Carnival

Last night I dreamt that I was at a carnival. I am there with Kevin. You had broken up with me via a phone call. You had rang and said "I need some space." And that was it, you and I hadn't spoken in a week. Kevin and I are wandering around the fair together. I am being social and chatting with friends. I am eating carnival food, riding rides, trying to enjoy nature, and distract myself. After finishing up a ride, I run into a guy friend who buys me a very pretty dress. I walk into the dressing room and try it on. When I see myself in the mirror, I am hit with a wave of devastation. You are the one who is supposed to be admiring me in dresses. I realize I am not OK. I can't fake happiness. The carnival is no longer a distraction. I start panicking to Kevin. I tell him, "I must call him! He can't just break up with me over nothing by the phone! It doesn't make any sense? I need to know why. I need to talk to him." I headed off to call you and then I woke up before hearing your voice or your reason.

The dream is a thinly veiled metaphor for my reality. Last night, Kevin and I went to a casino with a bunch of old friends in my hometown. While no one bought me a dress, I did win some money. I strapped on a smile and I kept my chin up. But when I got home, washed off my makeup, and climbed in bed – the truth was still spread on thick. I can't get away from it, no matter how much stimulation I layer on.

I've found that I've been drawn to certain people who remind me of you. When I interact with someone, I'll find solace in their gentleness, their sensitivity, their kind smile, their humor, or maybe their generosity. It's nice to see glimmers of you in friends. It feels familiar and nurturing. I'll feel a bit of warmth in my being, then a wave of sadness. I realize that even when there's tidbits of you in others, it magnifies a glaring reminder of the parts that aren't like you. I love all of you. Wholly and fully. It's the larger aspects of your personality that create the shell of who you are, but it's the little quirks that give you texture that makes you stand apart. Today, I've been thinking about the little things about you that I love so much.

I love how you remembered everything. In my experience, so many men (some women too) can be idiots when it comes to memory. But not you. You had the memory of an elephant. You would remember to call me when you said you'd call me. You'd remember my schedule. If I said I had a class or a deadline, you would consider it in our planning or communication, and later, you'd ask about how it went. You'd remember tickets to the show. You'd remember your keys. You'd remember to pack a corkscrew in the cooler just in case we had a bottle of wine. You'd remember where you'd stuck our boarding passes after going through security. You'd remember to take out the recycling. You'd remember to bring a fresh water bottle in the car. You'd remember where you put the bottle of Aleve the last time we used it. You'd remember what we needed from the grocery store: how many kombuchas were left, if we were low on hemp seeds, if we ran out of a supplement, or if we needed avocados because the ones we had weren't ripe. You'd remember to come and check on me if I went to bed early and you stayed up later. You remembered birthdays. You remembered to get your oil changed. You'd remember to tell me you loved me, nearly hourly, every day. I love your memory, your awareness, and how much you care.

I love your transparency. You never played games. When it came to communication, you were direct and to-the-point from day one. There was never a guessing game: Does he like me? Will he call? What is he thinking right now? Is he upset? I never had to wonder, because you simply told me. Your honesty was beautiful. I remember one time when I still lived in Austin, I went out to a show and then came back to a friend's house around 1 a.m.. My phone had died. I plugged it in at her place, but then fell asleep on her couch before it turned back on. When I woke up, I had multiple missed called and messages from you. When I called you after waking, you were nearly in tears. You told me, "I was so nervous you had gotten in a wreck or someone had assaulted you! I've been awake all night assuming the worst!" Understandably, you were concerned and a bit upset. In fact, it was probably the most upset you ever were at me. You weren't mad, you were scared. But the way you handled the situation was so transparent. You told me you were upset, you explained your fears, then you were happy I was safe, and you let it go right there. We never had to talk about it again. It was in the past. There was no passive-aggressive 'I'll show her what it's like not to call me' payback, there was never a rub-it-in-my-face comment made again about making sure I call you, nothing – you explained your perspective, we both understood, and we grew from it. We communicated like consenting adults who respected and loved one another, every day.

I love that you weren't a big drinker or a bad drunk. I don't know if it's just my relationship history, but nearly all of my serious partners have been heavy drinkers and pretty terrible drunks. After rocky roads, I've learned it's not a habit that works for me. I am down to have a drink of wine with dinner a few nights a week and knock back a few cocktails at a show or a party, but when there's a need to drink in order to have fun – it doesn't jive with me. You chose to drink alcohol cautiously which was incredibly attractive. In addition to that, when you did get drunk – you were adorable. You weren't mean, you weren't aggressive, you weren't spacey, you weren't curt, you weren't obnoxious, you weren't blacked out, you weren't stumbling, you were just more silly than usual.

