A child has become silent as heaven birthed a new angel. Just hours after I wrote about little Bennett's courageous fight for life – he passed on. While his spirit displayed relentless courage, his kidneys lost their power. It's a fresh reminder that in this life our survival is fused with the body. In the end, we do not own our body – it is merely on lease. From the earth our body will rise and back to the earth it will descend. It is the cycle. Yet part of the cycle is continuance: from the soil that our body returns to, life begins again. Whether we fuel the blossom of a flower or tiny particles that once again return to the womb – new life is fertilized by old. And that is just the physical body. I believe that souls traveling without bodies fill the space around us. The air that appears empty to our naked eye, science shows is actually a plenum. It's when I lost touch with you as a physical soul that I was able to see your spirit glitz and shimmer in the space around me – magic, love, and memory filling what I previously thought was a void. In the immediate days and weeks following your death, I often saw strange lights, unearthly movements, and fractal shapes in places where I had always seen solidity. Because I was raw, I was open. With rawness, comes an ability to see things that our trained minds stopped seeing long ago – connection with other layers and realms beyond human comprehension. It was faith flirting with me. "Believe in more," she said. And because I was seeing the unbelievable and because I had no energy not to, I chose to believe.
Every evening before you and I went to sleep, we offered our nightly gratitudes as we closed the blinds overlooking the city-lights of Boulder and the acres of majestic mountains over which we reigned. The first night I was back in our bed after you died, Kevin came into the room and sat with me as I continued that ritual of thanks, even in a moment when thankfulness seemed impossible. There have been days (and weeks) when I simply don't open the blinds so that I can avoid my gratitude prayer, but mostly – I still keep this ritual. Yesterday morning, my first day back in my bed after ten days in Oklahoma, I opened the blinds. The beauty that unfolded as the blinds lifted took my breath away. I had to remind myself it was not a postcard, it was as real as is humanly possible.
Last night, after I'd received the news of Bennett's death, I sat on the phone with Kevin for a long time. He shared the experience of his day with me. His voice was heartbroken and his sobs were real, but he knew that Bennett's death was both bitter and sweet. This sweet child spent two-and-a-half of his three-years fighting a battle with a terminal condition. He had fought his battle and won it with graceful surrender. Kevin shared the story of what, through his words and my lens, was a truly peaceful passing. A crossing over where the whole family was there, where there was time for good-byes, and during which Kevin played guitar and sang Bennett's favorite song as he took his last struggled breaths in his body and his first in freedom. Earlier in the evening, when I knew the respirator had
been removed and Bennett's last moments were near, I imagined you – an angel – kneeling, beaming smile, and arms wide open... ready to catch Bennett in a huge, loving hug. At the end of our phone conversation, as I closed the blinds in my bedroom, we said what we were grateful for. "A peaceful passing," Kevin said. "Yes. And I'm grateful Teddy has a new friend up there now," I said, guiltily noticing envy's pinprick.
Death is not peaceful to living. What we
don't understand, we choose to reject. In some ways, I've come to
accept death. With the passing of this poor child, I see that death can
be a untroubled destination. Death can be a gentle surrender. It can
catch those who struggle with peaceful and loving wings. With you, death
plucked you suddenly and unfairly – you were not ready for it. None of
us were ready. But sometimes, death can be more gracious. Death can
offer relief. That doesn't mean the loss is any less painful,
horrifying, or confusing. I don't undermine the suffering, trauma, or
grief that will ensue. I don't compare. I simply offer a death an
apology for my hatred of him, a loosening up of the reigns. I see that
he can be both bitter and sweet.
My deepest condolences go out to Bennett's parents and family. I admire his mother Aimee's dedication and undying
love for her son. A mother that could love so deeply that she held her child as he died naturally, instead of coerce him to live a little bit longer, in unconscious torture. Her selfless acceptance of
his fate warmed my empty womb. I'm thankful for the heartfelt
conversations we shared over the past couple weeks as we sat by
Bennett's bedside. We
talked about grief and suffering through the lenses of both the
struggling and the departed. We talked about how strength doesn't apply
during tragedy, it's surrendering to instinct. Healing wishes and
tremendously big hugs go to my dear friend, Kevin. I will be here as his
ally and his support as he boards a train of grief while he is still
congruently riding on another. My prayers of peace travel to little
Bennett as he relinquishes the grip on his spent body, takes his place
as an angel, and lets his spirit twinkle in the air we breathe.
