The biggest commitment one can make in love is to be parted by death. Now, it is up to me alone – the remainder of our pair – to remember. To remember the way you said 'I love you'. To remember the promises we intended to keep for ourselves and one another. To remember how it felt to dance wrapped in each others arms. To remember how peaceful it was to sleep next to you and wake up nestled in your body. To remember the way my heart felt warm when I was with you. To remember how OK everything always was when you were there. To remember the way your hand danced with mine – the way your fingers explored every ridge of my skin. To remember how it felt to lock our eyes – how our pupils dilated as our souls merged. To remember how we came together when we made love. To remember how safe I felt when you held me. Now, as I question everything, it is up to me to remember how it felt to question nothing.
I'm winging it now. When I keep my gaze down and my mind full, I can fake progress. Maybe it's not always faking. But when I catch my reflection in a mirror and see my own sad eyes staring back at me, I realize that I'm so not OK. Now I wear sunglasses when it's overcast. I wear them not to protect my eyes from the sun, but to protect the world from seeing me and from me seeing me. Loneliness grows like a spreading tumor. I reach out to cope. I reach out in some healthy ways. I reach out in some unhealthy ways. I reach out in some ways that I don't know what the fuck to think about them. But I reach out to try to catch my balance amidst a fall. I reach out to anything that I can cling to as I tumble down this hole. I don't know what's at the bottom. I don't know if there's ground. I don't know if there's light. I don't know if there's love. I don't know if there's peace. I don't know if there's death. I just know that I'm falling, I'm reaching, and I'm alone.
For the first time in my life, I've chosen to truly go inside. I am staying in my broken shell and dissecting the pieces that are left of me. I am not letting very many people in anymore. I'm scared of what I might lose. I'm scared of what they might find. I'm scared of showing that I've lost control. I've lost. My tail is between my legs and I cower, embraced in my own arms. But my arms don't comfort me. No arms comfort me. Only your arms ever made me feel truly safe, truly special, and truly loved. I have to learn to find comfort and safety within the confines of my self. But it's hard. It's like taking an icepick to a glacier. How deep does it go? Where is the root? Hidden so far under the surface. Floating. Cracked. Melting. Buried.
I try to protect myself from further pain, but what used to hurt me now only tingles numbly. I can't tell if the trembles help or hurt. Just more feelings to join in the dance of my despair. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not interacting with you. Every thing I do reminds me of my loneliness. I no longer want to climb in our bed at night. It's too sad. I don't want to sleep because I'll only wake one day farther from the last day I saw you. The void that exists in the space you filled becomes larger – every breath, every hour, every day. Even in the moments when I may smile, I may laugh, I may feel pleasure – the truth is that I am in severe pain. I am missing you indescribably. My love for you remains my guiding light. I am here, powerlessly lonely. Reaching. Praying. Coping. Winging it.
Wherever you are tonight, my love, I hope to God you're having a beautiful adventure. That's the thing about love, I would never want you to feel pain. So, today, despite the clouds covering my universe, I am grateful that you left us peacefully – and that I am the one who has to suffer, not you.
Showing posts with label mourn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mourn. Show all posts
Grief Etiquette
I've never learned very much about etiquette. I've gotten the basics over the years: elbows off the table, proper placement of silverware, don't sneeze on someone's face, no farting on airplanes or in elevators (both of which you rarely followed), what's appropriate cocktail attire, no white after Labor Day unless you live in the South, don't talk on your mobile at a restaurant, chew with your mouth closed, don't cuss in front of children – I mean, I can get by. Sometimes I can really fake it and appear quite classy. Other times, I can break the rules with the best of them.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
Course in Miracles
"The miracle comes quietly into the mind that stops an instant and is still."
- A Course in Miracles
This afternoon I got to thinking about miracles. According to a statistic from NPR in 2008, 79% of Americans believe in miracles. This number remains consistent with a stat from USA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll in 1994. Today I sat at a lunch with seven adults and one three-year-old: five believed, two did not, and the remaining one kept quiet on the subject (it was not the three-year-old).
Today is Christmas Eve. As a Jew, I celebrate Christmas because of a pre-nuptial agreement my parents made before they married (dad: Jew, mom: Catholic). My father could raise us Jewish BUT we would always celebrate Christmas and have a Christmas tree. And so it went. We got Hanukkah and Christmas, a beautiful collaboration of two religions and American Capitalist excess.
Embarrassingly, today I actually had to Google what the "miracle of Christmas" is. Yes, I forgot we are celebrating Jesus's birthday. (Mind you, I've been tuning out all holiday cheer this year.) But now I remember, Jesus Christ was born to Mary, a virgin, as the son of God on December 25th. Honestly, this is not a miracle that I have ever really believed in. I tend to take the Bible's stories as metaphors and I also don't think women's words are very trustworthy, perhaps even saintly ones. They don't like to kiss and tell. In order to avoid pushing buttons, or maybe to push a few more, the miracle of Hanukkah celebrates oil burning in the Beit HaMikdash for eight days when it was claimed it would only last for one night – I don't know if I believe in that miracle either.
But over the past two months or so, I've been led to question all my beliefs – miracles, life, death, love, faith, and more. I don't know what I believe anymore. Maybe both of the miracles mentioned above are completely true! I mean, I can't tell you how many times over the past two months I've wished that I could be pregnant with your child despite the fact that you aren't here to make that happen! Why shouldn't I trust that if God or a higher power deems something like that to be possible, then it be possible? I mean, this whole universe thing is quite a miracle. Where did that come from? Something put it there. And I'm confident I saw a male figure standing in my living room the other day when no one was home... I barely thought twice about that miraculous vision. Through this grief, I've realized I need to believe in something. What has pulled me out of the darkness over the past week is the creation of faith. And when I say creation, I mean building something from relatively nothing.
Prior to this tragedy, religion was a part of my identity, rather than a belief system. Unlike so many, I was not pushed to put my faith in a God with a certain name. I was raised with an awareness of the stories but a choice to follow whatever path I was called towards. And to be honest, being raised in a house with mixed messages probably didn't help guide me one way or another. As I watched some friends follow their prescribed religions somewhat blindly (in my opinion, at the time), I became rather cynical about faith in general. It was kind of a dirty word. That being said, I was incredibly active in my Jewish youth group, to the extent of being an international chairwoman. Judaism gave me a social network, leadership training, the knowledge of a cool language not many people can read and write, and a sense of identity. But faith? Not so much. I have always been one of those people who says, "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual." But really, I wasn't that spiritual either.
Now, as I've been pushed to my emotional edge: raw, bleeding, and hopeless – one of the primary elements that's pulled me through is faith (the other main element is love). Faith in what? I'm not sure yet. I'm open to it all at this point. In fact, I've been reading about a book a day. Some are about quantum physics, a scientific methodology that explains 'the theory of everything'. Some are about reincarnation, samsara, past lives and future lives. Some are about the power of love. Some are about spirits and mediums. Some are about New Age mysticism like Kabbalah, the Jewish ancient wisdom that 'reveals how the universe and life work'. Some are about yogic philosophy. Some are poetry. Some are about miracles. Some are about Christian methodology. But what they all have in common is having hope and faith in something bigger than just this thing we call life – what we can see, touch, and be aware of through our five senses. I've been given the courage to choose to believe in the unknown.
In the past I've thought faith was blind – a blanket statement that I'd say I subscribed to. Now, I still believe faith CAN be blind. If we believe in the stories in the Bible verbatim and follow the words we are told without question, I maintain that those choices are blind and uneducated. But if faith is built through study, through questioning, through being able to have an open mind, and not say "I'm right, and you're wrong," I now believe faith is quite courageous. It's not easy to stand up for your faith in this world, I felt that today at my lunch!
I told my therapist this past week, "I wish I'd had a strong sense of faith instilled in my life. At least I'd have something to turn to now." She told me, "Yes, that would be easier. But now you have to build one. That is much harder but very beautiful." It will be a beautiful process. It already is.
I've opened to stillness. I've put down the remote control. I've turned off Instagram and Words With Friends. I've picked up the decision to learn. I've decided that what I thought was "right" is not necessarily "right". I've come to terms with the hard knowledge that I may never really "know". But, I have choosen to have faith in a few unknowns. I choose to believe that there is a truth beyond death. I choose to believe that I will see you again in some form. I choose to believe that you are still a witness to my life in some way. And I choose to continue my belief in miracles, no matter how bleak life looks.
"Miracles occur naturally as expressions of love. They are performed by those who temporarily have more for those who temporarily have less."
– A Course in Miracles
- A Course in Miracles
This afternoon I got to thinking about miracles. According to a statistic from NPR in 2008, 79% of Americans believe in miracles. This number remains consistent with a stat from USA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll in 1994. Today I sat at a lunch with seven adults and one three-year-old: five believed, two did not, and the remaining one kept quiet on the subject (it was not the three-year-old).
Today is Christmas Eve. As a Jew, I celebrate Christmas because of a pre-nuptial agreement my parents made before they married (dad: Jew, mom: Catholic). My father could raise us Jewish BUT we would always celebrate Christmas and have a Christmas tree. And so it went. We got Hanukkah and Christmas, a beautiful collaboration of two religions and American Capitalist excess.
Embarrassingly, today I actually had to Google what the "miracle of Christmas" is. Yes, I forgot we are celebrating Jesus's birthday. (Mind you, I've been tuning out all holiday cheer this year.) But now I remember, Jesus Christ was born to Mary, a virgin, as the son of God on December 25th. Honestly, this is not a miracle that I have ever really believed in. I tend to take the Bible's stories as metaphors and I also don't think women's words are very trustworthy, perhaps even saintly ones. They don't like to kiss and tell. In order to avoid pushing buttons, or maybe to push a few more, the miracle of Hanukkah celebrates oil burning in the Beit HaMikdash for eight days when it was claimed it would only last for one night – I don't know if I believe in that miracle either.
But over the past two months or so, I've been led to question all my beliefs – miracles, life, death, love, faith, and more. I don't know what I believe anymore. Maybe both of the miracles mentioned above are completely true! I mean, I can't tell you how many times over the past two months I've wished that I could be pregnant with your child despite the fact that you aren't here to make that happen! Why shouldn't I trust that if God or a higher power deems something like that to be possible, then it be possible? I mean, this whole universe thing is quite a miracle. Where did that come from? Something put it there. And I'm confident I saw a male figure standing in my living room the other day when no one was home... I barely thought twice about that miraculous vision. Through this grief, I've realized I need to believe in something. What has pulled me out of the darkness over the past week is the creation of faith. And when I say creation, I mean building something from relatively nothing.
