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.
Showing posts with label burning man. Show all posts
Showing posts with label burning man. Show all posts
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.
Conscious Living
Today as I sat down for lunch at a restaurant in Boulder, I read a quote on the wall saying, "This Earth does not belong to us. We belong to this Earth." Though you may not reside on this planet in the flesh any longer, you nourished it while you were here – as though you were a respectful guest being mindful of someone's home.
On one of your first trips to Austin, we were in my kitchen making a snack. You asked if I had a napkin. I snagged a couple paper towels off the roll and handed them to you. You, without a word, gently ripped each paper towel in half, then you took one half, and ripped that in half – leaving a quarter of a paper towel for yourself. You sat the other remnants of towel back near the roll and joined me at the table. "Why did you do that?" I asked, thoughtlessly. "I just don't need a whole one, no sense in wasting," you said.
I thought of all the times I'd unrolled a clump of paper towels, even the ones claiming to be the most absorbent, just to wipe a spill of water off the counter. I thought of the napkins I'd grabbed from a restaurant, by the handfuls, and then carelessly trashed later when they went unused. I thought of the multitudes of ketchup packets I had never opened and then tossed into the garbage. I thought of so much waste I had created – stomping around this Earth two Carbon footprints at a time. And then I saw, you – thoughtful, conscious – taking the time to consider what you needed and how you could avoid waste.
When I got to your home in Boulder, first as a visitor and then eventually as a resident, I joined you in using cloth napkins at every meal. They weren't even just cloth napkins, they were squares of cotton that your ex-girlfriend had sewn from remnants, as to not waste unused fabric. They were sewn haphazardly and by no means a trendy item – but for day-to-day lunch and dinner, they were perfect. (And still are perfect.) My use of paper towels has dwindled down to a quarter here, a quarter there. When I wipe the counters, I use a cloth, never a paper product. I, learning from you, grab just a couple napkins when getting takeout, and then the ones that are unused, get put in the console of my car or in my purse for when the next need arises. And if it hadn't been for you, my love, I would still be piling paper into the trash.
Fast forward six months to when you and I arrived in Black Rock City for Burning Man. I was ready. My luggage overflowed with my Playa necessities: tutus, feathers, glitter, pasties, fishnets, steampunk garb, panties, and five pairs of boots. You also brought some necessities: an RV, EL-wire, headlamps, bikes, an electric scooter, jugs of water, first aid kits, camelbacks, water bottles, batteries, electrolytes, duct tape, oh... and food. They says Burning Man makes or breaks a relationship. Our time on the Playa made us closer than I've ever felt possible with another human. And outside of our duo, Burning Man let me see people from a whole new perspective: intrinsically GOOD. Every soul we met on the Playa was friendly and every soul we met on the Playa was conscious – they simply cared about the land, the values of the event and city, and the Earth.
In Burning-Man-speak, any trash is referred to as MOOP, or 'matter out of place'. As a part of the duty as a citizen of Black Rock City, they ask you to pick up MOOP when you see it laying around. Whether its a stray sequin, a tossed cup, or a pile of shit in Deep Playa, you take responsibility for it as if it were your own and aid to dispose of it properly. Ted, you did your due diligence. To this day, when I find any of your Playa gear, every pocket is stuffed with MOOP you cleaned up. I never once heard you bitch about other peoples trash. I never once saw an ounce of irritation as you stopped the scooter to dispose of an array of other Burners' tossed items. You simply did it because you were a conscious and kind man.
You are an example to the other sixty-five thousand citizens of BRC because you embody the elements that the city strives to set in place. You arrived to the city with care and packed-in what you thought necessary (and also not too much). You helped the camp organize our site and contributed to the art projects installed. You danced your face off, partied till sunrise, and lived large. You picked up other people's shit all along the way. You visited art, you climbed, you admired, you watched, and most importantly, you participated. You loved – you loved me, you loved your camp mates, and you loved every person you met along the way. You, in the midst of a city of over-stimulation, intoxication, and intensity – allowed yourself (and me) to stop, look around, be grateful, and stay conscious.