I remember the one time I got a bit irritated with you when alcohol was involved. It was at an Umphrey's show at Red Rocks on a Saturday night. I was the designated driver and was trying to round up our crew after the show. Trying to rally five people post concert can be a chore to a sober person. I had accumulated everyone, but strangely, you were the one who we just couldn't coerce to head to the car. The reason you wanted to stay was so you could give your friends more good-bye hugs. You were running back and forth from one side of the Red Rocks Amphitheater to the other shouting farewells, 'I love you's', and giving hugs to Chris, Cassie, Frenchy, Rey, Jelly, and more. Red Rocks is wide, but back and forth you ran, one side to the other, spreading love. Now that's a cute drunk.

I love how affectionate you were. You understood the power of touch. If I needed a hug, you would notice from across the room. You would hold me for seconds longer than I expected you to. You'd pull me tight, and press your whole chest into mine. You'd stop what you were thinking to give a embrace, all plans aside. I loved your kisses. We kissed as often on the last day of your life, than we had at the beginning of our relationship. We never had a lull in kisses. Whether it was a kiss of passion, friendship, salutation, sympathy, custom, love, or just because – there was always a kiss. Even if a hug or kiss wasn't involved, you still showed affection in many other ways – a brush of the arm, a slap of the butt, a gentle pinch, a tickle (even though I hated it!), a game of footsie under the covers, a hold of my hand, fingers through my hair, a wink across the room, or simply eye contact – you always stayed connected to me. I am searching for that connection now, I know it's here somehow. I can't see it, I can't feel it, and I can't hear it – but I know it's here.

I love how open you were with bodily functions. When we started dating, it took about six months before you farted in front of me... which I was fine with, trust me. But once you crossed that threshold you let it rip. In addition to your own flatulence, you had an open mind about women's stuff too. It's a relief when a man understand that the same stuff, minus a couple things and plus a couple more, come of out both men and women's bodies. It's surprising how many thirty-year-plus men I know that don't want to accept that. Women can have tummy aches too. They get cramps. They fart. They purchase tampons, put them in the garbage, and carry them around in their purse. Women pee and they poop too. They fart occassionally, and maybe after Indian or Mexican just like you. Women can get stinky after a run just like a man. They can even have diarrhea. The ignorance of women's bodily functions can be ridiculous. But not with you, you made it easy and a non-issue to talk about how we were feeling – whether it was emotional or physical. While we may have still peed with the powder-room door closed and given one other personal space with our hygiene, we still respected what was going on behind closed doors.

I loved your dirty mind. I have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy with a thirty-year collection of sexual innuendos and vocabulary. You had met your match when you met me. If we heard, saw, or read something that could be played off as a dirty joke, it was on. Between us, there were probably as many "That's what she said's", "Dzzzzts!", and "Giggity's" as there were kisses, which is a lot! Now, as I'm moving through my days like I am made of wet cement, when I hear a funny innuendo or see something slightly sexual my stomach drops instead of my eyes lighting up. My joker is no longer here to joke with. It's creepy to make dirty jokes with yourself all of the time.


I miss the whole you. I miss the physical you. I miss the spiritual you. I miss the friend in you. I miss the lover in you. I miss the things that carved out the large facets of your personality. And I miss the little things, like some of what I've mentioned here: the texture, the quirks and curves that made you so special. There's no hiding from your absence. There's no carnival fun enough to distract me. There's no friends that fill the gap. There's just my love, waiting in space, to give back to you someday, somehow.

Labyrinth

This past year at Burning Man, Kevin, you, and I took a ride out to Deep Playa. We were searching for nothing and everything at the same time. We had no plan, which was your favorite way to journey. Far away from the lights and bass of the city, almost to the trash fence, we stumbled upon a labyrinth carved into the earth. It was camouflaged, a facade amongst the clay earth. We headed to the entrance of the maze and began to walk.

The network of paths was narrow and we moved forward in a single file line. At first we moved in silence, one foot in front of the other, moving slowly. Then, we began to talk about unique experiences of our own life-wanderings. We shared, we laughed, we cried, and we walked within the web for a long time.

The labyrinth's network was unclear. We couldn't tell where we were in the system – at times we'd laugh and ask, "Are we even halfway through this?" The mid-point was unrecognizable from our place in the midst of the web. "Is this the beginning, middle or end?" I would ask, impatiently. "It doesn't matter," you would respond, "It could be anything." We continued on our pilgrimage.

Do we ever really know the end from the beginning? What I thought was the beginning for us, turned out to be our last day together. And yet, maybe that terrible night was just the beginning, or maybe a dot within the middle of our own odyssey together through consciousness.