Prior to this tragedy, religion was a part of my identity, rather than a belief system. Unlike so many, I was not pushed to put my faith in a God with a certain name. I was raised with an awareness of the stories but a choice to follow whatever path I was called towards. And to be honest, being raised in a house with mixed messages probably didn't help guide me one way or another. As I watched some friends follow their prescribed religions somewhat blindly (in my opinion, at the time), I became rather cynical about faith in general. It was kind of a dirty word. That being said, I was incredibly active in my Jewish youth group, to the extent of being an international chairwoman. Judaism gave me a social network, leadership training, the knowledge of a cool language not many people can read and write, and a sense of identity. But faith? Not so much. I have always been one of those people who says, "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual." But really, I wasn't that spiritual either.
Now, as I've been pushed to my emotional edge: raw, bleeding, and hopeless – one of the primary elements that's pulled me through is faith (the other main element is love). Faith in what? I'm not sure yet. I'm open to it all at this point. In fact, I've been reading about a book a day. Some are about quantum physics, a scientific methodology that explains 'the theory of everything'. Some are about reincarnation, samsara, past lives and future lives. Some are about the power of love. Some are about spirits and mediums. Some are about New Age mysticism like Kabbalah, the Jewish ancient wisdom that 'reveals how the universe and life work'. Some are about yogic philosophy. Some are poetry. Some are about miracles. Some are about Christian methodology. But what they all have in common is having hope and faith in something bigger than just this thing we call life – what we can see, touch, and be aware of through our five senses. I've been given the courage to choose to believe in the unknown.
In the past I've thought faith was blind – a blanket statement that I'd say I subscribed to. Now, I still believe faith CAN be blind. If we believe in the stories in the Bible verbatim and follow the words we are told without question, I maintain that those choices are blind and uneducated. But if faith is built through study, through questioning, through being able to have an open mind, and not say "I'm right, and you're wrong," I now believe faith is quite courageous. It's not easy to stand up for your faith in this world, I felt that today at my lunch!
I told my therapist this past week, "I wish I'd had a strong sense of faith instilled in my life. At least I'd have something to turn to now." She told me, "Yes, that would be easier. But now you have to build one. That is much harder but very beautiful." It will be a beautiful process. It already is.
I've opened to stillness. I've put down the remote control. I've turned off Instagram and Words With Friends. I've picked up the decision to learn. I've decided that what I thought was "right" is not necessarily "right". I've come to terms with the hard knowledge that I may never really "know". But, I have choosen to have faith in a few unknowns. I choose to believe that there is a truth beyond death. I choose to believe that I will see you again in some form. I choose to believe that you are still a witness to my life in some way. And I choose to continue my belief in miracles, no matter how bleak life looks.
"Miracles occur naturally as expressions of love. They are performed by those who temporarily have more for those who temporarily have less."
– A Course in Miracles
Innocence Found
I was a swimmer as a child. Swim lessons from the age of two – paddling from mom to dad in a waterlogged diaper, living on the beach in Jamaica at six – running up and down the shore, topless and smiling, bleach-blonde hair and my face painted. By the time I was seven years old and back in Ohio I was on the swim team. I remember the YWCA pool very well. Monday, Wednesday, Friday in the off season – six days a week, sometimes twice a day, in the winter season. The water was always a touch too cold with suspicious warm spots as you moved through. I remember the scent of chlorine meets AquaSwim shampoo in the locker room shower. I can still feel the athlete's foot, in fact to this day, it never quite entirely cleared up. I can hear the shouts of our coach, Cheryl, commanding us to swim the next 100m faster. "Kick harder! Harder! Harder!" I'd hear her yells on every inhale when I turned my little cheek to breathe in. She moonlighted as a swim coach, her daytime gig was across the street as a warden for the inner city youth jail. Let's just say she knew how to get results in kids.
At the end of practice, we'd swim our cool-down, maybe 4 or 8 lengths of the pool. That was when I had my favorite moments. You see, when I was a child I used to believe that I had been mermaid once. I had complete faith in life under the sea. The Little Mermaid was my bible. I eventually got teased for it. Anyone who knew me in elementary school will remember taunting me with the nickname 'Mermaid Girl'. But then, I was full of wonder.
During my last few laps of the pool, I would take a deep breath and dive down into the water. I would channel my inner Ariel and dolphin kick my legs as I dove deep. I would open my eyes, letting the chlorine into burn my retinas and gaze at everything there was to see down there at the bottom of the pool. Mind you, there was not much to see: stray hairbands, a swim cap, a lost fin, a dead bug, a hairball, maybe a shiny coin if I was lucky. I would strap on my imagination and pretend I was back in the ocean waters I had explored in Jamaica. I would imagine colorful fish swimming effortlessly in sparkling schools, bright red and blue coral that grew so quickly you could almost watch it rise towards the heavens, large rays that gracefully slid across the ocean floor casting shadows on the sea floor like clouds from the sky. Maybe there would be a treasure chest, spilling over with gold coins and colorful rubies and emeralds. While I was reasonably fast, the pool was far too distracting for me to be taken too seriously as a competitor in a race. Instead, the water was my world, my secret garden of underwater adventure. A blue or red ribbon was just bonus points.
When I was nine, we moved to Belize for a year. Again, the ocean was my oyster! I would play in the water for hours. I'd watch fish soar through underground playgrounds with an easy sense of cooperation. Did you know that an entire school of fish vote on which way they'll go by a simple turn of the head? After 51% of the fish look one way, the whole school switches direction instantaneously and without missing a beat. (Imagine if people were like that... but I digress.) I remember jumping off of a motor boat to go snorkeling. Once submerged, I turned back towards the boat to catch the eye of my mom who was about to jump in. I noticed the shadow of something under the boat. It was a huge nurse shark. But it was a time in my life when I was fearless. Until I wasn't.
Two occurrences on that trip broke me and my innocent, imaginative relationship with water.
We went on a day trip to a tiny island with only three palm trees on it. The adults, armed with mediocre weed and coolers of beer, had a beach party. I decided to catch hermit crabs and organize a race for the party goers. Each person chose a crab. I drew a circle in the sand and put all the crabs in the middle. The first one out of the circle was the winner. I was the maestro supreme! Later that day, we went for a snorkel. As we swam along the reef, I remember watching a barracuda and a huge mantra ray swim by. I was still fearless. I understood that I was a part of the whole ecosystem. We are not a drop of the ocean, we are the entire ocean in a drop.
We began to swim over a huge bed of coral. The guide, whose English was not great, instructed me NOT to touch the coral. "Fire coral!" he yelled. He pointed at the coral all around me. It appeared to be centimeters from my skin. The objects in water are closer than they appear, but I did not know that at the time. He continued to yell at me, "Fire coral! Fire coral! Do not touch. Will burn!" He pointed to a nasty scar engulfing his leg. It looked like a parasite joined up with a shark bite and then the infection festered on his calf. In my mind now, I know there is no way he got that injury from fire coral. But in my nine-year-old brain, I was screwed. I hovered over the water, regressing from freestyle to a doggy paddle immediately. I was paralyzed by fear mid-snorkle. My parents had to lure me out of the water. I have been frightened of coral ever since. I can hardly swim in the ocean without fear of the coral grabbing me in it's rocky mitts and burning my body while it pulls me down and drowns me.
Later that year the other event happened that scarred me and destroyed my blooming career as a mermaid. Again, I was on the beach catching crabs. Let's face it, I liked to catch crabs as a little girl. All jokes aside, they were sand crabs. (Let it be known that I have never actually had crabs.) I had made friends with an older boy, Mario, on the beach. In Belize, many of the young girls were encouraged to help their mothers in the home, so much of my outdoor roaming time was either alone or with boys.
Mario convinced me that there would be more crabs in the brackish water of the mangrove swamp down the beach. It was further than I was aloud to go and my parents weren't around to ask, so I was wary. He convinced me it would be quick and bountiful. I was a bit of a rebel, so I went along with it.
Inside the mangrove forest, the floor of the ocean was almost like quicksand. My little legs were getting stuck in the sticky, muddy earth. I was distracted from the hunt as I tried to un-stick myself from the ground. I thought Mario was setting a trap from a crab, but apparently, he had a different intention. When I looked up from my battle with the sediment, moments later – he had exposed himself to me. A small, brown, uncircumcised, erect, teenage penis pointed at me. Pants down, he started towards me. All in one swift inhale, I felt confusion, surprise, curiosity, guilt, excitement, anger, and fear.
As Mario sludged his way through the mud to me, I felt the mud floor free my ankles. It was as though the earth had taken my side in the battle. I braced myself by grabbing onto the distended roots of the mangrove trees that surrounded me and lifted my body up out of the water. Without much forethought, I used one of my free legs to swiftly kick Mario square in the junk, hard. As he cowered in pain, I took off running. Suddenly, the floor of that swamp was as solid and buoyant as the turf on a track. I had the distinct feeling that something greater was helping me fight back and run away. When I escaped from the mangrove swamp, there was a golf cart driving by with a small search party on it. They had been looking for me. I hopped aboard and zipped my lips.
You were one of the first people I ever told the full story to. I buried it deep down, a secret tale of shame with a splash of fiery bravery and divine intervention.
But I no longer felt innocent. I no longer caught sand crabs and painted messages on their shells with nail polish. I didn't imagine I was a mermaid anymore. I stopped believing in buried treasures and hermit crabs that sang and had names like Sebastian. When I came back from Belize and joined the swim team again, I swam to win. I didn't dive down deep and explore the bottom of the pool anymore. I didn't pretend that the stray pennies were silver dollars or that the drain pipes led to secret caverns. I swam in a straight line. I closed my eyes on my flip-turns. I kicked harder. I moved with a sense of purpose instead of a sense of wonder.
It wasn't until I met you that I really began to peel back that guard I'd put up. I let go of stifled fear when I fell in love with you. I found my sense of marvel again. You had a naturalness for being like a kid. I used to watch you sleep and when you would wake up, I'd tell you about how you reminded me of a little boy. You were always searching for wonder. You always wanted to dig deep and climb high. You reminded me what it was like to live in the light. With you, I set the innocent, little girl inside of me free again.