When I moved to Boulder we settled into a beautiful life together in this gorgeous home. A home you purchased because you wanted to be surrounded by nature. A home that allowed us to be somewhat off-the-grid – solar panels allowed us to sell electricity back to the city, well-water let us be mindful about quality and consumption, acreage allowed us privacy and interaction with wilderness, and the view allowed us intensely of sublime beauty. Again, my Ted, you were living as one with this Earth, in partnership. What you took, you paid back.
When we would get our weekly sushi delivery, you always remembered to tell the delivery man not to bring chopsticks and soy packets – we didn't need them. The average person, myself included, could easily forget that thoughtful action. When we bought food, you insisted on shopping locally – and beyond that, you wanted to purchase food and products that came from conscious companies. You read many articles on whether farm or wild fish was more humane, wanting to know all sides of the story and then make up your mind for yourself, and not because of hearsay. When we went to the store, you always remembered your bags. In fact, you also always remembered to put bags in my car too, so I would also have them.
When it came time to take out the recycling, my love, you labored over separating the glass from the plastic. You took the caps off of each glass bottle and disposed of them individually and properly. You stayed current on which clam shell containers were recyclable – lettuce containers: yes, but berry containers: no. When your band left after weekly Tuesday rehearsals, you went through the trash to make sure all of their beer cans were thrown away in the proper bin, and then, you woke up early to take out the trash and recycling. You made sure the bags were tied. You made sure the bags were secure in the trash cans. You made sure you didn't take them out too early, so animals would get to them first. And you never once asked Kevin or I to do it, until we started insisting.
And while, when I moved in with you, I finally had to give a firm "NO!" to single-ply recycled toilet paper, you gently helped me through the learning curve of living consciously. I thought I had been kind to the environment before I met you, but I realized the huge gap. Tossing my garbage into the one of the eight proper receptacles (?) at Whole Foods and attempting to distinguish trash from recycling is not all I can do. Because of you, I live with more regard for reduction of waste, consumption, and consideration for Earth, because we belong to it – it does not belong to us.
Now you've risen from this Earth into something larger. Just a few days ago, you came to your best friend Frenchy in a vision. You told him to ask you some questions. He, knowing you were dead, asked you "Is there a God?" You told him, with a quiet smile, "There is a a higher power larger than anything imaginable taking care of everything." I have no doubt you are right. And while there may be something holistically all-encompassing beyond this Earthly realm, while I am here on this planet, I will take care of it with consciousness and selflessness, as you strove to do everyday. I will not rely on others. I will not rely on something grander to take care of my shit. I will be responsible: for me, for the citizens of the world, for the Earth, and for you.
On one of your first trips to Austin, we were in my kitchen making a snack. You asked if I had a napkin. I snagged a couple paper towels off the roll and handed them to you. You, without a word, gently ripped each paper towel in half, then you took one half, and ripped that in half – leaving a quarter of a paper towel for yourself. You sat the other remnants of towel back near the roll and joined me at the table. "Why did you do that?" I asked, thoughtlessly. "I just don't need a whole one, no sense in wasting," you said.
I thought of all the times I'd unrolled a clump of paper towels, even the ones claiming to be the most absorbent, just to wipe a spill of water off the counter. I thought of the napkins I'd grabbed from a restaurant, by the handfuls, and then carelessly trashed later when they went unused. I thought of the multitudes of ketchup packets I had never opened and then tossed into the garbage. I thought of so much waste I had created – stomping around this Earth two Carbon footprints at a time. And then I saw, you – thoughtful, conscious – taking the time to consider what you needed and how you could avoid waste.
When I got to your home in Boulder, first as a visitor and then eventually as a resident, I joined you in using cloth napkins at every meal. They weren't even just cloth napkins, they were squares of cotton that your ex-girlfriend had sewn from remnants, as to not waste unused fabric. They were sewn haphazardly and by no means a trendy item – but for day-to-day lunch and dinner, they were perfect. (And still are perfect.) My use of paper towels has dwindled down to a quarter here, a quarter there. When I wipe the counters, I use a cloth, never a paper product. I, learning from you, grab just a couple napkins when getting takeout, and then the ones that are unused, get put in the console of my car or in my purse for when the next need arises. And if it hadn't been for you, my love, I would still be piling paper into the trash.
