my sweet love, I ask for your help. I ask you to pull me up in whatever way you can. Make a light twinkle around my periphery. Meet me in my dreams with a kiss or even a fart. Smile at me through invisible space so I can feel your aura. Let me know you're here, somewhere or everywhere. Let me know you still love me. Let me know, so I can go back to being brave.
In Line
I'm sitting on the airplane flying over the Atlantic back to the USA. I think you are hanging around me on this flight. I was watching a movie. It was one we planned to see together because it stars one of my distant cousins and is his first Hollywood hit. While everyone else's TV worked flawlessly, mine had a complete mind of it's own. It kept stopping and starting and flipping to different movies and entertainment options. The mouse would appear on the screen and flail all around, even though I was not interacting with it. They restarted it twice and it kept doing the same thing, the flight attendant was quite puzzled. Then a bit later it worked just fine. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. But the thought that it was not made me happy. So I decided to choose happiness.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
Lost wanderer
I came on this trip to search for beauty. I came to dull the sharp pain that digs into my heart. I came hoping to find peace on the other side of the globe, as far as possible from where you died. I came in search of hope that true joy exists outside of our love.
Unfortunately, my search was not a success.
I have a cold from the constant change in temperature here in Spain. My nose is raw from running and my head is congested. My head is already full of confusion, which leaves no room for foggy sickness. I have an upset stomach from the food at our five-star hotel in Morocco. My skin is a mess from stress. I haven't done yoga in days. I haven't felt your presence in weeks and I haven't seen you in seven. Essentially, I'm falling apart.
I thought I was lost when you left that night, when I shook your body and you did not respond, when I put my cheek to your chest and your heart did not answer my cry. I thought I was lost when your death actually landed in my mind, when your family held me in their quivering arms and we all sobbed. I thought I was lost when my body finally caught up to my mind's understanding and realized that what she craved, she could no longer have. I thought I was lost when I drove into our garage, realized you weren't inside the house and would never be, and then understood it was actually no longer really my home. I thought I was lost when I tried to be grateful on Thanksgiving, even though in my heart I knew I was just reaching. I thought I was lost when I scattered your ashes in the Mediterranean Sea, and watched the dust of your beautiful bones mix with sand, shells, and seaglass.
But then today I packed my bags to leave for the States. I squeezed in dirty clothes, Moroccan rugs, Spanish pâté, and too many accumulated Christmas gifts. I saw all the stuff that meant absolutely nothing to me get zipped up in a suitcase that is probably overweight. And the one thing that meant the most to me of anything, anywhere was more absent then ever, weightless – yet so heavy on my heart. I sobbed, snotted, and sneezed as I smelled a hat of yours I carry with me through my stuffed nose. As I looked inside and touched your stray hairs that still cling to the fabric, I felt more lost then ever.
I met with a wonderful woman yesterday who lost her true love suddenly at twenty five. She shared her story and her gentle words of advice. She is now in her sixties and an inspirational soul: beautiful, wise, and deeply conscious. She has love in her life but it hasn't always been a constant. She told me that after her young love's death, she was left with a fairy tale script but without the lead actor. She wasn't willing to rewrite the story she had mapped out. She went on to find a replacement for the role in the same script. She married the father of her three children five years later. She never loved him in the way that he loved her. She wasn't willing. The marriage eventually ended. She told me that someday, I have to let go of what we had and be willing to rewrite my story.
I sat on the beach today and meditated. I thought of my story without you. It made me want to run into in the freezing water and try to swim to Africa with the clear knowledge that I would not make it. I told myself, 'Be gentle on yourself. It's too soon. You don't need to think about this.' But I kept thinking and my sobs worsened. I do not want my story without you in it. I want our fairy tale!
I am being suffocated by emotion. I feel a noose around my neck that grips me with one hand of sorrow and the other hand of fear. I pity myself. I pity those who have to be around me. Everyone is trying to help. But they can't. They can only stand guard and consider taking out stock in Kleenex while witnessing my bewildered wandering, slow self-sabotage, and vain attempts to appear OK.