Not many thirty-four year old men have an entire drawer dedicated to stickers. If anyone ever had glitter, your words were, "Yes, please!" You liked to play dress up with neon colors and fuzzy fabrics. You spent over a hundred dollars on fabric and materials to make our Burning Man scooter look like the cartoon character, Tigger. Your penmanship was as perfect as a fifth grader who wanted to ace his handwriting exam. Your favorite shows were animated. You barely flinched when thousands of pieces of 80's themed confetti were thrown all over the floor of our house at my birthday party (I'm looking at you, Larson sisters). You were famous in the jam band scene for secretly tagging friends and strangers with dozens of sparkly smiley face stickers. And just your being in general, you were a kid at heart.
When reality and adulthood loomed, you'd face it. You weren't immature by any means. But, you'd balance being a man with mischief and fun, with a silly pun, a high-five or a somersault, and a broad grin with dancing eyes. You were never going to let go of that wonder. You never did.
I lept into the water with you – eyes wide, heart open. Me, armed with authenticity and big dreams. You, armed with innocence and a Scorpio tattoo. When we fell in love, I believed in fairy tales again. I believed in hidden treasures and I knew for damn sure there was such thing as Prince Charming. I'd kissed some toads and I'd gotten you. My own boy to hold hands with and jump in. You made me want to open my eyes again. You made me feel safe: no burns, no attacks – just wonder.
So now, I will take my all past experiences, including this terrible loss, and I will strap them onto my back. Though the load with bear me down, I will not fall. And if I stumble, I will use my fiery, strong legs to get back up. And when I'm scared and lonely, I will think of our memories and I will smile, though at first it will be fake, maybe someday it will turn honest. I will trust in the signs. I will remember that energy that lifted me up out of that quicksand and helped me escape when I was a child, and I will know that now I have you up there too. In whatever way, I know you will guide me through and you will in some way, some day, show me again what it's like to dive in, wonder, and not think have to worry about the next breath.
At the end of practice, we'd swim our cool-down, maybe 4 or 8 lengths of the pool. That was when I had my favorite moments. You see, when I was a child I used to believe that I had been mermaid once. I had complete faith in life under the sea. The Little Mermaid was my bible. I eventually got teased for it. Anyone who knew me in elementary school will remember taunting me with the nickname 'Mermaid Girl'. But then, I was full of wonder.
During my last few laps of the pool, I would take a deep breath and dive down into the water. I would channel my inner Ariel and dolphin kick my legs as I dove deep. I would open my eyes, letting the chlorine into burn my retinas and gaze at everything there was to see down there at the bottom of the pool. Mind you, there was not much to see: stray hairbands, a swim cap, a lost fin, a dead bug, a hairball, maybe a shiny coin if I was lucky. I would strap on my imagination and pretend I was back in the ocean waters I had explored in Jamaica. I would imagine colorful fish swimming effortlessly in sparkling schools, bright red and blue coral that grew so quickly you could almost watch it rise towards the heavens, large rays that gracefully slid across the ocean floor casting shadows on the sea floor like clouds from the sky. Maybe there would be a treasure chest, spilling over with gold coins and colorful rubies and emeralds. While I was reasonably fast, the pool was far too distracting for me to be taken too seriously as a competitor in a race. Instead, the water was my world, my secret garden of underwater adventure. A blue or red ribbon was just bonus points.
When I was nine, we moved to Belize for a year. Again, the ocean was my oyster! I would play in the water for hours. I'd watch fish soar through underground playgrounds with an easy sense of cooperation. Did you know that an entire school of fish vote on which way they'll go by a simple turn of the head? After 51% of the fish look one way, the whole school switches direction instantaneously and without missing a beat. (Imagine if people were like that... but I digress.) I remember jumping off of a motor boat to go snorkeling. Once submerged, I turned back towards the boat to catch the eye of my mom who was about to jump in. I noticed the shadow of something under the boat. It was a huge nurse shark. But it was a time in my life when I was fearless. Until I wasn't.
Two occurrences on that trip broke me and my innocent, imaginative relationship with water.
We went on a day trip to a tiny island with only three palm trees on it. The adults, armed with mediocre weed and coolers of beer, had a beach party. I decided to catch hermit crabs and organize a race for the party goers. Each person chose a crab. I drew a circle in the sand and put all the crabs in the middle. The first one out of the circle was the winner. I was the maestro supreme! Later that day, we went for a snorkel. As we swam along the reef, I remember watching a barracuda and a huge mantra ray swim by. I was still fearless. I understood that I was a part of the whole ecosystem. We are not a drop of the ocean, we are the entire ocean in a drop.
We began to swim over a huge bed of coral. The guide, whose English was not great, instructed me NOT to touch the coral. "Fire coral!" he yelled. He pointed at the coral all around me. It appeared to be centimeters from my skin. The objects in water are closer than they appear, but I did not know that at the time. He continued to yell at me, "Fire coral! Fire coral! Do not touch. Will burn!" He pointed to a nasty scar engulfing his leg. It looked like a parasite joined up with a shark bite and then the infection festered on his calf. In my mind now, I know there is no way he got that injury from fire coral. But in my nine-year-old brain, I was screwed. I hovered over the water, regressing from freestyle to a doggy paddle immediately. I was paralyzed by fear mid-snorkle. My parents had to lure me out of the water. I have been frightened of coral ever since. I can hardly swim in the ocean without fear of the coral grabbing me in it's rocky mitts and burning my body while it pulls me down and drowns me.
Later that year the other event happened that scarred me and destroyed my blooming career as a mermaid. Again, I was on the beach catching crabs. Let's face it, I liked to catch crabs as a little girl. All jokes aside, they were sand crabs. (Let it be known that I have never actually had crabs.) I had made friends with an older boy, Mario, on the beach. In Belize, many of the young girls were encouraged to help their mothers in the home, so much of my outdoor roaming time was either alone or with boys.
Mario convinced me that there would be more crabs in the brackish water of the mangrove swamp down the beach. It was further than I was aloud to go and my parents weren't around to ask, so I was wary. He convinced me it would be quick and bountiful. I was a bit of a rebel, so I went along with it.
Inside the mangrove forest, the floor of the ocean was almost like quicksand. My little legs were getting stuck in the sticky, muddy earth. I was distracted from the hunt as I tried to un-stick myself from the ground. I thought Mario was setting a trap from a crab, but apparently, he had a different intention. When I looked up from my battle with the sediment, moments later – he had exposed himself to me. A small, brown, uncircumcised, erect, teenage penis pointed at me. Pants down, he started towards me. All in one swift inhale, I felt confusion, surprise, curiosity, guilt, excitement, anger, and fear.
As Mario sludged his way through the mud to me, I felt the mud floor free my ankles. It was as though the earth had taken my side in the battle. I braced myself by grabbing onto the distended roots of the mangrove trees that surrounded me and lifted my body up out of the water. Without much forethought, I used one of my free legs to swiftly kick Mario square in the junk, hard. As he cowered in pain, I took off running. Suddenly, the floor of that swamp was as solid and buoyant as the turf on a track. I had the distinct feeling that something greater was helping me fight back and run away. When I escaped from the mangrove swamp, there was a golf cart driving by with a small search party on it. They had been looking for me. I hopped aboard and zipped my lips.
You were one of the first people I ever told the full story to. I buried it deep down, a secret tale of shame with a splash of fiery bravery and divine intervention.
But I no longer felt innocent. I no longer caught sand crabs and painted messages on their shells with nail polish. I didn't imagine I was a mermaid anymore. I stopped believing in buried treasures and hermit crabs that sang and had names like Sebastian. When I came back from Belize and joined the swim team again, I swam to win. I didn't dive down deep and explore the bottom of the pool anymore. I didn't pretend that the stray pennies were silver dollars or that the drain pipes led to secret caverns. I swam in a straight line. I closed my eyes on my flip-turns. I kicked harder. I moved with a sense of purpose instead of a sense of wonder.
It wasn't until I met you that I really began to peel back that guard I'd put up. I let go of stifled fear when I fell in love with you. I found my sense of marvel again. You had a naturalness for being like a kid. I used to watch you sleep and when you would wake up, I'd tell you about how you reminded me of a little boy. You were always searching for wonder. You always wanted to dig deep and climb high. You reminded me what it was like to live in the light. With you, I set the innocent, little girl inside of me free again.
Not many thirty-four year old men have an entire drawer dedicated to stickers. If anyone ever had glitter, your words were, "Yes, please!" You liked to play dress up with neon colors and fuzzy fabrics. You spent over a hundred dollars on fabric and materials to make our Burning Man scooter look like the cartoon character, Tigger. Your penmanship was as perfect as a fifth grader who wanted to ace his handwriting exam. Your favorite shows were animated. You barely flinched when thousands of pieces of 80's themed confetti were thrown all over the floor of our house at my birthday party (I'm looking at you, Larson sisters). You were famous in the jam band scene for secretly tagging friends and strangers with dozens of sparkly smiley face stickers. And just your being in general, you were a kid at heart.
When reality and adulthood loomed, you'd face it. You weren't immature by any means. But, you'd balance being a man with mischief and fun, with a silly pun, a high-five or a somersault, and a broad grin with dancing eyes. You were never going to let go of that wonder. You never did.
I lept into the water with you – eyes wide, heart open. Me, armed with authenticity and big dreams. You, armed with innocence and a Scorpio tattoo. When we fell in love, I believed in fairy tales again. I believed in hidden treasures and I knew for damn sure there was such thing as Prince Charming. I'd kissed some toads and I'd gotten you. My own boy to hold hands with and jump in. You made me want to open my eyes again. You made me feel safe: no burns, no attacks – just wonder.
So now, I will take my all past experiences, including this terrible loss, and I will strap them onto my back. Though the load with bear me down, I will not fall. And if I stumble, I will use my fiery, strong legs to get back up. And when I'm scared and lonely, I will think of our memories and I will smile, though at first it will be fake, maybe someday it will turn honest. I will trust in the signs. I will remember that energy that lifted me up out of that quicksand and helped me escape when I was a child, and I will know that now I have you up there too. In whatever way, I know you will guide me through and you will in some way, some day, show me again what it's like to dive in, wonder, and not think have to worry about the next breath.