Fast forward six months to when you and I arrived in Black Rock City for Burning Man. I was ready. My luggage overflowed with my Playa necessities: tutus, feathers, glitter, pasties, fishnets, steampunk garb, panties, and five pairs of boots. You also brought some necessities: an RV, EL-wire, headlamps, bikes, an electric scooter, jugs of water, first aid kits, camelbacks, water bottles, batteries, electrolytes, duct tape, oh... and food. They says Burning Man makes or breaks a relationship. Our time on the Playa made us closer than I've ever felt possible with another human. And outside of our duo, Burning Man let me see people from a whole new perspective: intrinsically GOOD. Every soul we met on the Playa was friendly and every soul we met on the Playa was conscious – they simply cared about the land, the values of the event and city, and the Earth.
In Burning-Man-speak, any trash is referred to as MOOP, or 'matter out of place'. As a part of the duty as a citizen of Black Rock City, they ask you to pick up MOOP when you see it laying around. Whether its a stray sequin, a tossed cup, or a pile of shit in Deep Playa, you take responsibility for it as if it were your own and aid to dispose of it properly. Ted, you did your due diligence. To this day, when I find any of your Playa gear, every pocket is stuffed with MOOP you cleaned up. I never once heard you bitch about other peoples trash. I never once saw an ounce of irritation as you stopped the scooter to dispose of an array of other Burners' tossed items. You simply did it because you were a conscious and kind man.
You are an example to the other sixty-five thousand citizens of BRC because you embody the elements that the city strives to set in place. You arrived to the city with care and packed-in what you thought necessary (and also not too much). You helped the camp organize our site and contributed to the art projects installed. You danced your face off, partied till sunrise, and lived large. You picked up other people's shit all along the way. You visited art, you climbed, you admired, you watched, and most importantly, you participated. You loved – you loved me, you loved your camp mates, and you loved every person you met along the way. You, in the midst of a city of over-stimulation, intoxication, and intensity – allowed yourself (and me) to stop, look around, be grateful, and stay conscious.
When I moved to Boulder we settled into a beautiful life together in this gorgeous home. A home you purchased because you wanted to be surrounded by nature. A home that allowed us to be somewhat off-the-grid – solar panels allowed us to sell electricity back to the city, well-water let us be mindful about quality and consumption, acreage allowed us privacy and interaction with wilderness, and the view allowed us intensely of sublime beauty. Again, my Ted, you were living as one with this Earth, in partnership. What you took, you paid back.
When we would get our weekly sushi delivery, you always remembered to tell the delivery man not to bring chopsticks and soy packets – we didn't need them. The average person, myself included, could easily forget that thoughtful action. When we bought food, you insisted on shopping locally – and beyond that, you wanted to purchase food and products that came from conscious companies. You read many articles on whether farm or wild fish was more humane, wanting to know all sides of the story and then make up your mind for yourself, and not because of hearsay. When we went to the store, you always remembered your bags. In fact, you also always remembered to put bags in my car too, so I would also have them.
When it came time to take out the recycling, my love, you labored over separating the glass from the plastic. You took the caps off of each glass bottle and disposed of them individually and properly. You stayed current on which clam shell containers were recyclable – lettuce containers: yes, but berry containers: no. When your band left after weekly Tuesday rehearsals, you went through the trash to make sure all of their beer cans were thrown away in the proper bin, and then, you woke up early to take out the trash and recycling. You made sure the bags were tied. You made sure the bags were secure in the trash cans. You made sure you didn't take them out too early, so animals would get to them first. And you never once asked Kevin or I to do it, until we started insisting.
And while, when I moved in with you, I finally had to give a firm "NO!" to single-ply recycled toilet paper, you gently helped me through the learning curve of living consciously. I thought I had been kind to the environment before I met you, but I realized the huge gap. Tossing my garbage into the one of the eight proper receptacles (?) at Whole Foods and attempting to distinguish trash from recycling is not all I can do. Because of you, I live with more regard for reduction of waste, consumption, and consideration for Earth, because we belong to it – it does not belong to us.