Showing posts with label soul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soul. Show all posts
Glacier
The path I walk these days is not only dark, but it’s also foggy. I can’t see much, and when I can make something out – it’s usually covered in a looming haze. Maybe a candle is lit along the way or a window opens and the sun shines into my tunnel. Sometimes I can make out the lightness: a gloomy warmth. Sometimes I shield my eyes from the lightness; it’s become comfortable to stay buried in the dark. And occasionally, I see the light – and I allow myself to bask in its warmth.
I am a vastly different woman than I was seven months ago... My head cocks to the side inquisitively as I typed that sentence. ‘Am i? Or am I the same woman?’
It’s more like I am a new version of the same woman I was seven months ago.
Imagine the Self like a glacier: a huge floating chunk of frozen, yet transformable solid. Sometimes, our glacier floats high in the water and other times, very much submerged in darkness. It’s always changing. Our mass floats high, low, or somewhere between, depending on circumstance. But at the center of the glacier, is our source. I truly believe that the core of each human is intrinsically good. Our source is the innocence that we possessed in the womb, and at the same time all the wisdom in our universe and the divine. It is the subtle body's access to Ananda (bliss).
But our glacier is huge and our source is buried deep, deep within. When we are aware, we can sense our source – it feels like a moment of enlightenment. When we start to remove the layers of ourselves, there is a knowing. Our source is far beneath the superficial layers of our day-to-day lives – the schedules, the stressors, the static rush of our society. It’s beneath our core values – our human desire to love and connect. It is even beneath the deeper, challenging components of our being – our fears, our shame, our judgements – the ailments that cloud our core values. Beneath all of our layers, all of our shadow, all of our questions, all of our ignorance, all of our anger, all of our trauma... that is where our source lives: like a shining sun inside of a dark cave.
We spend many lives chipping away at our glacier. Sometimes the chipping feels good – we hit a vein and out bubbles a glittering glimmer of our inner radiance, a hint of what’s beneath. Sometimes the chipping is incredibly painful – we remove a rock and uncover something we have been hiding for a very long time. We are given a choice: put the rock back on and run away, ignore what we see, or study it. Eventually, after going backwards, sideways, or being still – we keep digging. At times, along our individual journeys, we take each choice. Some of us are more comfortable with running, some of us with ignoring, some of us with sitting, and some of us with digging. And we learn the lessons we are supposed to be learning through every one of those choices. They are all right. They might not be the fastest, or the safest, or the healthiest, or the easiest – but they are all right.
We learn lessons when we run away, when then find ourselves further from our goal – alone and lost. We have to begin a trek back along a new path – which uncovers new rocks. We learn lessons when we ignore and numb ourselves – maybe it’s here where we learn about disconnection and loneliness. We learn lessons when we sit – maybe it's here where we learn about self-love and acceptance. And we learn lessons when we keep digging.
When you died, a monstrous chunk of my glacier was fractured and ripped out. I was left on my knees: the wind knocked out of me and heart cracked open, wallowing in a crater of raw wounds.
It has forced me to study all that was upturned and revealed. I have run away. I have hidden. I have numbed. I have sat. And I have dug. All while being encased in darkness and fog. In the deep depression of my glacier lies ugliness – parts of my being that are hard and humbling to face; there lies trauma – which is alarming and unfamiliar; there lies grief – which is unpredictable and harrowing; but there also lies beauty – which is often disguised. But from within the dark fog, I see bits of bliss bleed from my source. The knowing is there.
So yes, I am a new version of the same woman you loved.
And while I have been sitting in darkness and fog for over six months, I have had more moments lately when I see the haze lifting and showing me the landscape – sometimes barren, sometimes lush, often somewhere in between. My wound is beginning to heal in some places. In other places, it’s gaping more than ever. But as I’ve sat in this cavity of my untethered self, I’ve been forced to really look around. In a courageous (because fuck yes, it is!), vulnerable, and confusing way – I’ve questioned many parts of my being. I’ve realized things that I thought were important to me, maybe are not at all. I’ve begun to understand what shapes my reactions and why. I’ve started to be OK with stillness and solitude. I have addressed the darker side of my spirit. I've begun forgive myself. I've noticed the presence of anger and allowed it to vent (even though it's through ways I can't yet control and don't think are pretty). I have felt inspired and not let myself feel guilty or run back into my comfortable cave of gloom. I have recognized ways in which I cause harm to myself and gently decided they aren't serving me for now. I’ve understood a need to actually love myself, rather than offering my love to others and hoping it reflects back to myself. With self-love comes opening up to the possibility of healing – through my own digging and also from teachers I meet along my path.