Acts of Kindess
I had the best in you. Through our relationship, I went on a deep expedition of self-discovery. You were a launching pad for the unknown. You encouraged me to leap, with the promise that you'd be there to catch me with open arms when I came down. When I look back and examine the time we spent together, I am overwhelmed by all of the lessons you taught me in such a short period of time. One of them was the importance of generosity.
I remember early on in our relationship you told me of an investment you were making in a friend's restaurant business. You had faith in the project, but more-so, you had a deep love for the friend. You wanted to make his dreams a possibility and knew that you had the opportunity to help by being a financial benefactor. Investing in your friends gave you great joy. It wasn't about making money in the long end; you were never a shrewd businessman by any means. The few times that you came on as an benefactor for various projects, you told me verbatim: "I think of it as a contribution, not an investment. If the money comes back, great. If not, that's totally fine too." The money for the restaurant investment did come back to you. Just a few months before your death, you received a check in the mail and told me about the return with a big smile on your face. I knew the smile wasn't because of the money being back in your bank account, it was simply that the cycle was complete. You had helped and you felt rewarded because your generosity was not forgotten.
When I turned thirty this past summer, I decided to begin the new decade of my life by completing thirty acts of kindness. I hadn't come up with the idea myself or taken it from the web – I had borrowed it from you. On your thirty-third, you had set out to do thirty three acts of generosity. You had shared some of those acts at different points throughout our relationship. One day, we'd be walking through the park, and you'd joke, "I handed out Bead For Life to people in this park on my thirty-third birthday. Even the vagrants LOVE those necklaces!" We'd be walking down Pearl Street, and you'd say, "I handed out Drunken Hearts CDs here on my thirty-third. You'd be surprised at how many people are still psyched about free music!" It was truly inspiring.
So on my thirtieth, I followed your lead and did thirty acts of kindness. When I think about why I set out to complete the tasks, I don't think it was entirely honest. I wanted to give back, sure. I wanted to feel in my body and spirit what I could tell you had felt when you'd completed your acts. And also, I wanted to distract myself from the milestone birthday that was looming. Maybe I could take the attention off of myself turning thirty if I did something for others instead.
After we took a yoga class together that morning, I began my acts. Some were as simple as smiling at a stranger or complimenting someone aloud when I usually would just do it in my mind. I gave a rose to a policeman and thanked him for his service. Even though his expression told me he thought I was a weird hippie, his body language was appreciative. I picked up trash I saw along the road, like we would always do at Burning Man, but in the real world instead. I wrote you a love letter and left it on on your bathroom sink for you see when you woke up. I left my favorite book, Shantaram, on a park bench with a note for a stranger, "I hope you enjoy this adventure as much as I did!" I handed out socks and peanut butter to the transients in the street and learned how thankful and also how picky some of the Boulder homeless are. I donated copies of the magazines I work for to the library. I gave a bone to a street dog. I left a lottery ticket on someone's car door. I stuck post-it-notes with messages of kindness on windshields. I sent my best friend a snail mail card. I broke the law and paid people's expired parking meters. After listening to NPR for free for years and years, I finally donated. I refrained from gossip all day. It was easier than I expected. In that moment, I realized since that I'd been with you I had both matured and become a kinder person – gossip no longer came naturally (though, maybe that's a side-effect of being in my thirties).
Later in the day, after nearly all my tasks were complete and after a sushi lunch (of course), you joined me to do the final few together. We held up a "Free Hugs" sign and offered embraces to those on the street. We stopped at Conscious Alliance and donated canned foods. We took flowers to a nursing home and asked them to be delivered to someone who hadn't received any in a long time. We went to a school for children with autism, took a short tour, learned about their program, and donated a basketball for the kids to play with. We went to a coffeeshop drive-through and got dirty chai's for ourselves and paid for whatever the person in the car behind us wanted as well.
The most challenging stop for us both was the hospital. On that day in July, we found the children's ward and left crayons and coloring books for sick kids. It took us a while to find a staff member, the floor was thankfully, quite empty. But wandering around and seeing the beds with cartoon wallpaper and kid-sized hospital apparatuses was heart-wrenching. We thought of Kevin's nephew, Bennett who struggles with an incurable disease. We thought of other friends, Lyndsey and Josh, who had recently struggled with a premature birth and near-death of their baby girl. We thought of little Jane. The nurse who accepted my donation had tears in her eyes. We embraced one another and cried in the elevator on the way out. Right then, we prayed together that our children would never have to stay in a hospital. They wouldn't, because little did I know at the time, I would visit that same hospital again less than six months later on the worst night of my life – the night you died.
When I had woken up that morning on July 23rd – the first day of my thirties – I had been in tears. I was flooded with self pity. I remember feeling sorry for myself and thinking about all of the things I hadn't accomplished yet. I was unmarried. I was not a mother. I could see the beginning of the decline of my metabolism. My belly wasn't as flat as it was in my twenties. I whined to you, "Next thing you know I'll be covered in stretch marks, cellulite, and I'll be all dried up. You'll need to replace me for a younger model before we even get started!" Without a hint of sarcasm or recognition of my shallowness, you lovingly told me how ridiculous I was being. But I was consumed with ego and distress because of numbers on the calendar.
By the end of the day, in some ways, I had blossomed. Through reaching out to others and being benevolent, I was able to get out of my own way. I'd gone from self-involved to self-sacrificing. It was because of your spirit that on that day, and especially over the course of our relationship, I became a better woman. You taught me to be generous with my self: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. You taught me about human purpose – on how generosity can reap change on an individual level which in effect will change lives on a global scale.
From what I know of you, your generosity came naturally. Giving was the only option. Selflessness was paramount. For me, it's a harder task. Sometimes, I find self-preservation and ego to be my initial routes of actuality. But with your affection, philosophy, and gentle teaching – you elevated my intrinsic kindness. You changed me. You made me become more at ease by being friendly instead of defensive, by trusting. You deterred me from gluttony and impatience and carved out a more beautiful path of altruism. This is just my story. I see the effects of your generosity continuing to spill over both those you touched directly, and more. You are an alchemist.
I remember early on in our relationship you told me of an investment you were making in a friend's restaurant business. You had faith in the project, but more-so, you had a deep love for the friend. You wanted to make his dreams a possibility and knew that you had the opportunity to help by being a financial benefactor. Investing in your friends gave you great joy. It wasn't about making money in the long end; you were never a shrewd businessman by any means. The few times that you came on as an benefactor for various projects, you told me verbatim: "I think of it as a contribution, not an investment. If the money comes back, great. If not, that's totally fine too." The money for the restaurant investment did come back to you. Just a few months before your death, you received a check in the mail and told me about the return with a big smile on your face. I knew the smile wasn't because of the money being back in your bank account, it was simply that the cycle was complete. You had helped and you felt rewarded because your generosity was not forgotten.
When I turned thirty this past summer, I decided to begin the new decade of my life by completing thirty acts of kindness. I hadn't come up with the idea myself or taken it from the web – I had borrowed it from you. On your thirty-third, you had set out to do thirty three acts of generosity. You had shared some of those acts at different points throughout our relationship. One day, we'd be walking through the park, and you'd joke, "I handed out Bead For Life to people in this park on my thirty-third birthday. Even the vagrants LOVE those necklaces!" We'd be walking down Pearl Street, and you'd say, "I handed out Drunken Hearts CDs here on my thirty-third. You'd be surprised at how many people are still psyched about free music!" It was truly inspiring.
So on my thirtieth, I followed your lead and did thirty acts of kindness. When I think about why I set out to complete the tasks, I don't think it was entirely honest. I wanted to give back, sure. I wanted to feel in my body and spirit what I could tell you had felt when you'd completed your acts. And also, I wanted to distract myself from the milestone birthday that was looming. Maybe I could take the attention off of myself turning thirty if I did something for others instead.
After we took a yoga class together that morning, I began my acts. Some were as simple as smiling at a stranger or complimenting someone aloud when I usually would just do it in my mind. I gave a rose to a policeman and thanked him for his service. Even though his expression told me he thought I was a weird hippie, his body language was appreciative. I picked up trash I saw along the road, like we would always do at Burning Man, but in the real world instead. I wrote you a love letter and left it on on your bathroom sink for you see when you woke up. I left my favorite book, Shantaram, on a park bench with a note for a stranger, "I hope you enjoy this adventure as much as I did!" I handed out socks and peanut butter to the transients in the street and learned how thankful and also how picky some of the Boulder homeless are. I donated copies of the magazines I work for to the library. I gave a bone to a street dog. I left a lottery ticket on someone's car door. I stuck post-it-notes with messages of kindness on windshields. I sent my best friend a snail mail card. I broke the law and paid people's expired parking meters. After listening to NPR for free for years and years, I finally donated. I refrained from gossip all day. It was easier than I expected. In that moment, I realized since that I'd been with you I had both matured and become a kinder person – gossip no longer came naturally (though, maybe that's a side-effect of being in my thirties).
Later in the day, after nearly all my tasks were complete and after a sushi lunch (of course), you joined me to do the final few together. We held up a "Free Hugs" sign and offered embraces to those on the street. We stopped at Conscious Alliance and donated canned foods. We took flowers to a nursing home and asked them to be delivered to someone who hadn't received any in a long time. We went to a school for children with autism, took a short tour, learned about their program, and donated a basketball for the kids to play with. We went to a coffeeshop drive-through and got dirty chai's for ourselves and paid for whatever the person in the car behind us wanted as well.
The most challenging stop for us both was the hospital. On that day in July, we found the children's ward and left crayons and coloring books for sick kids. It took us a while to find a staff member, the floor was thankfully, quite empty. But wandering around and seeing the beds with cartoon wallpaper and kid-sized hospital apparatuses was heart-wrenching. We thought of Kevin's nephew, Bennett who struggles with an incurable disease. We thought of other friends, Lyndsey and Josh, who had recently struggled with a premature birth and near-death of their baby girl. We thought of little Jane. The nurse who accepted my donation had tears in her eyes. We embraced one another and cried in the elevator on the way out. Right then, we prayed together that our children would never have to stay in a hospital. They wouldn't, because little did I know at the time, I would visit that same hospital again less than six months later on the worst night of my life – the night you died.