Now you've risen from this Earth into something larger. Just a few days ago, you came to your best friend Frenchy in a vision. You told him to ask you some questions. He, knowing you were dead, asked you "Is there a God?" You told him, with a quiet smile, "There is a a higher power larger than anything imaginable taking care of everything." I have no doubt you are right. And while there may be something holistically all-encompassing beyond this Earthly realm, while I am here on this planet, I will take care of it with consciousness and selflessness, as you strove to do everyday. I will not rely on others. I will not rely on something grander to take care of my shit. I will be responsible: for me, for the citizens of the world, for the Earth, and for you.
Lonely (Guest Blog by Kevin Watson)
By Kevin Watson (Teddy's Roommate & Great Friend)
--
People keep asking me “How are you?” I usually respond with, “I’m hanging in” or “Just taking it one breath at a time” or “I’m OK.” Most of those answers are true except one.
I’m not ok.
To be blunt, the best way to describe me is lonely. I’m really fucking lonely. Don’t get me wrong, I know I have people that love me and I have those people around me in abundance! So many amazing people have reached out in support. Many still check in regularly. And it’s been a blessing to be able to go through this grief with so many people who knew Ted and the light he beamed out constantly. We can share in what we miss. It’s not that I feel alone. I’m lonely.
Truth is, I was feeling lonely before Ted died. For whatever reason I’ve chosen that path in more ways than is obvious. I’ve never been in a relationship longer than 6 months. Why? Take your pick: my father’s death, high (irrational/quality) standards, being cheated on, self-sabatoge due to fear of commitment? I’d say it’s a combo of all these things but the one that keeps coming back to me, is having trouble willing to trust someone to completely love me. All of me. The shit. The shine. All of it. Or maybe that’s to say there’s a fear that no one actually could. Regardless of the reason, I’ve yet to find a lover that could be my best friend as well. Understand that I don’t regret my philosophy or course of action when it comes to such partnership. I chose that route for good reasons and I’m proud to say that I’ve never stayed with someone just to keep from being by myself. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely.
I’ve also chosen solitude in other endeavors as well. My passion for live music was fostered by going to bars and checking out music on my own. I basically flew solo at my first few music festivals, too, partly because I didn’t want to be slowed down by a group of friends but largely because my group of friends at the time weren’t into the music I like. I didn’t want to ask people to go do something they didn’t love just to keep me from being lonely. I remember very vividly the time I had the realization that I needed to be happy with who I was and I shouldn’t rely on others to make me feel that way. I guess these endeavors were some sort of exercise in those regards.
I still go eat dinner by myself, exercise by myself, and I definitely still go see music by myself. Fortunately, now I usually see plenty of friends from the scene. And while I genuinely call them “friends”, I know that there are different levels of friendship. The energy I get from their hugs and smiles and cheers are a big part of why I love live music. It’s not just the music, it’s the community. That being said, how many of those people truly know me? How many people knew that on top of Ted’s death, my nephew Bennett is sick? Or that I even have a nephew? Unfortunately, the music biz is filled with a lot of amazing people who don’t truly know you that well and vice versa.
And I have a beautiful, loving, supportive family back home in Oklahoma. We even have some ‘adopted’ families that are amazing as well. Sure, they know me and love me in ways that only family can. I’m so blessed to have a diverse family that loves each other unconditionally. But does that mean they really understand my conditions? Do I feel like any of them truly know what my life is like or understand who I am or why I act the way I do? I have to say no. I also understand that this is normal for most families. Does that make me less lonely? No.
These are just a few things that have left me feeling lonely on and off for years. Right now, though, I’m feeling waves of the most harrowing loneliness I may have ever known. Even worse than when my father died? Yes. Even worse than my suicidal depression of my teens? Yes. Why? Because I feel like at this point in my life, Ted not only UNDERSTOOD me and my character flaws and how I think and (over)analyze, and what makes me tick more than anyone else, HE LOVED ME FOR IT ALL! I can honestly say that the closest thing I’ve known to being both understood and accepted is gone. And it makes me fucking lonely.