I know I have come closer to my source; maybe just centimeters in a journey of thousands of miles, but closer still. And I am bound to a knowing that within me is truth and light.
The path is rocky. But I will forge.
I am a vastly different woman than I was seven months ago... My head cocks to the side inquisitively as I typed that sentence. ‘Am i? Or am I the same woman?’
It’s more like I am a new version of the same woman I was seven months ago.
Imagine the Self like a glacier: a huge floating chunk of frozen, yet transformable solid. Sometimes, our glacier floats high in the water and other times, very much submerged in darkness. It’s always changing. Our mass floats high, low, or somewhere between, depending on circumstance. But at the center of the glacier, is our source. I truly believe that the core of each human is intrinsically good. Our source is the innocence that we possessed in the womb, and at the same time all the wisdom in our universe and the divine. It is the subtle body's access to Ananda (bliss).
But our glacier is huge and our source is buried deep, deep within. When we are aware, we can sense our source – it feels like a moment of enlightenment. When we start to remove the layers of ourselves, there is a knowing. Our source is far beneath the superficial layers of our day-to-day lives – the schedules, the stressors, the static rush of our society. It’s beneath our core values – our human desire to love and connect. It is even beneath the deeper, challenging components of our being – our fears, our shame, our judgements – the ailments that cloud our core values. Beneath all of our layers, all of our shadow, all of our questions, all of our ignorance, all of our anger, all of our trauma... that is where our source lives: like a shining sun inside of a dark cave.
We spend many lives chipping away at our glacier. Sometimes the chipping feels good – we hit a vein and out bubbles a glittering glimmer of our inner radiance, a hint of what’s beneath. Sometimes the chipping is incredibly painful – we remove a rock and uncover something we have been hiding for a very long time. We are given a choice: put the rock back on and run away, ignore what we see, or study it. Eventually, after going backwards, sideways, or being still – we keep digging. At times, along our individual journeys, we take each choice. Some of us are more comfortable with running, some of us with ignoring, some of us with sitting, and some of us with digging. And we learn the lessons we are supposed to be learning through every one of those choices. They are all right. They might not be the fastest, or the safest, or the healthiest, or the easiest – but they are all right.
We learn lessons when we run away, when then find ourselves further from our goal – alone and lost. We have to begin a trek back along a new path – which uncovers new rocks. We learn lessons when we ignore and numb ourselves – maybe it’s here where we learn about disconnection and loneliness. We learn lessons when we sit – maybe it's here where we learn about self-love and acceptance. And we learn lessons when we keep digging.
When you died, a monstrous chunk of my glacier was fractured and ripped out. I was left on my knees: the wind knocked out of me and heart cracked open, wallowing in a crater of raw wounds.
It has forced me to study all that was upturned and revealed. I have run away. I have hidden. I have numbed. I have sat. And I have dug. All while being encased in darkness and fog. In the deep depression of my glacier lies ugliness – parts of my being that are hard and humbling to face; there lies trauma – which is alarming and unfamiliar; there lies grief – which is unpredictable and harrowing; but there also lies beauty – which is often disguised. But from within the dark fog, I see bits of bliss bleed from my source. The knowing is there.
So yes, I am a new version of the same woman you loved.
And while I have been sitting in darkness and fog for over six months, I have had more moments lately when I see the haze lifting and showing me the landscape – sometimes barren, sometimes lush, often somewhere in between. My wound is beginning to heal in some places. In other places, it’s gaping more than ever. But as I’ve sat in this cavity of my untethered self, I’ve been forced to really look around. In a courageous (because fuck yes, it is!), vulnerable, and confusing way – I’ve questioned many parts of my being. I’ve realized things that I thought were important to me, maybe are not at all. I’ve begun to understand what shapes my reactions and why. I’ve started to be OK with stillness and solitude. I have addressed the darker side of my spirit. I've begun forgive myself. I've noticed the presence of anger and allowed it to vent (even though it's through ways I can't yet control and don't think are pretty). I have felt inspired and not let myself feel guilty or run back into my comfortable cave of gloom. I have recognized ways in which I cause harm to myself and gently decided they aren't serving me for now. I’ve understood a need to actually love myself, rather than offering my love to others and hoping it reflects back to myself. With self-love comes opening up to the possibility of healing – through my own digging and also from teachers I meet along my path.
I know I have come closer to my source; maybe just centimeters in a journey of thousands of miles, but closer still. And I am bound to a knowing that within me is truth and light.
The path is rocky. But I will forge.