I came in search of beauty. I learned that I am not open to its possibility. I came to witness love in others. But I only see love so different than what we had that it's painful to observe. I came to treat myself gently. I learned that tenderness is impossible when you're self destructive. I came to pass time. But saw that time is infinite, desolate, and a trickster: always too fast or too slow. I came to convince myself that everything will be OK. But everything is not OK. I came to heal some of my suffering. But I saw suffering magnified to the point where the whole world seems like a raw wound. I came to try to let go, just a little. But now I grip to your memory more than ever.
Unfortunately, my search was not a success.
I have a cold from the constant change in temperature here in Spain. My nose is raw from running and my head is congested. My head is already full of confusion, which leaves no room for foggy sickness. I have an upset stomach from the food at our five-star hotel in Morocco. My skin is a mess from stress. I haven't done yoga in days. I haven't felt your presence in weeks and I haven't seen you in seven. Essentially, I'm falling apart.
I thought I was lost when you left that night, when I shook your body and you did not respond, when I put my cheek to your chest and your heart did not answer my cry. I thought I was lost when your death actually landed in my mind, when your family held me in their quivering arms and we all sobbed. I thought I was lost when my body finally caught up to my mind's understanding and realized that what she craved, she could no longer have. I thought I was lost when I drove into our garage, realized you weren't inside the house and would never be, and then understood it was actually no longer really my home. I thought I was lost when I tried to be grateful on Thanksgiving, even though in my heart I knew I was just reaching. I thought I was lost when I scattered your ashes in the Mediterranean Sea, and watched the dust of your beautiful bones mix with sand, shells, and seaglass.
But then today I packed my bags to leave for the States. I squeezed in dirty clothes, Moroccan rugs, Spanish pâté, and too many accumulated Christmas gifts. I saw all the stuff that meant absolutely nothing to me get zipped up in a suitcase that is probably overweight. And the one thing that meant the most to me of anything, anywhere was more absent then ever, weightless – yet so heavy on my heart. I sobbed, snotted, and sneezed as I smelled a hat of yours I carry with me through my stuffed nose. As I looked inside and touched your stray hairs that still cling to the fabric, I felt more lost then ever.
I met with a wonderful woman yesterday who lost her true love suddenly at twenty five. She shared her story and her gentle words of advice. She is now in her sixties and an inspirational soul: beautiful, wise, and deeply conscious. She has love in her life but it hasn't always been a constant. She told me that after her young love's death, she was left with a fairy tale script but without the lead actor. She wasn't willing to rewrite the story she had mapped out. She went on to find a replacement for the role in the same script. She married the father of her three children five years later. She never loved him in the way that he loved her. She wasn't willing. The marriage eventually ended. She told me that someday, I have to let go of what we had and be willing to rewrite my story.
I sat on the beach today and meditated. I thought of my story without you. It made me want to run into in the freezing water and try to swim to Africa with the clear knowledge that I would not make it. I told myself, 'Be gentle on yourself. It's too soon. You don't need to think about this.' But I kept thinking and my sobs worsened. I do not want my story without you in it. I want our fairy tale!
I am being suffocated by emotion. I feel a noose around my neck that grips me with one hand of sorrow and the other hand of fear. I pity myself. I pity those who have to be around me. Everyone is trying to help. But they can't. They can only stand guard and consider taking out stock in Kleenex while witnessing my bewildered wandering, slow self-sabotage, and vain attempts to appear OK.
I came in search of beauty. I learned that I am not open to its possibility. I came to witness love in others. But I only see love so different than what we had that it's painful to observe. I came to treat myself gently. I learned that tenderness is impossible when you're self destructive. I came to pass time. But saw that time is infinite, desolate, and a trickster: always too fast or too slow. I came to convince myself that everything will be OK. But everything is not OK. I came to heal some of my suffering. But I saw suffering magnified to the point where the whole world seems like a raw wound. I came to try to let go, just a little. But now I grip to your memory more than ever.
Love Waves
I believe that love hits space like radio waves.
The love of my parents is one frequency. They have a respectful and passionate love. It's a love that I've looked up to as an inspiration my whole life. They are patient and always considerate of one another. My dad tells my mother constantly that she gets more and more beautiful each day. He writes her love poems with rubber stamps and she decorates the mirror above her dresser with the collection. She has never once told him that he is a nauseating driver, she simply lets it be and trusts that she will arrive with her stomach whole. He gives her honest feedback about what he thinks of her outfits. She never lets him win at cards. They are supportive and active parents, working together to nurture children who treat themselves and others with respect and kindness. Their love is long-lasting, over thirty years and still growing. I imagine that my parents frequency of love soars high in the sky. It beams through the heavens alongside of other great loves.