This year I went to Burning Man for the first time. It’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a number of years. Ted had really pushed for me to go for a couple of years now. In 2013 I had planned on going so far as to have purchased a ticket. For a number of reasons it fell through. Teddy would always say, “The thing about going to Burning Man is you have to MAKE it happen! You can’t just think it will fall into place. You have to go do it.” Well, finally after a year of planning and saving, I made it happen. I didn’t camp with Ted’s crew for a few reasons, the biggest being that I would only know Ted and Sami and a couple others in a pretty large camp. I didn’t want to be Ted and Sami’s 3rd wheel the whole time, so I joined up with some other friends to form a small independent camp. I somehow didn’t realize though, that my core camp would consist of myself and 4 other couples. I went from 3rd wheel to 9th wheel! Ha! Don’t get me wrong, the people at my camp were and are outrageously amazing people and I made some great memories with them! But still everyone else had a wingman. I again was solo. And at first I was fine with it, as usual. I explored the vast desert city on my own, getting the lay of the land, finding some great adventures and meeting some interesting folks. By the third day though, all I wanted was to go find my roommates!!! And find them I did. Night after night.
A few different mantras or lessons just kept hammering away at me while I was there. One big one was, “Why would you choose to do these things on your own when you could share the experiences with others? Not to mention people you love!?” Hanging out with Ted and Sami and our great friend Nate didn’t just feel comfortable, it felt right. It was without insecurity or fear of judgment. There was no other place I would have rather been. (I also never felt like a 3rd wheel.) And while Sami and Nate are amazing friends, that confidence and comfort in those moments was a direct result of Ted’s friendship. It was a beautiful feeling. It felt like home.
Teddy had worked intently for a while on making me feel ‘at home’. I guess you could say we both worked on it together, but he insisted on it. I remember when we were preparing for my birthday in 2012. I had only lived in the house for around 4 months. I was nervous at first to ask Ted if I could have a large birthday dinner and then a party at the house. I never wanted to intrude on his world. Ted being Ted said, “A party!? Of course!!!” He didn’t know the majority of the people that would be attending yet he was happy to have them here. I remember inviting people and saying, “So we’re gonna have my birthday dinner up at Ted’s house then we’re gonna open it up to a big invite to whoever wants to come party. Do you have directions to Ted’s?” I can’t remember exactly how it came up. I think Ted heard me say something similar on the phone. I remember he cracked up about it though! “Why don’t you just tell everyone the party is at your house?”, he said with his sarcastic exaggerated tone. “I mean, this is your house isn’t it?” I replied saying that it wasn’t really my house, that he owned it. He insisted that I had ‘ownership’ in the house based on my actions: I made payments on the house (rent) and I took care of it like my own with maintenance and respect, so why would I not call it my house! It took me a long time to make the change from calling it ‘Ted’s house’ and even after everything I still have trouble calling it mine. I usually just refer to it as ‘the house’ or ‘our house’.
I came back from Burning Man feeling more at home than ever with Ted and Sami. There was an acceptance and appreciation for each other that reached farther than ever before. I came back feeling more comfortable in my own skin and in tune with who I am than I have in years. I remember joking with Ted about taking pride in the kind of men we are. “You are I gentle, compassionate, sensitive men! And if people have problems with it they can fuck off!!!” So gentle. So compassionate. Ha! Someone had recently asked me if I would ever consider moving to Denver. I told them that I think the only way I’d move out of ‘the house’ was when Sami and Ted got married and were starting a family. (Ted had told me to see this as my home until then, and had joked saying, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll need Uncle Kevin around then!”) I replied to my friend’s question that there obviously was a physical luxury that the house provided, but that’s just stuff. The biggest reason that I wouldn’t ever want to leave was the emotional and personal comfort that I found in my roommates. Honest communication. Understanding. Compassion. Acceptance. LOVE!!! Why would I ever go anywhere else!?