When I had woken up that morning on July 23rd – the first day of my thirties – I had been in tears. I was flooded with self pity. I remember feeling sorry for myself and thinking about all of the things I hadn't accomplished yet. I was unmarried. I was not a mother. I could see the beginning of the decline of my metabolism. My belly wasn't as flat as it was in my twenties. I whined to you, "Next thing you know I'll be covered in stretch marks, cellulite, and I'll be all dried up. You'll need to replace me for a younger model before we even get started!" Without a hint of sarcasm or recognition of my shallowness, you lovingly told me how ridiculous I was being. But I was consumed with ego and distress because of numbers on the calendar.
By the end of the day, in some ways, I had blossomed. Through reaching out to others and being benevolent, I was able to get out of my own way. I'd gone from self-involved to self-sacrificing. It was because of your spirit that on that day, and especially over the course of our relationship, I became a better woman. You taught me to be generous with my self: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. You taught me about human purpose – on how generosity can reap change on an individual level which in effect will change lives on a global scale.
From what I know of you, your generosity came naturally. Giving was the only option. Selflessness was paramount. For me, it's a harder task. Sometimes, I find self-preservation and ego to be my initial routes of actuality. But with your affection, philosophy, and gentle teaching – you elevated my intrinsic kindness. You changed me. You made me become more at ease by being friendly instead of defensive, by trusting. You deterred me from gluttony and impatience and carved out a more beautiful path of altruism. This is just my story. I see the effects of your generosity continuing to spill over both those you touched directly, and more. You are an alchemist.
Empathy
I believe that we are all sent to this physical realm to learn a lesson. Each incarnation of our life offers us a new opportunity to learn something about our true nature – something that will bring us toward the light, reality, or nirvana – different words for the same theory. If we learn our lesson, we move forward towards an easier life that will offer us the opportunity to learn another great lesson. If we fail, we will have to take our issue with us into the next life, it will bear down on us, and cause us to live out that life karmically.
As I am confronted with this devastation, I wonder what my lesson in all of this? What is my lesson in this life? And what was yours? Did your death have to do with you learning a lesson, with mine, with someone else's lesson, or with them all? What can I do to prevent further suffering in the future? Was your death a matter of free will or destiny? Had you done everything you needed to do to learn? Were you leaving this incarnation so you could come back as my child, like you promised me you would, just days before your death? Will I ever know?
I have been meditating on the question, 'What is my lesson in this life?' I've run through a gamut of options: guilt, self-worth, desire, patience, and will continue to search and discover. My learning is no where near done in this life, as far as I know. My demons are present within me, just as your demons were there until your last breath (and who knows, maybe beyond).
We both wore our weaknesses on our sleeve. I think that's one reason why we fell in love with one another so deeply. Even though we were transparent with our emotions, we treated each other compassionately. We never used those weaknesses as weapons. We were gentle with one another's soft spots. But while we each had our struggles – we both shared deep empathy and compassion.
Thank god for empathy. Thank god for the compassion that you taught me and others, and that you're still teaching. Thank god for the support I've received over the past two months. Thank god for the love your family has gotten over the past two months. The empathetic source in humankind is beautiful. It's the tears that you get in your eyes when a kitten is saved from a tree by a fireman. It's the lift in your chest you feel when you see a man meet his wife at the airport with a bouquet of flowers. It's the increase in your heartbeat when you see a solider arriving home from war to his young daughter. It's the nostalgia that arises when you sing the national anthem. It's the excitement that breeds when you watch a video of an animal struggling and then another animal comes over to help. Scientifically, this act of empathy can be triggered by the mirror neuron, which allows the observer to feel as though they're in the role of the observed. Experientially, this is compassion – a beautiful side effect of being human.
While I wouldn't want anyone to feel the pain I have been dealing with over the past two months, at the same time I'm so thankful that others are witnessing the pain that's taken shape. Maybe it's self-preservation, I'm thankful other people are helping me make sure I'm safe. Maybe it's cooperation, being able to see the goodness in people, despite our world of competition and domination. Maybe it's truth, allowing myself and others to witness that the true joys in life are the simple ones, life and love.
Without love, we as humans, will be lonely. No matter how much 'stuff' we pad ourselves with to try to avoid feeling emptiness, it won't help. We will suffer. And when one person suffers, others will too because we are truly connected at the root of who we are. The pain of one person will ripple out onto a community or even global level. The offering, 'You are hurting. Let me love you,' is intrinsically good. Empathy is a true and divine power within humanity. It should not be only adapted for a grieving widow or family, but used for helping mankind at large. As Darwin said, 'Sympathy is the strongest instinct in human nature.'
As I am confronted with this devastation, I wonder what my lesson in all of this? What is my lesson in this life? And what was yours? Did your death have to do with you learning a lesson, with mine, with someone else's lesson, or with them all? What can I do to prevent further suffering in the future? Was your death a matter of free will or destiny? Had you done everything you needed to do to learn? Were you leaving this incarnation so you could come back as my child, like you promised me you would, just days before your death? Will I ever know?
I have been meditating on the question, 'What is my lesson in this life?' I've run through a gamut of options: guilt, self-worth, desire, patience, and will continue to search and discover. My learning is no where near done in this life, as far as I know. My demons are present within me, just as your demons were there until your last breath (and who knows, maybe beyond).
We both wore our weaknesses on our sleeve. I think that's one reason why we fell in love with one another so deeply. Even though we were transparent with our emotions, we treated each other compassionately. We never used those weaknesses as weapons. We were gentle with one another's soft spots. But while we each had our struggles – we both shared deep empathy and compassion.
Thank god for empathy. Thank god for the compassion that you taught me and others, and that you're still teaching. Thank god for the support I've received over the past two months. Thank god for the love your family has gotten over the past two months. The empathetic source in humankind is beautiful. It's the tears that you get in your eyes when a kitten is saved from a tree by a fireman. It's the lift in your chest you feel when you see a man meet his wife at the airport with a bouquet of flowers. It's the increase in your heartbeat when you see a solider arriving home from war to his young daughter. It's the nostalgia that arises when you sing the national anthem. It's the excitement that breeds when you watch a video of an animal struggling and then another animal comes over to help. Scientifically, this act of empathy can be triggered by the mirror neuron, which allows the observer to feel as though they're in the role of the observed. Experientially, this is compassion – a beautiful side effect of being human.
While I wouldn't want anyone to feel the pain I have been dealing with over the past two months, at the same time I'm so thankful that others are witnessing the pain that's taken shape. Maybe it's self-preservation, I'm thankful other people are helping me make sure I'm safe. Maybe it's cooperation, being able to see the goodness in people, despite our world of competition and domination. Maybe it's truth, allowing myself and others to witness that the true joys in life are the simple ones, life and love.
Without love, we as humans, will be lonely. No matter how much 'stuff' we pad ourselves with to try to avoid feeling emptiness, it won't help. We will suffer. And when one person suffers, others will too because we are truly connected at the root of who we are. The pain of one person will ripple out onto a community or even global level. The offering, 'You are hurting. Let me love you,' is intrinsically good. Empathy is a true and divine power within humanity. It should not be only adapted for a grieving widow or family, but used for helping mankind at large. As Darwin said, 'Sympathy is the strongest instinct in human nature.'
Holiday Cheer
When I left Austin, I sold my house and my possessions, I quit my jobs and said goodbye to friends to be with you in Colorado. I had no doubts. I did not look back when we drove down my street that December day in the moving truck. You, Kira, and I – the wind in our hair, the future at our fingertips, and the past in our back pockets. I didn't have a fear in the world. Neither did you. We were so sure this was the right path for us. Nothing could go wrong. We were so incredibly in love. We were so incredibly happy. And it stayed that way.
Fast forward one year. It is almost Christmas. I live in your house with your ghost. I am on unstable ground. The man I love is gone. My best friend is dust. My security is ripped out from under me. I am in disbelief. I am uncertain about my ability to move forward in life. I don't know how I will ever be happy again. I am uninspired by anything I'd ever been inspired by, except for you. But amidst my depression and confusion, the world is reminding me with a pearly white smile that it's Christmas time.
I have stepped into an even darker place in my grief, but the world around me is still spinning. Christmas trees are going up. People are still getting married. Pregnant friends are giving birth. Holiday parties are happening. Workers are getting their year end bonuses. Yoga friends are sticking new poses and being inspired by new Rumi quotes. But my world isn't like their world anymore. I no longer want to hear about their children's Christmas recital. I don't want to hear about the holiday cookie recipe. I don't care about a new haircut. I don't give a shit what's the special on the dinner menu. I don't want to know how to make a crafty Christmas tree out of books.
It is all so pointless without you.
I think about a year ago. Soon after we arrived in Boulder, we decided to put up a Christmas tree. We went to choose one at a farm. I drank apple cider and you drank tea. We carried the cups in our mittened hands. I wanted a huge tree and you wanted to make me happy – but really, you wanted a small live tree. So we got two: a huge cut tree and a small live tree in a pot. We decided we would plant the live tree after the holiday. We would buy a live one every year and create a little forest of them all on our land. That way someday, when our family grew, we could show the kids our own little Christmas tree farm and we could add to it together.
The afternoon we brought our tree home, we set it up in our living room. I played Michael Buble and Mariah Carey Christmas carols and you didn't complain. You sang along. We made eggnog cocktails while we decorated the tree. I made the first round and we decided you would make the next. We would make it an eggnog cocktail competition! You wrapped the lights around our gigantic Douglas Fir. We sipped our cocktails, danced to the music together, and began to unwrap decorations. For a Jew, I have quite the Christmas collection. You listened to my stories about each ornament. I had purchased a new one every year for Kira. We looped metal hooks through glass bulbs and climbed the ladder to place the decorations all around our tree, working together to find bald spots and keeping the colors consistent. I took a photo of you decorating the tree and texted it to your mom.
After we finished our first round of cocktails, you headed into the kitchen to try to top my holiday cheer concoction. I heard the blender going from the living room and wandered in to see what was going on. The countertop was scattered with bottles. You had mixed Jack Daniels Honey, Brandy, Tres Leches liqueur, organic eggnog, and Himalayan sea salt – with a cinnamon and nutmeg garnish. Your cocktail was undoubtedly the winner.