Beacon
I miss hearing you tell me I am beautiful. You would tell me when I groggily woke up to you bashfully watching me. You would tell me when I got out of the shower and you would steal my towel making me chase you, dripping wet. You would tell me when I was in jeans, a t-shirt, glasses, and a dirty ponytail – stressed out in front of my computer. You would tell me on our walk to the car after a hot yoga class, my clothes seeping in sweat. You would tell me after I spent ninety-minutes getting ready for a date with you – in a new dress, fresh lipstick, high heels, and perfume. You would tell me when I would slip into something silk and lacy for you at the end of a long day. You would whisper it again as you stroke my cheek, playfully smack my behind, and then follow it up with a kiss that said it all over again, but without words. You would tell me when I was asleep and could only hear you through the echo of my dreams.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love. That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love. That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
Uncontainable Love
Over the past week, I've learned that, surprisingly, I can live without you. It's a painful thing to type and a painful thing to feel. When you walked this earth as my counterpart, as my soul mate in the flesh, I did not think that I would be able to survive without you. I thought that if you left, I would crumple into a pile of dirt. Gone. Though I feel like a puddle, when I look in the mirror, my reflection looks back at me. I am still here. I am the same. I don't know how it is possible, but it is so.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
Supple Beings
The human mindbody is profound. Our capacity for growth, connection, love, pleasure, joy, grief, and a plethora of other human experiences can occur simultaneously and often without us even being aware of them.
The mind. Yesterday, an incredible woman guided me through a past-life regression. I didn't think I would succumb to hypnosis. The left side of my brain is bossy. And yet, easily, I dropped into a channel of higher intuition. I regressed through a doorway and into a past life. I was able to speak and see my way through powerful and memorable events in the life I visited from five-hundred years ago. My body and soul, craving healing, knew I needed to see you. So when I accessed my past life, I saw you. You were my true love and my partner. I got to see your eyes. I got to see your soul. I saw that indeed we had experienced one another's love in the past. Through the power of the mind, I preserved the moment I recalled yesterday for centuries. It was written into the highlight reel of my soul. And when I needed hope, when I needed faith, when I needed answers, when I needed to see you – my mind offered it.
The body. Nine years ago, I was riding on the back of a motorcycle in flip flops, a mini-skirt, and a helmet with no chip strap. It was dusk and began to rain. As we took a sharp left turn, the driver lost control of the bike and swerved into oncoming traffic. We struck a Chevy Silverado head on. Both vehicles were traveling about 45 mph. Upon impact, I flew into the air and over the truck. I recall those three seconds in flight as if they lasted a lifetime. I saw what was in the bed of the truck as I flew over it. I realized I was upside-down. I felt the helmet fly off my head. I decided I was going to die. Then, I decided I was not going to die. I cradled my head in my arms and twisted my body to avoid landing on my spine, where I'd had a previous back surgery. Before hitting the ground, I remembered hearing about how drunk drivers often survive accidents because they don't tense up their bodies. I had not been drinking, but in a valiant effort to save myself, I loosened every muscle of my body and literally bounced off the asphalt when I struck the ground. I also felt the energy of being carried and set down softly by some higher power. I had the distinct knowledge that a dear friend, who'd passed away recently, was helping to save me. Adrenaline on high gear, after hitting the cement, I stood up immediately. I gathered my things that were strewn about. I saw the blood on my hands, feet, and back from the road rash. I spoke with the first responders. I checked on the driver, who had flown forward and impacted his groin on the gas tank of the bike. Within about twenty minutes, the pain settled in. EMS loaded me onto an ambulance. I had fractured my tailbone, pelvis, and hip and was in the hospital for a week. I had a six-inch screw inserted into the left side of my back to stabilize my hips. I didn't walk again for five-weeks. I was told that I may never be able to give birth to children naturally because of the fixed screw. I was told never to do impact sports again. Then, came yoga. For nine years I have practiced yoga to heal my body, to sooth my hips, and to open up (literally) to the possibility of being able to have children naturally some day. Now, I can do the splits in every direction. I can put my feet behind my head. I also have run a triathlon and a half-marathon since then. The accident taught me about the capacity for the human body to heal itself through trauma.
The connection. Now, I am witnessing how the human body can support the soul, when it needs to heal.