Each partnership forms a distinct love wave. The love of my best friend, Aliyah, and her husband, Ben, is one. They are grounded in their love, they have much in common and are honest best friends to one another. The love of Natalia and Jaime is another frequency – a fresh love that is driven by spiritual growth and the throws of passion. The love of Lena and Corey is another. Their love began in middle school and continues to morph as they discover themselves – a love vested in common values, family, and tradition.
There are billions of different frequencies of love that broadcast through space with various rates. Some loves are high up in the heavens. Maybe these are the loves of great poets, spiritual love, and loves that are immortal. Maybe they are simply loves that just got it right. There are the loves that run closer to the earth, lower waves of love. Maybe these are animal partnerships, like two swans that mate for life because of evolution and survival. Maybe it's violent love that is not rooted in understanding, but instead in control. Maybe it's love between a girl with a broken heart and her dog, who has been there with her through it all because of an unexplainable bond and also a nylon leash.
The waves aren't necessarily a constant line. They can pulse, like an EKG reading if the relationship is tumultuous or driven by passion. They can angle up, like positive growth on the Cartesian Plane, if the love grows. They can fade off, like the hush at the end of a whisper, if the love dies.
I have tested my theory and discovered many of the waves of love I've cast out into the universe: some lower frequencies, mid-range frequencies, perhaps lustful higher frequencies that quickly disintegrate. But, I have only truly known physical love: such as the love that exists between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman who are also lovers, a pair of close friends, a boy and his pet. I have known love that dies – sometimes to a halting finish, sometimes to a low-level hush. I have known love that grows – like a bond that is no longer romantic love but turns to a stronger connection in a platonic status, or a friendship that through trauma and pain changes into something more inescapably connected. I have known high frequency love – our love.
While I can't compare our love wave to other great loves (and don't want to), I know it was the strongest love I have felt. It was full acceptance. It was patience. It was excitement. It was trust. It was encouragement. It was devotion. It was growth. It was passion. But all of these words and emotions I use to describe our love exist mainly in physical-form. For instance, I can't trust you now in the way that I did when you were alive. I can't experience passion with you now, unfortunately. How can I encourage you, when I don't know what I'm encouraging or if I'm encouraging anything at all.
Where does the wave go when the man dies but the love doesn't?
Does it rise up? Does it descend? Does it disappear slowly? Is it already gone? Am I foolishly chasing imaginary stardust? Does it become divine love? Are you whizzing around my head like a hell-bent fly as my a guardian angel? Does it become universal love? Am I opening up to the love of nature and what is, because of what is no longer? I don't know.
I do know that no love wave is the same. I will never rebuild what we had. While I hope it is still there, beaming through the heavens as an example for others, I know I will never feel it in this body again. It has changed with grief. It has altered as it's been transferred to the unconscious. But what we had when you were alive will be there as a guide for me someday – when I decide I want to love again or when someone decides they want to love me and I let it in. But our wave of love is irreplaceable and unique, and I desperately miss it more and more with each of sorrowful breath.
The love of my parents is one frequency. They have a respectful and passionate love. It's a love that I've looked up to as an inspiration my whole life. They are patient and always considerate of one another. My dad tells my mother constantly that she gets more and more beautiful each day. He writes her love poems with rubber stamps and she decorates the mirror above her dresser with the collection. She has never once told him that he is a nauseating driver, she simply lets it be and trusts that she will arrive with her stomach whole. He gives her honest feedback about what he thinks of her outfits. She never lets him win at cards. They are supportive and active parents, working together to nurture children who treat themselves and others with respect and kindness. Their love is long-lasting, over thirty years and still growing. I imagine that my parents frequency of love soars high in the sky. It beams through the heavens alongside of other great loves.