We sipped our second round, allowing the strong liquor to warm our bones. We continued to decorate – the tree sparkled with blue, silver, and gold bulbs – an homage to my tribal heritage. You made fun of me because I wanted our tree to look like it was fresh out of a catalog. I had suggested we put all the goofy ornaments on the small live tree so they wouldn't offend our big classy tree. You rolled your eyes, but concurred.
At some point that night we came up with the ingenious idea for an impromptu holiday party. We decided we would have a huge bash the next week and invite dozens of friends. It would be an 80s theme and everyone would wear white. Sometime around this time, I made a third round of drinks that involved strawberry ice cream, coffee liquor, and eggnog – obviously we were getting quite drunk. We took a break from decorating to start designing an invitation for the party.
We never sent out the invites that night. When we woke up the next morning fuzzy from eggnog cocktails, we realized the party was probably not the best idea. But while our heads were a bit sore, the tree looked fantastic.
We also never planted the small live tree. We left it inside the house through the Spring. You watered it regularly but it slowly died. We put it out on our deck and it's still there today. It's a dead skeleton of brittle sticks. Maybe the little tree knew we wouldn't get to celebrate a second Christmas together.
As I wrap gifts for next week's holiday, I think about all the things I was going to get you – a new hardware case for your drums, a cahone, new cashmere sweaters. You had hinted that Santa was bringing me a new laptop, mine was on its last leg. And yet, the getting and gifting is so incessant now. Because all I want for Christmas is you. The traditions seem broken. Because they were to be carried out with you. Children's laughter seems like a cruel joke. It was supposed to blossom into our children's laughter. Every store I walk in has a soundtrack that offends me with cheer. Holiday movies swarm the channels and remind me of how sad it is to not snuggle up next to you to.
So here I sit alone, paralyzed by this loss, while the world still twirls around me. I thought nothing could go wrong. I was so sure.
Fast forward one year. It is almost Christmas. I live in your house with your ghost. I am on unstable ground. The man I love is gone. My best friend is dust. My security is ripped out from under me. I am in disbelief. I am uncertain about my ability to move forward in life. I don't know how I will ever be happy again. I am uninspired by anything I'd ever been inspired by, except for you. But amidst my depression and confusion, the world is reminding me with a pearly white smile that it's Christmas time.
I have stepped into an even darker place in my grief, but the world around me is still spinning. Christmas trees are going up. People are still getting married. Pregnant friends are giving birth. Holiday parties are happening. Workers are getting their year end bonuses. Yoga friends are sticking new poses and being inspired by new Rumi quotes. But my world isn't like their world anymore. I no longer want to hear about their children's Christmas recital. I don't want to hear about the holiday cookie recipe. I don't care about a new haircut. I don't give a shit what's the special on the dinner menu. I don't want to know how to make a crafty Christmas tree out of books.
It is all so pointless without you.
I think about a year ago. Soon after we arrived in Boulder, we decided to put up a Christmas tree. We went to choose one at a farm. I drank apple cider and you drank tea. We carried the cups in our mittened hands. I wanted a huge tree and you wanted to make me happy – but really, you wanted a small live tree. So we got two: a huge cut tree and a small live tree in a pot. We decided we would plant the live tree after the holiday. We would buy a live one every year and create a little forest of them all on our land. That way someday, when our family grew, we could show the kids our own little Christmas tree farm and we could add to it together.
The afternoon we brought our tree home, we set it up in our living room. I played Michael Buble and Mariah Carey Christmas carols and you didn't complain. You sang along. We made eggnog cocktails while we decorated the tree. I made the first round and we decided you would make the next. We would make it an eggnog cocktail competition! You wrapped the lights around our gigantic Douglas Fir. We sipped our cocktails, danced to the music together, and began to unwrap decorations. For a Jew, I have quite the Christmas collection. You listened to my stories about each ornament. I had purchased a new one every year for Kira. We looped metal hooks through glass bulbs and climbed the ladder to place the decorations all around our tree, working together to find bald spots and keeping the colors consistent. I took a photo of you decorating the tree and texted it to your mom.
After we finished our first round of cocktails, you headed into the kitchen to try to top my holiday cheer concoction. I heard the blender going from the living room and wandered in to see what was going on. The countertop was scattered with bottles. You had mixed Jack Daniels Honey, Brandy, Tres Leches liqueur, organic eggnog, and Himalayan sea salt – with a cinnamon and nutmeg garnish. Your cocktail was undoubtedly the winner.
We sipped our second round, allowing the strong liquor to warm our bones. We continued to decorate – the tree sparkled with blue, silver, and gold bulbs – an homage to my tribal heritage. You made fun of me because I wanted our tree to look like it was fresh out of a catalog. I had suggested we put all the goofy ornaments on the small live tree so they wouldn't offend our big classy tree. You rolled your eyes, but concurred.
At some point that night we came up with the ingenious idea for an impromptu holiday party. We decided we would have a huge bash the next week and invite dozens of friends. It would be an 80s theme and everyone would wear white. Sometime around this time, I made a third round of drinks that involved strawberry ice cream, coffee liquor, and eggnog – obviously we were getting quite drunk. We took a break from decorating to start designing an invitation for the party.
We never sent out the invites that night. When we woke up the next morning fuzzy from eggnog cocktails, we realized the party was probably not the best idea. But while our heads were a bit sore, the tree looked fantastic.
We also never planted the small live tree. We left it inside the house through the Spring. You watered it regularly but it slowly died. We put it out on our deck and it's still there today. It's a dead skeleton of brittle sticks. Maybe the little tree knew we wouldn't get to celebrate a second Christmas together.
As I wrap gifts for next week's holiday, I think about all the things I was going to get you – a new hardware case for your drums, a cahone, new cashmere sweaters. You had hinted that Santa was bringing me a new laptop, mine was on its last leg. And yet, the getting and gifting is so incessant now. Because all I want for Christmas is you. The traditions seem broken. Because they were to be carried out with you. Children's laughter seems like a cruel joke. It was supposed to blossom into our children's laughter. Every store I walk in has a soundtrack that offends me with cheer. Holiday movies swarm the channels and remind me of how sad it is to not snuggle up next to you to.
So here I sit alone, paralyzed by this loss, while the world still twirls around me. I thought nothing could go wrong. I was so sure.
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.
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.
Self Love
This morning, I pulled up photo albums on my iPhone. For one of the first times since your death, I began to scroll through recent photos we took together. I looked at the photos of us dressed to the nines in eclectic gear at Burning Man – in love, in feathers. I smiled at the image of us pointing out our twin bandaids from immunizations before traveling to South Africa this past summer. I saw the looks in our eyes as we were candidly caught sharing a joke at a recent wedding – wide-eyed, laughing, and mid-dance move. There was the photo I stole of you asleep – peaceful, naked, and with your slender arm draped across Kira. We shared gleeful grins and showed off custom hats at a summer theme wedding. There was an image of the two of us at the Chihuly exhibit at the Botanic Gardens – glorious smiles in front of beautiful artwork, right before we got rained on.
I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.
Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.
Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.
As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.
I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.
I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.
I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.
My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.
I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.
As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?
I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.
When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.
And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?
I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.
I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.
Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.
I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.
Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.
Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.
As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.
I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.
I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.
I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.
My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.
I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.
As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?
I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.
When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.
And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?
I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.
I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.
Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.
Foreign Ground
I walked up to a barista to get a coffee this morning and suddenly realized I didn't speak the language. That's when it hit me. Oh yeah, you're in Spain now. I decided to go look for beauty someplace I've never been before. Also, importantly, somewhere we've never been together. That sounds very sad to say. The way I feel inside is unfamiliar and now the outside is unfamiliar, too.
The travel over the past day, much like the last six weeks, has been a blur. After my friend Natalia's good advice to stay in tune with my yoga practice throughout this tragedy, I decided I'd follow some other advice she'd given me – visit her in the South of Spain. Here I sit, encompassed by language I don't understand, foreign surroundings, and people who look nothing like you – except when they do.
While some people escape into a bottle or a quick fix pill, I escape through travel.
I'm reminded again that there is no escape from this nightmare. No matter how far I run, your absence is always present. No matter where I put my own physical body, I'm confronted with the knowledge that your physical body is not here with me. My yoga teacher, Baron Baptiste, often says "You're either now here, or nowhere." Every time I would snag that quote for use in one of my classes, you would snicker. You thought it was a silly play on words. Well, my love, it's really landing for me now.
Being in an airport was very hard. Well, everything is very hard.
In the past couple years, airports have been a gateway to you. I was either flying to be with you, leaving a beautiful time we shared together, or traveling with you by my side. Being that we were long distance for half of our time together and that we both loved to travel, airports were a norm. But now, flying with the comprehension that you were not going to be on either end of the baggage claim or in the window seat next to me was yet another blow of reality.
As I went through security in Detroit, I reminisced about how I'd always race you to get through the security line first. First one with shoes on and bags in arms, wins! I won every time. OK, maybe you won once or twice when I had a particularly complicated pair of shoes to put back on. But, in general, I was the victor. Your slow pace at gathering your items was due to your meticulous organization when packing.
You always traveled with the same green Timbuktu carry-on bag. You'd had it since college, you told me. I was planning to get you a new one this Christmas.
Every item had its place: Keys in this pocket. Travel wallet in that pocket. Floss and Kind Bars in this zippered compartment. Laptop in main section. Laptop cord, wrapped perfectly, nestled in another section. Writing utensils in pen slots. Spare napkins and cutlery in another spot. Water bottle, slid in the main section, carefully. iPhone charger in its specific meshed area. Playboy magazines, always your favorite to whip out mid-flight – horrifying a neighbor, near laptop.
When you had to take your computer out of the bag to go through security, it took a few extra moments for you to put it back in – the Ted way – making sure everything was in its place. Your belt would come off carefully. Your shoes would come off deliberately. They would also be put back on very carefully. I would stand there watching you with a taunting smile, my boots already slipped on and computer tossed haphazardly back into my unzipped bag. "Bunny ears technique?" I'd joke as you tied your shoes slowly, taking the time to double knot. You'd shoot me a grin back, knowing I'd won.