It’s beyond unfortunate why Sami and I are closer than ever before yet I’m so blessed by our friendship. I don’t know how I would be dealing with this without her. That being said, this home is shattered. Ted was her rock in a way I could never know! I guess I never really completely understood how much he was a rock for me. I feel like I never really took his friendship for granted; I have no regrets with how our friendship grew or where we were in it when he died. But that old cliché keeps popping up in my grief. “You never really know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
Now I know. Ted is gone. My brother is gone. And without him I’m lonelier than ever.
--
People keep asking me “How are you?” I usually respond with, “I’m hanging in” or “Just taking it one breath at a time” or “I’m OK.” Most of those answers are true except one.
I’m not ok.
To be blunt, the best way to describe me is lonely. I’m really fucking lonely. Don’t get me wrong, I know I have people that love me and I have those people around me in abundance! So many amazing people have reached out in support. Many still check in regularly. And it’s been a blessing to be able to go through this grief with so many people who knew Ted and the light he beamed out constantly. We can share in what we miss. It’s not that I feel alone. I’m lonely.
Truth is, I was feeling lonely before Ted died. For whatever reason I’ve chosen that path in more ways than is obvious. I’ve never been in a relationship longer than 6 months. Why? Take your pick: my father’s death, high (irrational/quality) standards, being cheated on, self-sabatoge due to fear of commitment? I’d say it’s a combo of all these things but the one that keeps coming back to me, is having trouble willing to trust someone to completely love me. All of me. The shit. The shine. All of it. Or maybe that’s to say there’s a fear that no one actually could. Regardless of the reason, I’ve yet to find a lover that could be my best friend as well. Understand that I don’t regret my philosophy or course of action when it comes to such partnership. I chose that route for good reasons and I’m proud to say that I’ve never stayed with someone just to keep from being by myself. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely.
I’ve also chosen solitude in other endeavors as well. My passion for live music was fostered by going to bars and checking out music on my own. I basically flew solo at my first few music festivals, too, partly because I didn’t want to be slowed down by a group of friends but largely because my group of friends at the time weren’t into the music I like. I didn’t want to ask people to go do something they didn’t love just to keep me from being lonely. I remember very vividly the time I had the realization that I needed to be happy with who I was and I shouldn’t rely on others to make me feel that way. I guess these endeavors were some sort of exercise in those regards.
I still go eat dinner by myself, exercise by myself, and I definitely still go see music by myself. Fortunately, now I usually see plenty of friends from the scene. And while I genuinely call them “friends”, I know that there are different levels of friendship. The energy I get from their hugs and smiles and cheers are a big part of why I love live music. It’s not just the music, it’s the community. That being said, how many of those people truly know me? How many people knew that on top of Ted’s death, my nephew Bennett is sick? Or that I even have a nephew? Unfortunately, the music biz is filled with a lot of amazing people who don’t truly know you that well and vice versa.
And I have a beautiful, loving, supportive family back home in Oklahoma. We even have some ‘adopted’ families that are amazing as well. Sure, they know me and love me in ways that only family can. I’m so blessed to have a diverse family that loves each other unconditionally. But does that mean they really understand my conditions? Do I feel like any of them truly know what my life is like or understand who I am or why I act the way I do? I have to say no. I also understand that this is normal for most families. Does that make me less lonely? No.
These are just a few things that have left me feeling lonely on and off for years. Right now, though, I’m feeling waves of the most harrowing loneliness I may have ever known. Even worse than when my father died? Yes. Even worse than my suicidal depression of my teens? Yes. Why? Because I feel like at this point in my life, Ted not only UNDERSTOOD me and my character flaws and how I think and (over)analyze, and what makes me tick more than anyone else, HE LOVED ME FOR IT ALL! I can honestly say that the closest thing I’ve known to being both understood and accepted is gone. And it makes me fucking lonely.