Each partnership forms a distinct love wave. The love of my best friend, Aliyah, and her husband, Ben, is one. They are grounded in their love, they have much in common and are honest best friends to one another. The love of Natalia and Jaime is another frequency – a fresh love that is driven by spiritual growth and the throws of passion. The love of Lena and Corey is another. Their love began in middle school and continues to morph as they discover themselves – a love vested in common values, family, and tradition.
There are billions of different frequencies of love that broadcast through space with various rates. Some loves are high up in the heavens. Maybe these are the loves of great poets, spiritual love, and loves that are immortal. Maybe they are simply loves that just got it right. There are the loves that run closer to the earth, lower waves of love. Maybe these are animal partnerships, like two swans that mate for life because of evolution and survival. Maybe it's violent love that is not rooted in understanding, but instead in control. Maybe it's love between a girl with a broken heart and her dog, who has been there with her through it all because of an unexplainable bond and also a nylon leash.
The waves aren't necessarily a constant line. They can pulse, like an EKG reading if the relationship is tumultuous or driven by passion. They can angle up, like positive growth on the Cartesian Plane, if the love grows. They can fade off, like the hush at the end of a whisper, if the love dies.
I have tested my theory and discovered many of the waves of love I've cast out into the universe: some lower frequencies, mid-range frequencies, perhaps lustful higher frequencies that quickly disintegrate. But, I have only truly known physical love: such as the love that exists between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman who are also lovers, a pair of close friends, a boy and his pet. I have known love that dies – sometimes to a halting finish, sometimes to a low-level hush. I have known love that grows – like a bond that is no longer romantic love but turns to a stronger connection in a platonic status, or a friendship that through trauma and pain changes into something more inescapably connected. I have known high frequency love – our love.
While I can't compare our love wave to other great loves (and don't want to), I know it was the strongest love I have felt. It was full acceptance. It was patience. It was excitement. It was trust. It was encouragement. It was devotion. It was growth. It was passion. But all of these words and emotions I use to describe our love exist mainly in physical-form. For instance, I can't trust you now in the way that I did when you were alive. I can't experience passion with you now, unfortunately. How can I encourage you, when I don't know what I'm encouraging or if I'm encouraging anything at all.
Where does the wave go when the man dies but the love doesn't?
Does it rise up? Does it descend? Does it disappear slowly? Is it already gone? Am I foolishly chasing imaginary stardust? Does it become divine love? Are you whizzing around my head like a hell-bent fly as my a guardian angel? Does it become universal love? Am I opening up to the love of nature and what is, because of what is no longer? I don't know.
I do know that no love wave is the same. I will never rebuild what we had. While I hope it is still there, beaming through the heavens as an example for others, I know I will never feel it in this body again. It has changed with grief. It has altered as it's been transferred to the unconscious. But what we had when you were alive will be there as a guide for me someday – when I decide I want to love again or when someone decides they want to love me and I let it in. But our wave of love is irreplaceable and unique, and I desperately miss it more and more with each of sorrowful breath.
Fast Forward
You taught me what it was like to be still.
Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.
I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.
When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"
Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.
You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.
I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.
I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.
I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.
I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.
I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.
I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.
Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.
I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.
When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"
Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.
You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.
I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.
I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.
I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.
I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.
I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.
I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.
Down the Drain
I stepped into the hammam this afternoon. I disrobed and entered the
steaming bathroom. A young woman guided me to lie down on my belly on a
mat in an ornately tiled shower stall. She filled a bowl with steaming water from the tub and began
to pour it on body ritualistically. I closed my eyes, partly because of
the water on my face, partly because I felt modest about being so naked
in front of this stranger, and partly so I could meditate on the ritual.
After I was soaking wet, the girl spread hot argan oil all over my body. She moved her hands with a sense of care, a knowledge of the female body, and a sense of purpose. She spoke no English. Her only command was "Madame" as she instructed me to flip onto my back so she could oil my chest and belly, and then sit up so she could pour the hot liquid on my hair and face. She oiled every pore of my skin from the top of my scalp to in-between each toe.
I thought about a time you and I had given one another massages with exotic oil. I remember how I lovingly stroked every limb of yours and pressed into each muscle on your body. I remember how the oil stained our bedroom comforter. I had wanted to take your pain away, open up your body, clear out the old, and invigorate your weariness. I imagined you in the hammam. You would undoubtedly enjoy the busty and bra-less woman lubing your skin in this sacred tradition. So, as the bath continued, I imagined that your spirit was near. This wasn't something you'd want to miss: the erotic and symbolic experience of a young stranger bathing your grieving love. The thought of your presence was tranquil.