However, when it came time to find headphones later while in-flight, you'd win. I'd dig around in my giant bag, tossing aside keys, old receipts, unkempt power cords, makeup compacts, iPhone, keys again. "Why can I always find my keys when I don't need them, and not when I do!" I'd ask. "Maybe you should find a spot for everything?" you'd suggest. "That sounds like a terrible idea. What's the fun of knowing where everything is," I'd joke. I'd find my headphones after you already finished listening to a song and then I'd spend the next five minutes untangling them. You'd ask for a pen, your bag being carefully stowed overhead to give you leg-room and mine being at my feet with me stepping all over it. "Sure thing! One sec, let me find one," I'd say. I'd reach into my bag and pull out a chapstick, a mascara, a lipstick, and a tampon before finding a pen for you to use. I may have won in security, but you won at packing.
Some people try to join the Mile High Club while traveling. We agreed that it would be an awkward situation and not worth the risk of being caught (and let's be honest, we were both already members). We made up our own sexy air travel club. We made it our goal to visit as many family restrooms as possible across the globe. And not to use the toilet. From San Diego to Johannesburg, and Bangor to Cancun, we enjoyed each others company in family bathrooms. We had a joke that we would someday actually make our own family in one of them, and until then we'd practice. As I've traveled today, I've seen three family bathrooms. My reaction is a combination of nostalgia, humor, arousal, and deep loneliness. We had so many more family bathrooms to visit together, Teddy!
Friends and family have said to me over the past week or so, "Have fun in Spain!" or asked, "Are you excited?" No. It's the honest answer. And as a woman who has lived her whole life in a state of excitement for what's to come – not being excited is a really shitty place to be.
Spain will be a place where I did not go with you. It will be a change of scenery from our home in Colorado or our home in Ohio, where memories of you fill every inch of my periphery and hindsight. But, the lack of memories will also make it deeply lonely. It's alarming and painful to make new memories without you.
I constantly imagine you being by my side. As I stood in line at the coffee shop and realized I'd forgotten my conversational Spanish, I thought about how if you were there we would get by just fine. You would have remembered how to order a coffee, and I wouldn't have ended up just repeating what the person in front of me said and getting something I didn't really want.
I think about what I want to say to you in casual moments. Like when I was on my international flight and horrendous versions of Christmas carols were playing. I knew we'd be laughing at the backing tracks and the terrible harmonies. Instead of being able to laugh, I cried. The carols taunted me. No, this Christmas WON'T be a very special Christmas for me.
I want to board a flight and have you in the seat beside me. I want to rest my cheek on your chest as you wrap your strong arm around me. I want to hear your heartbeat and your breath as we fly through the clouds. Instead, I opened my window and stared out at the sky, looking for you. I wondered if I was actually closer to you there then when I was on the ground. And maybe if I looked really hard, I'd see you soaring on a cloud, with giant wings, carrying a harp, and smiling at me.
This has become my reality.
The travel over the past day, much like the last six weeks, has been a blur. After my friend Natalia's good advice to stay in tune with my yoga practice throughout this tragedy, I decided I'd follow some other advice she'd given me – visit her in the South of Spain. Here I sit, encompassed by language I don't understand, foreign surroundings, and people who look nothing like you – except when they do.
While some people escape into a bottle or a quick fix pill, I escape through travel.
I'm reminded again that there is no escape from this nightmare. No matter how far I run, your absence is always present. No matter where I put my own physical body, I'm confronted with the knowledge that your physical body is not here with me. My yoga teacher, Baron Baptiste, often says "You're either now here, or nowhere." Every time I would snag that quote for use in one of my classes, you would snicker. You thought it was a silly play on words. Well, my love, it's really landing for me now.
Being in an airport was very hard. Well, everything is very hard.
In the past couple years, airports have been a gateway to you. I was either flying to be with you, leaving a beautiful time we shared together, or traveling with you by my side. Being that we were long distance for half of our time together and that we both loved to travel, airports were a norm. But now, flying with the comprehension that you were not going to be on either end of the baggage claim or in the window seat next to me was yet another blow of reality.
As I went through security in Detroit, I reminisced about how I'd always race you to get through the security line first. First one with shoes on and bags in arms, wins! I won every time. OK, maybe you won once or twice when I had a particularly complicated pair of shoes to put back on. But, in general, I was the victor. Your slow pace at gathering your items was due to your meticulous organization when packing.
You always traveled with the same green Timbuktu carry-on bag. You'd had it since college, you told me. I was planning to get you a new one this Christmas.
Every item had its place: Keys in this pocket. Travel wallet in that pocket. Floss and Kind Bars in this zippered compartment. Laptop in main section. Laptop cord, wrapped perfectly, nestled in another section. Writing utensils in pen slots. Spare napkins and cutlery in another spot. Water bottle, slid in the main section, carefully. iPhone charger in its specific meshed area. Playboy magazines, always your favorite to whip out mid-flight – horrifying a neighbor, near laptop.
When you had to take your computer out of the bag to go through security, it took a few extra moments for you to put it back in – the Ted way – making sure everything was in its place. Your belt would come off carefully. Your shoes would come off deliberately. They would also be put back on very carefully. I would stand there watching you with a taunting smile, my boots already slipped on and computer tossed haphazardly back into my unzipped bag. "Bunny ears technique?" I'd joke as you tied your shoes slowly, taking the time to double knot. You'd shoot me a grin back, knowing I'd won.
However, when it came time to find headphones later while in-flight, you'd win. I'd dig around in my giant bag, tossing aside keys, old receipts, unkempt power cords, makeup compacts, iPhone, keys again. "Why can I always find my keys when I don't need them, and not when I do!" I'd ask. "Maybe you should find a spot for everything?" you'd suggest. "That sounds like a terrible idea. What's the fun of knowing where everything is," I'd joke. I'd find my headphones after you already finished listening to a song and then I'd spend the next five minutes untangling them. You'd ask for a pen, your bag being carefully stowed overhead to give you leg-room and mine being at my feet with me stepping all over it. "Sure thing! One sec, let me find one," I'd say. I'd reach into my bag and pull out a chapstick, a mascara, a lipstick, and a tampon before finding a pen for you to use. I may have won in security, but you won at packing.
Some people try to join the Mile High Club while traveling. We agreed that it would be an awkward situation and not worth the risk of being caught (and let's be honest, we were both already members). We made up our own sexy air travel club. We made it our goal to visit as many family restrooms as possible across the globe. And not to use the toilet. From San Diego to Johannesburg, and Bangor to Cancun, we enjoyed each others company in family bathrooms. We had a joke that we would someday actually make our own family in one of them, and until then we'd practice. As I've traveled today, I've seen three family bathrooms. My reaction is a combination of nostalgia, humor, arousal, and deep loneliness. We had so many more family bathrooms to visit together, Teddy!
Friends and family have said to me over the past week or so, "Have fun in Spain!" or asked, "Are you excited?" No. It's the honest answer. And as a woman who has lived her whole life in a state of excitement for what's to come – not being excited is a really shitty place to be.
Spain will be a place where I did not go with you. It will be a change of scenery from our home in Colorado or our home in Ohio, where memories of you fill every inch of my periphery and hindsight. But, the lack of memories will also make it deeply lonely. It's alarming and painful to make new memories without you.
I constantly imagine you being by my side. As I stood in line at the coffee shop and realized I'd forgotten my conversational Spanish, I thought about how if you were there we would get by just fine. You would have remembered how to order a coffee, and I wouldn't have ended up just repeating what the person in front of me said and getting something I didn't really want.
I think about what I want to say to you in casual moments. Like when I was on my international flight and horrendous versions of Christmas carols were playing. I knew we'd be laughing at the backing tracks and the terrible harmonies. Instead of being able to laugh, I cried. The carols taunted me. No, this Christmas WON'T be a very special Christmas for me.
I want to board a flight and have you in the seat beside me. I want to rest my cheek on your chest as you wrap your strong arm around me. I want to hear your heartbeat and your breath as we fly through the clouds. Instead, I opened my window and stared out at the sky, looking for you. I wondered if I was actually closer to you there then when I was on the ground. And maybe if I looked really hard, I'd see you soaring on a cloud, with giant wings, carrying a harp, and smiling at me.
This has become my reality.
You are the music
Last night I went to the 1-up for Roosevelt Collier's Colorado Get Down ensemble's show. I hope you were there with me because I know you would have loved the raw, funky show they threw down. It was exactly the type of music that made you move.
Tons of your friends were there. There was so much love and many two-armed hugs. And we all danced, because funk makes people happy, no matter how sad things are. Because even when people die, their music lives on.
I closed my eyes a lot last night while listening to the show. I imagined that you were standing to my left. I imagined that our arms gently brushed against one another as we danced. I could feel your body. I saw you shaking your hips to the beat. I imagined the smooth smile on your face, stoked on the music. There were so many times when a question or comment would arise in my mind and I would look over to my left to tell you. You weren't there when I opened my eyes.
There was also another part of the show that was really important. The Drunken Hearts were the opening act – your band. Well, kind of.
In the days leading up to your death, you and The Drunken Hearts had decided to part ways. The news was very fresh and you were heartbroken. Since you died very suddenly after the break up with the band, not many people knew about it. In fact, to many, you went to your grave still as the drummer in the band. But you, me, the band, and people close to you knew that was not the case. That night, we took a long walk. I asked if you felt hopeless. You said you did not. You said you felt like you lost a huge part of your identity. But you knew that you would rebuild. You knew this left space for something new. You felt empty, but not hopeless. I understand now too, how emptiness feels.
There were a lot of emotions in those few days for you obviously, and for me as well. I had gotten accustomed to rehearsals in the house every week. Often we would make dinner together for the whole band. Upon moving to Boulder, I spent a lot of the time at home, since I work from the house. I didn't have much time to make a ton of friends. But I did have time to get to know the guys in the band. And though I never told them, I fell in love with each guy in the band. I told you often that I had never had so many wonderful guy friends before. I knew I could call any of them if I ever needed something. I trusted them all. So your departure from The Drunken Hearts was the beginning of a break up for us all, in some ways. There was a dark path ahead. Though I wish more than anything that you were still here, I'm relieved that you didn't have to walk that path.
The reason I write about this today is NOT to bring up demons. It's not to 'out' the band. Your death had absolutely nothing to do with you parting ways with the Hearts – it simply was a dark shadow in the days that turned out to be your last.