As I sat on Natalia's patio for la comida (a leisurely lunch) this afternoon, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore blended in the distance with Nati's partner, Jaime's classical guitar melody. As I heard the sounds I felt a sense of clairaudience. You are here even in your absence. It's all connected. I suddenly knew. It's all one and the same. As clear as it is that you are not here, it is also clear that you are here.

I heard you in the soulful conversation at lunch. I heard the ideas that you loved to discuss. I heard the music that you loved to create. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and it reminded me of the dream I had last night where you appeared and we had a new adventure together. I saw you in the love of Nati and Jamie. They met not long after we did, but after Natalia told me she was inspired by our love. So, in some ways, we helped foster their love, and therefore, you are inside of them. And I felt it absolutely.

The morning after your death, as I clung to your Aunt Ginny's mattress, trying to ground myself and understand this new emotion – grief – my friend Amirah was the first person to arrive. Her face stained with tears and mind aghast at the tragedy, she simply held space for my devastation. She brought her baby, Sora, with her to the house. As she entered the bedroom, she apologized for bringing the baby. She hadn't been able to find someone to watch her on such short notice. I told her not to worry. I was glad Sora was there, but I didn't know why yet.

As Amirah sat with me, in essence she cradled both her baby and her friend. All of a sudden, Sora, with huge brown eyes of innocence, looked into my grief-stricken eyes and reached out towards me. She grabbed your necklace, which was on my neck. It was the necklace you wore beneath your shirt every day – a wrap that contained both sides of an ammonite nested within a alkaline dust of gold, silver, and burning man ash. It was the necklace that only a few hours before, in the hospital, I'd removed from your neck and placed on mine. The baby reached for the necklace, grasped it in her tiny hand, and looked into my eyes, and I gasped. "Ted is inside of Sora," I told Amirah, "I'm so glad you brought her." It was the first time I saw your spirit in something other than your physical self.

William Blake wrote:
To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

We are all connected. You are here. You are in the ocean. You are in each grain of sand. You are in my voice. You are in the dog's tongue that kisses my cheek. You are in the conversation I'm having and the one the strangers down the beach are having too. You are in a star that makes up the farthest constellation away from this place. You are in your friends' rituals. You are in the love I offer to myself. You are in your mother's heartbeat.

Quantum physicist, Michael Talbot, who authored your favorite book, The Holographic Universe, says that the energy of a trillion atomic bombs is in every cubic centimeter of space. Space is not empty, as we often see. Instead, it is full. It is more dense than any other matter – a plenum as opposed to a vacuum. So when your soul ascended from your body that night and I watched your spirit leave its physical habitat, you became a part of the fabric of the universe. You became the light. You became time. You became space.

So I continue on my journey. What I thought was the beginning of our life was redefined by the Universe's lesson. Is it the beginning, the middle, or the end? It is all three. Am I alone or among all? I am both. I have learned that placing faith in the future is fruitless. I cannot trust the future – not even this very breath. Though expectations and plans are not entirely futile – they are an important exercise in patience and uncertainty.

For now, I walk with myself on this journey. Myself – which is the sum of everything I am and have been, all I've learned, all my memories, all I love, all I've touched – and I honor this very moment in my understanding of time, this very lesson in my own pilgrimage, and seize an openness to the connectedness of us all, you included, within this labyrinth of consciousness.

Dream Realm

Over the past month, many people have reached out to me regarding dreams you've appeared in. There have also been countless other signs - particularly through nature, animals, children, and instinct that have nearly proven that you're still around. Although that's a BIG nearly, because proof will never actually exist until we meet again someday. Dreams, however, were of supreme importance to you in your waking life. You felt they carried much more weight than just the imagination having a wander while the eyes had a rest. My friend Kris told me this weekend, "Sami, you can still spend 1/3 of your life with Ted, because that's about how much of your life you'll spend asleep – and he can always appear in your dreams." I like that.

You haven't been in my dreams that much yet, or at least from what I remember. Amazingly though, I have slept soundly nearly since day one of this tragedy, so maybe you are there. Maybe you're helping me sleep and just keeping the stories and adventures of our dreams in the unconscious. But I ask you nightly, before I go to sleep, when I kneel and do my gratitude and my prayers, that you come to me in my slumber – that you hold me while my body rests – that you be nearby me while my mind softens away from the claustrophobia of this tragedy and takes time to meditate – that I get to see your face, touch your skin, see the creases on your face when you smile, hear your gentle voice, and watch your eyes dance with love. I will hope for that every day for the rest of my life.

And while you may not have come to me quite that often yet – you did once a few weeks back, and it was worth the wait. But you've come to many others, and some of them have been willing to share with me.