After I was shining with oil, the girl spread a black olive and eucalyptus exfoliant on me and began to scrub me with a rough loofah. The experience was abrasive, not gentle. Her thin arms ripe with muscle, she scoured off every bit of my skin that you had touched. I opened my tear-filled eyes. As the salty drops left my eyes I saw that my skin was everywhere. Two and three-inch rolls of dead skin covered my body and the mat I laid on. It was horrifying to know that so much of me was being sludged off. I watched the dead parts of me escape down the drain.
I closed my eyes again and thought about the symbolism of the experience. I thought of how my own cycle has shed my womanly walls two times since you've been gone. How my body knows of her need to cleanse. How it was making me pure again, even without my mind's permission. I thought of the way I usually bathe: a quick rinse in the shower, barely submersing myself in water, just enough time and effort to be fresh, to rinse the day's sweat and grime. While she scrubbed my skin away, exposing new raw flesh, I realized I'd never been this clean before. I'd never once taken the time to really rinse away the old. Maybe I've never been willing to rinse away the past, to let go.
Your death has been a lesson of impermanence. "This too, shall pass," it is said. I don't know if it will. But as I watched the skin you touched on my body rinse away, I succumbed to the cleansing. I let the earth take parts of me, just like it took you. Parts of my own physical body die too and now those bits of me can be with you.
The girl rinsed the scrub off of my tender skin with more bowls of scalding water. I sat in silence. I imagined the mikvah I took when I was twelve-years-old. It was the ceremonial bath I was given in order to convert to Judaism for my Bat Mitzvah. I remembered how cold the water was. I remembered how modest I was, just coming into my womanhood, hiding behind the walls of the tub while the Rabbi said prayers in Hebrew. Now I was being cleansed again – rinsing off every part of my body that has ever been touched and that has ever been loved. I tried to be strong and let it be beautiful. I tried to be empowered and let my body be re-virgnized for self-love. But I am not always strong and I am not always empowered – and I do not want those memories to wash down a foreign drain and into pipes of polluted water and gutters of sewage.
The hammam continued: a clay mask, more hot water, shampoo, more hot water, body milk, more hot water – cleanse after cleanse after cleanse. Then came a massage. A different woman led me into a cozy and warm room with two beds. One for me, one for... another reminder that you were not there. In silence, she kneaded every inch of my body. I have had many massages, and this was the most intimate. The silence was deafening. She placed her hands on every bit of my anatomy. I thought of all of the emotions she was pressing in and out of me: fear, loss, sadness, longing, despair, confusion, trauma, desire, grief... the list continues.
Behind closed eyes, I had a vision. I saw myself as a corpse in ancient Egypt. My body was being embalmed. I was being oiled with care, every pressure point attended to, and ceremoniously prepared for the afterlife. I imagined the rebirth of my corpse. I imagined the possibility of life with you.
The two-and-a-half hour treatment was the most waking silence I have given myself since you died. I have fearfully filled space with sights, sounds, and conversation. But this afternoon I couldn't talk. I didn't speak the same language. I also didn't want to fill the space with noise. I wanted this cleanse. I wanted this sacrament. So I let the quiet seep in. I let myself be touched with strong hands. I let myself be weak. I let myself be raw.
The experience was powerful. It was provoking. It was frightening. It was opening. I felt comforted because for the first time in seven weeks, someone touched my naked body. There's real beauty in this ritual, a woman bathing another woman in soothing silence, pain and stress being worked out through silent massage. But, now, with my skin as soft as its ever been and my body so fresh, I feel sterile. Because what I really want is to offer this body to you, and I can't.
After I was soaking wet, the girl spread hot argan oil all over my body. She moved her hands with a sense of care, a knowledge of the female body, and a sense of purpose. She spoke no English. Her only command was "Madame" as she instructed me to flip onto my back so she could oil my chest and belly, and then sit up so she could pour the hot liquid on my hair and face. She oiled every pore of my skin from the top of my scalp to in-between each toe.