This year I went to Burning Man for the first time. It’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a number of years. Ted had really pushed for me to go for a couple of years now. In 2013 I had planned on going so far as to have purchased a ticket. For a number of reasons it fell through. Teddy would always say, “The thing about going to Burning Man is you have to MAKE it happen! You can’t just think it will fall into place. You have to go do it.” Well, finally after a year of planning and saving, I made it happen. I didn’t camp with Ted’s crew for a few reasons, the biggest being that I would only know Ted and Sami and a couple others in a pretty large camp. I didn’t want to be Ted and Sami’s 3rd wheel the whole time, so I joined up with some other friends to form a small independent camp. I somehow didn’t realize though, that my core camp would consist of myself and 4 other couples. I went from 3rd wheel to 9th wheel! Ha! Don’t get me wrong, the people at my camp were and are outrageously amazing people and I made some great memories with them! But still everyone else had a wingman. I again was solo. And at first I was fine with it, as usual. I explored the vast desert city on my own, getting the lay of the land, finding some great adventures and meeting some interesting folks. By the third day though, all I wanted was to go find my roommates!!! And find them I did. Night after night.
A few different mantras or lessons just kept hammering away at me while I was there. One big one was, “Why would you choose to do these things on your own when you could share the experiences with others? Not to mention people you love!?” Hanging out with Ted and Sami and our great friend Nate didn’t just feel comfortable, it felt right. It was without insecurity or fear of judgment. There was no other place I would have rather been. (I also never felt like a 3rd wheel.) And while Sami and Nate are amazing friends, that confidence and comfort in those moments was a direct result of Ted’s friendship. It was a beautiful feeling. It felt like home.
Teddy had worked intently for a while on making me feel ‘at home’. I guess you could say we both worked on it together, but he insisted on it. I remember when we were preparing for my birthday in 2012. I had only lived in the house for around 4 months. I was nervous at first to ask Ted if I could have a large birthday dinner and then a party at the house. I never wanted to intrude on his world. Ted being Ted said, “A party!? Of course!!!” He didn’t know the majority of the people that would be attending yet he was happy to have them here. I remember inviting people and saying, “So we’re gonna have my birthday dinner up at Ted’s house then we’re gonna open it up to a big invite to whoever wants to come party. Do you have directions to Ted’s?” I can’t remember exactly how it came up. I think Ted heard me say something similar on the phone. I remember he cracked up about it though! “Why don’t you just tell everyone the party is at your house?”, he said with his sarcastic exaggerated tone. “I mean, this is your house isn’t it?” I replied saying that it wasn’t really my house, that he owned it. He insisted that I had ‘ownership’ in the house based on my actions: I made payments on the house (rent) and I took care of it like my own with maintenance and respect, so why would I not call it my house! It took me a long time to make the change from calling it ‘Ted’s house’ and even after everything I still have trouble calling it mine. I usually just refer to it as ‘the house’ or ‘our house’.
I came back from Burning Man feeling more at home than ever with Ted and Sami. There was an acceptance and appreciation for each other that reached farther than ever before. I came back feeling more comfortable in my own skin and in tune with who I am than I have in years. I remember joking with Ted about taking pride in the kind of men we are. “You are I gentle, compassionate, sensitive men! And if people have problems with it they can fuck off!!!” So gentle. So compassionate. Ha! Someone had recently asked me if I would ever consider moving to Denver. I told them that I think the only way I’d move out of ‘the house’ was when Sami and Ted got married and were starting a family. (Ted had told me to see this as my home until then, and had joked saying, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll need Uncle Kevin around then!”) I replied to my friend’s question that there obviously was a physical luxury that the house provided, but that’s just stuff. The biggest reason that I wouldn’t ever want to leave was the emotional and personal comfort that I found in my roommates. Honest communication. Understanding. Compassion. Acceptance. LOVE!!! Why would I ever go anywhere else!?
It’s beyond unfortunate why Sami and I are closer than ever before yet I’m so blessed by our friendship. I don’t know how I would be dealing with this without her. That being said, this home is shattered. Ted was her rock in a way I could never know! I guess I never really completely understood how much he was a rock for me. I feel like I never really took his friendship for granted; I have no regrets with how our friendship grew or where we were in it when he died. But that old cliché keeps popping up in my grief. “You never really know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
Now I know. Ted is gone. My brother is gone. And without him I’m lonelier than ever.
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