Going to the show last night was incredibly challenging for me, but it was also cathartic. Because, Teddy, who you were in life was not dependent upon your position in the band. And while you may have felt empty due to your breakup with them, you went out of this world a lone man – an individual – which is a beautiful thing.
Your identity, to those who love you, had nothing to do with your career. And I know that if you were still here today, you would have recovered, strengthened, and found new passion in another project. I also know that your relationship with the members of the Hearts, in time, would also mend – your friendship and love would remain. Your bond with those guys was more important than business and you were not one to hold a grudge. And while you may have had angst, disappointment, and confusion in your final days – your legacy is not defined by the last three days of your life.
Some people who knew about this falling out questioned my attending the show last night. (And I don't mean with judgement, simply a question.) And the truth is, so did I! But then, I think about you. What would you want? And I also thought about me. What do I need?
You would want me to be surrounded by love. You would want me to be surrounded by music. The Drunken Hearts are what I know, they are familiar. I know every song. I know the dynamics of the sound, the epic solos, the rough spots, who needs to be turned up and who needs to be turned down, every place where you would hit the double bass, where I liked to stand in the crowd, and the girls I stood with. And that's where I needed to be last night. Standing with them, still. Because, despite the breakup, I need The Drunken Hearts. I need them more than ever. And I think they might need me too. Though, really, we all need you.
When I looked at the stage last night and saw a different drummer, it actually made things a bit easier for me. Because I knew, that even if you were still alive, you would not be sitting behind that kit at that show. The new drummer had nothing to do with your death – and that took some of the pain away. And when I looked on stage and into the eyes of the guys I love – I saw men struggling. As Andrew said last night to the crowd, "We're all just trying to figure out how to hold it together". It's true, none of us know quite how to manage without you. We're just doing the best we can and we're all thinking of you along the way.
You were the music, Ted. You didn't need to have a stick in hand or your foot on a pedal to make music – it was all around you because it was in you. Your words were the lyrics. Your thoughts were the cadence. Your movement was the rhythm. Your laugh was the tempo. Your loved ones were the beat. In your honor, my love, the music you made continues. We will never let your music die.
Tons of your friends were there. There was so much love and many two-armed hugs. And we all danced, because funk makes people happy, no matter how sad things are. Because even when people die, their music lives on.
I closed my eyes a lot last night while listening to the show. I imagined that you were standing to my left. I imagined that our arms gently brushed against one another as we danced. I could feel your body. I saw you shaking your hips to the beat. I imagined the smooth smile on your face, stoked on the music. There were so many times when a question or comment would arise in my mind and I would look over to my left to tell you. You weren't there when I opened my eyes.
There was also another part of the show that was really important. The Drunken Hearts were the opening act – your band. Well, kind of.
In the days leading up to your death, you and The Drunken Hearts had decided to part ways. The news was very fresh and you were heartbroken. Since you died very suddenly after the break up with the band, not many people knew about it. In fact, to many, you went to your grave still as the drummer in the band. But you, me, the band, and people close to you knew that was not the case. That night, we took a long walk. I asked if you felt hopeless. You said you did not. You said you felt like you lost a huge part of your identity. But you knew that you would rebuild. You knew this left space for something new. You felt empty, but not hopeless. I understand now too, how emptiness feels.
There were a lot of emotions in those few days for you obviously, and for me as well. I had gotten accustomed to rehearsals in the house every week. Often we would make dinner together for the whole band. Upon moving to Boulder, I spent a lot of the time at home, since I work from the house. I didn't have much time to make a ton of friends. But I did have time to get to know the guys in the band. And though I never told them, I fell in love with each guy in the band. I told you often that I had never had so many wonderful guy friends before. I knew I could call any of them if I ever needed something. I trusted them all. So your departure from The Drunken Hearts was the beginning of a break up for us all, in some ways. There was a dark path ahead. Though I wish more than anything that you were still here, I'm relieved that you didn't have to walk that path.
The reason I write about this today is NOT to bring up demons. It's not to 'out' the band. Your death had absolutely nothing to do with you parting ways with the Hearts – it simply was a dark shadow in the days that turned out to be your last.
Going to the show last night was incredibly challenging for me, but it was also cathartic. Because, Teddy, who you were in life was not dependent upon your position in the band. And while you may have felt empty due to your breakup with them, you went out of this world a lone man – an individual – which is a beautiful thing.
Your identity, to those who love you, had nothing to do with your career. And I know that if you were still here today, you would have recovered, strengthened, and found new passion in another project. I also know that your relationship with the members of the Hearts, in time, would also mend – your friendship and love would remain. Your bond with those guys was more important than business and you were not one to hold a grudge. And while you may have had angst, disappointment, and confusion in your final days – your legacy is not defined by the last three days of your life.
Some people who knew about this falling out questioned my attending the show last night. (And I don't mean with judgement, simply a question.) And the truth is, so did I! But then, I think about you. What would you want? And I also thought about me. What do I need?
You would want me to be surrounded by love. You would want me to be surrounded by music. The Drunken Hearts are what I know, they are familiar. I know every song. I know the dynamics of the sound, the epic solos, the rough spots, who needs to be turned up and who needs to be turned down, every place where you would hit the double bass, where I liked to stand in the crowd, and the girls I stood with. And that's where I needed to be last night. Standing with them, still. Because, despite the breakup, I need The Drunken Hearts. I need them more than ever. And I think they might need me too. Though, really, we all need you.
When I looked at the stage last night and saw a different drummer, it actually made things a bit easier for me. Because I knew, that even if you were still alive, you would not be sitting behind that kit at that show. The new drummer had nothing to do with your death – and that took some of the pain away. And when I looked on stage and into the eyes of the guys I love – I saw men struggling. As Andrew said last night to the crowd, "We're all just trying to figure out how to hold it together". It's true, none of us know quite how to manage without you. We're just doing the best we can and we're all thinking of you along the way.
You were the music, Ted. You didn't need to have a stick in hand or your foot on a pedal to make music – it was all around you because it was in you. Your words were the lyrics. Your thoughts were the cadence. Your movement was the rhythm. Your laugh was the tempo. Your loved ones were the beat. In your honor, my love, the music you made continues. We will never let your music die.
Gracefully Patient
Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I have always found it difficult to live in the moment and enjoy spending life planning what's next. I have trouble staying focused on one thing and tend to multitask – often in front of multiple screens. For instance right now, I'm booking air travel, texting about yoga class, responding to email, drinking coffee, people watching, writing this, oh, and mourning intensely. You struggled with ADD as a student and continued to as an adult, but despite your diagnosis of lack of focus, I never met a man who was more patient.
When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.
Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.
I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.
A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.
So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?
I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.
But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.
A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:
In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.
One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.
And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.
I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.
When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.
Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.
I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.
A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.
So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?
I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.
But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.
A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:
In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.
One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.
And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.
I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.
Devotion
Over the past month my inbox, phone, and ears have been flooded with messages, songs, memories, and compassion. I can't tune out the support if I tried. I always thought you had so many friends, such a network of love, my Ted – more friends than I could ever imagine. But through this harrowing circumstance, I now see that I was blind to the love that I also have.
I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.
There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?
You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.
So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.
--
I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.
We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?
The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.
I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.
So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.
I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.
There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?
You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.
So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.
--
I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.
We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?
The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.
I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.
So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.
It’s a Boy (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
Luke and I are expecting our third child in April. It’s a boy. He’ll have two older sisters as his traveling companions in our family.
Ted knew that I was pregnant. When we told him the good news, we didn’t yet know the sex of the baby. He was hoping for another nephew—wanting to even up the score. I was hoping for another girl. We found out it was a boy about a week before Ted died, but we never got around to telling him. He knows now.
I was a little disappointed when we found out. I was already immersed in little girl stuff and was ready to add another one to the gang. I thought that raising three girls would feel like year-round summer camp. I didn’t know quite what to think when the nurse told me, “It’s a boy!”
I sat with a friend the day after we heard the good news and talked it over with her. I finally came around to the idea of raising a boy when I mentioned, “I love having a brother. Now our girls will get to have one too.” And that thought did a complete 180 on my disappointment.
Less than a week later, I lost my brother. And now, I couldn’t be more thrilled to bring a little boy into our family. What a gift our kids will be to one another. My girls don’t even know how lucky they are to get to grow up with a brother. They will, all three of them, learn so much from each other and I can’t wait to see it unfold.
As Luke and I walk through our house, imagining what it will be like to have three kids running around, I explain to him a little about what to expect. Luke grew up with only one sister who is 13 years older. He didn’t have quite the same experience as I did and can’t quite anticipate the chaos that is about to ensue.
I was the middle child with Ted less than two years older and Berkley, about three years younger. We were a three-pronged unit. We were three slamming bedrooms doors. Three sets of coats, hats, mittens and snow boots. Three bikes in the garage. Three different favorite cereals. Three seats taken up in the minivan, three lifejackets in the boat. Three performers in the “shows” we put on for obliging family and guests. We were totally different from one another—people often congratulated my parents on raising three complete individuals. But we were always three.
I tear up (and often all-out sob) when I anticipate our next family gathering. Ted’s absence will be a force. There will be only two of us siblings taking up spots at the table. Two siblings exchanging in sarcastic banter.
I’ve come to realize that Berkley and I will be now known as the two remaining Welles kids. But what we actually are is two-thirds. We will not be a whole number. ‘Two’ does not acknowledge our missing and missed brother. We will be a pie chart where 33% is left unshaded.
As sad as this realization makes me—and it hits me again and again like punches in the face, I am so very glad that I will get to raise my own three-pronged unit. I will teach them to love and appreciate each other. To be their own person but to also remember that they’re a team and to stand up for one another. Hopefully they will grow to learn that a sibling is never to be taken for granted and perhaps the greatest gift their parents ever gave them.
Love Song
You told me you were going to write a song about me one day. I always wanted to be the subject of your verse. I tried to imagine what the lyrics would be; you spoke so eloquently so I had no doubt it would paint a picture of a woman more lovely than I am, and show the world how pure our love is. I used to joke that I'd be your muse. An emotional track of bliss: the musical definition of a love song. I wish I could hear the song you were going to write someday. I wish I had it as a keepsake to enjoy over and over. That way I could hear your poetry forever, etched through lyrics, percussion, and cadence. My writing and my memories are my love song to you.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
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