I thought about a time you and I had given one another massages with exotic oil. I remember how I lovingly stroked every limb of yours and pressed into each muscle on your body. I remember how the oil stained our bedroom comforter. I had wanted to take your pain away, open up your body, clear out the old, and invigorate your weariness. I imagined you in the hammam. You would undoubtedly enjoy the busty and bra-less woman lubing your skin in this sacred tradition. So, as the bath continued, I imagined that your spirit was near. This wasn't something you'd want to miss: the erotic and symbolic experience of a young stranger bathing your grieving love. The thought of your presence was tranquil.
After I was shining with oil, the girl spread a black olive and eucalyptus exfoliant on me and began to scrub me with a rough loofah. The experience was abrasive, not gentle. Her thin arms ripe with muscle, she scoured off every bit of my skin that you had touched. I opened my tear-filled eyes. As the salty drops left my eyes I saw that my skin was everywhere. Two and three-inch rolls of dead skin covered my body and the mat I laid on. It was horrifying to know that so much of me was being sludged off. I watched the dead parts of me escape down the drain.
I closed my eyes again and thought about the symbolism of the experience. I thought of how my own cycle has shed my womanly walls two times since you've been gone. How my body knows of her need to cleanse. How it was making me pure again, even without my mind's permission. I thought of the way I usually bathe: a quick rinse in the shower, barely submersing myself in water, just enough time and effort to be fresh, to rinse the day's sweat and grime. While she scrubbed my skin away, exposing new raw flesh, I realized I'd never been this clean before. I'd never once taken the time to really rinse away the old. Maybe I've never been willing to rinse away the past, to let go.
Your death has been a lesson of impermanence. "This too, shall pass," it is said. I don't know if it will. But as I watched the skin you touched on my body rinse away, I succumbed to the cleansing. I let the earth take parts of me, just like it took you. Parts of my own physical body die too and now those bits of me can be with you.
The girl rinsed the scrub off of my tender skin with more bowls of scalding water. I sat in silence. I imagined the mikvah I took when I was twelve-years-old. It was the ceremonial bath I was given in order to convert to Judaism for my Bat Mitzvah. I remembered how cold the water was. I remembered how modest I was, just coming into my womanhood, hiding behind the walls of the tub while the Rabbi said prayers in Hebrew. Now I was being cleansed again – rinsing off every part of my body that has ever been touched and that has ever been loved. I tried to be strong and let it be beautiful. I tried to be empowered and let my body be re-virgnized for self-love. But I am not always strong and I am not always empowered – and I do not want those memories to wash down a foreign drain and into pipes of polluted water and gutters of sewage.
The hammam continued: a clay mask, more hot water, shampoo, more hot water, body milk, more hot water – cleanse after cleanse after cleanse. Then came a massage. A different woman led me into a cozy and warm room with two beds. One for me, one for... another reminder that you were not there. In silence, she kneaded every inch of my body. I have had many massages, and this was the most intimate. The silence was deafening. She placed her hands on every bit of my anatomy. I thought of all of the emotions she was pressing in and out of me: fear, loss, sadness, longing, despair, confusion, trauma, desire, grief... the list continues.
Behind closed eyes, I had a vision. I saw myself as a corpse in ancient Egypt. My body was being embalmed. I was being oiled with care, every pressure point attended to, and ceremoniously prepared for the afterlife. I imagined the rebirth of my corpse. I imagined the possibility of life with you.
The two-and-a-half hour treatment was the most waking silence I have given myself since you died. I have fearfully filled space with sights, sounds, and conversation. But this afternoon I couldn't talk. I didn't speak the same language. I also didn't want to fill the space with noise. I wanted this cleanse. I wanted this sacrament. So I let the quiet seep in. I let myself be touched with strong hands. I let myself be weak. I let myself be raw.
The experience was powerful. It was provoking. It was frightening. It was opening. I felt comforted because for the first time in seven weeks, someone touched my naked body. There's real beauty in this ritual, a woman bathing another woman in soothing silence, pain and stress being worked out through silent massage. But, now, with my skin as soft as its ever been and my body so fresh, I feel sterile. Because what I really want is to offer this body to you, and I can't.
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