You came to your friend Frenchy last week in a very vivid vision. You spoke in a kitchen, much like ours. He said it was so real that he could smell your smell and hear your breath traveling down your nostrils. He said the colors were incredibly intense. He knew you were dead in the dream, as did you. You hugged Frenchy and you both cried. You told Frenchy to ask you some quick questions. "Are you ok? What is it like? Is there a God? Have you seen Sarah?" You told him you are OK and it's kinda crazy there. You said that there are many people there to meet, that everyone is very nice, and happy to help. In terms of God, you paused, and then said there's a much higher force than anyone knows that's overseeing everything. You said you haven't seen Sarah yet, but everyone knows you're looking for her. You told him that as you died, you were peeling back layers of light and kept going in deeper. Then Frenchy rubbed his eyes and returned back to his original dream, but throughout the rest of his dreams he heard your voice whispering, "Don't forget! Write it down."

You appeared to your cousin Brooke in a dream. She was working in the mountains and turned around to say goodbye to friends and you were there. Again, you were full of life. She could feel your skin. She asked you if you had enjoyed the memorial and said how cool it had been that the String Cheese Incident guys had come to play in your honor. You responded warmly. You talked to her in a way that lacked human attachment and stories – you beamed with peace. Then, you showed her videos of some of the friends you'd met in the place where you reside now. Some of them were children, others were celebrities. You also told her you had learned how to appear to loved ones and friends on Earth in solid form.

You appeared to your Aunt Ginny in a vision just days after your death. She was in the exact same scenario as the tragic night you died. The three of us, her, Kevin, and myself were with your body in the hospital. She on one side of the gurney, Kevin on the other, and me next to your body, on the bed, cradling you and sobbing. She felt a presence enter the room behind her. She was irritated and thought it was the coroner who had kept barging in and disrupting our last moments with your body. It wasn't. It was you. You were enormous and filled up the entire room, literally by appearing as a giant, and figuratively with your peaceful energy. You held us in a warm embrace. You told her, "I am OK. Now is when Sami's journey really starts."

You came to my friend Claire. A dear girl friend with whom I'd fallen out of touch with. You had only met her a couple times in life and you unfortunately didn't get to know one another very well. Although you did know I was very sad that our friendship wasn't as strong lately. In her dream, when you appeared, she got upset with you. She yelled at you for taking me away from my home and friends in Texas. She was upset that you would leave me in so much pain. You heard her out, and then responded with love. You said, "I understand how you feel and I don't blame you. I never meant to bring Sami any pain. Please believe me when I say that Sami is exactly where she needs to be. All of this is part of her journey and destiny."

You came to another more distant friend, Lyndsey. She had periled for months with a newborn daughter on the brink of death. Though you never met the baby, you identified with her tragedy because of your compassionate heart and also the devastation you dealt with after your sister's loss of her baby girl, Jane. Lyndsey's infant daughter who had made a miraculous recovery, Eden, played with an iPad for her first time ever this week. As soon as the toy was in her mitts, she pulled up your contact information on the device. In Lyndsey's dream you came to her at a party. No one could see you except for her. You hugged one another and she expressed her condolences for your death. "I'm still here. No one can see me, but I'm still here," you said. And then you said, "Give that daughter of yours a squeeze for me."

These are only a few dreams. I've had other people reach out to me with beautiful connections as well. And I have a feeling this entry may open up the doors to more, which I welcome with open arms.

In your life, you were passionate about dreams. You would journal them nearly daily. One of the first things you'd say to me each day was, "Did you have any dreams last night?" You always encouraged me to write them down, teaching me the appropriate way to do so. You loved to analyze dreams, and had done a lot of work with your therapist and independently learning about different methods. It makes complete sense to me that you would choose to appear through the dream realm from your place in the afterlife.

I find it beautiful that through appearing in dreams, you're still creating connections. You're answering questions for people who have doubts. You're telling secrets about mortality and reassuring loved ones about your place in the afterlife. You are letting us know that you're around – and that this tragic path may actually be the right one. You're bringing old friends back together and fostering new relationships. You're holding space for children. You're giving us all hope. And you're tackling it through our subconscious.

Please continue to appear in dreams, my love. Appear to your family, to your loved ones, and hopefully, if you have time, you can still spend a third of my life, the time when I'm asleep, with me. And during that time, we won't be held back by the constraints of this earthly realm. We will be able to fly and skip around the Universe together. We will be able to stretch time and expand our consciousness beyond humanity's dynamics. We will be able to love, to create, to connect, and to share. We will make magic. And until the day arrives when I join you wherever you exist now, I'll continue to look for you in sleep.