I was talking to one of my best friends last night about loss. I've known this friend for over half of my life. He lost his mother just over a year ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. The grief, though impossibly painful and unwarranted, has brought out a gentleness in him that is truly beautiful. It is a side of him that I had never seen before. And while I'm sure he'd rather have his mother back rather than access this alternate aspect of his being (and I wish that were possible), it's really a remarkable thing to witness a person change so profoundly. Grief made him grow. It makes me wonder what your death will bring out in me. How will I change for the better? I imagine it will bring out suppleness. It already has. Hard edges, aggression, and disbelief don't make coping easier. Suddenly, you just have to trust in something bigger, something unexplainable, and open your heart to connection – in whatever way that is, however fleeting.
Grief shines light onto priorities. The things that were important three months ago are nearly nonexistent to me now. The chatter that consumed the vast ocean of my mind is still. I don't have the energy to over-analyze. I am not concerned with drama. I am not provoked by lustful excitement. Day-to-day irritations and to-dos are meaningless. I am not caught up in appearances. I mean, I'm still human – but I've been forced to soften. My body and mind work on healing full-time. I have lost control of life. Or rather, your death made me realize I never had control of it in the first place. I thought I did; I thought I could manipulate life to make it go my way. But that was a false assumption. What I can do, is be present in this moment. What, in this moment, right now, will bring me peace? And that's where I go.
Today I spent about thirty minutes pacing back and forth in my living room. In that moment, pacing was the only thing that I could muster, it was a constant. Also today, I spent thirty minutes swimming laps. So essentially, pacing back and forth, but just in a pool. It gave me steadiness to balance out the uncertainty that has clogged my perspective of future. In my yoga practice tonight, I ended with Yoga Nidra, a guided svasana/meditation. During the practice, the teacher spoke about how our nervous system does not allow the human body to cope and to heal at the same time. We must focus on one. When the parasympathetic nervous system is dominant, the body is in rest and digest mode. This means its priority is to recover, to heal, to deeply nourish and restore itself. The body knows how to do these things, but we get so caught up in our busy lifestyles that we often live in reactive sympathetic nervous system mode, where the body’s priority is coping (fight or flight), not healing. I can no longer operate reactively. I must be gentle. I must heal. I don't know what the right way of doing that is, or if there is one at all, but I am living in the moment. That's all I have.
Now, I pace, I meditate, I sooth my mind and my body in whatever way I need. I am listening to her. I am honoring her needs. I've learned that she, my body, is the only thing I have even a touch of control over. And yet, by softening, I also relinquish that control and admire her power over me.
The mind. Yesterday, an incredible woman guided me through a past-life regression. I didn't think I would succumb to hypnosis. The left side of my brain is bossy. And yet, easily, I dropped into a channel of higher intuition. I regressed through a doorway and into a past life. I was able to speak and see my way through powerful and memorable events in the life I visited from five-hundred years ago. My body and soul, craving healing, knew I needed to see you. So when I accessed my past life, I saw you. You were my true love and my partner. I got to see your eyes. I got to see your soul. I saw that indeed we had experienced one another's love in the past. Through the power of the mind, I preserved the moment I recalled yesterday for centuries. It was written into the highlight reel of my soul. And when I needed hope, when I needed faith, when I needed answers, when I needed to see you – my mind offered it.
The body. Nine years ago, I was riding on the back of a motorcycle in flip flops, a mini-skirt, and a helmet with no chip strap. It was dusk and began to rain. As we took a sharp left turn, the driver lost control of the bike and swerved into oncoming traffic. We struck a Chevy Silverado head on. Both vehicles were traveling about 45 mph. Upon impact, I flew into the air and over the truck. I recall those three seconds in flight as if they lasted a lifetime. I saw what was in the bed of the truck as I flew over it. I realized I was upside-down. I felt the helmet fly off my head. I decided I was going to die. Then, I decided I was not going to die. I cradled my head in my arms and twisted my body to avoid landing on my spine, where I'd had a previous back surgery. Before hitting the ground, I remembered hearing about how drunk drivers often survive accidents because they don't tense up their bodies. I had not been drinking, but in a valiant effort to save myself, I loosened every muscle of my body and literally bounced off the asphalt when I struck the ground. I also felt the energy of being carried and set down softly by some higher power. I had the distinct knowledge that a dear friend, who'd passed away recently, was helping to save me. Adrenaline on high gear, after hitting the cement, I stood up immediately. I gathered my things that were strewn about. I saw the blood on my hands, feet, and back from the road rash. I spoke with the first responders. I checked on the driver, who had flown forward and impacted his groin on the gas tank of the bike. Within about twenty minutes, the pain settled in. EMS loaded me onto an ambulance. I had fractured my tailbone, pelvis, and hip and was in the hospital for a week. I had a six-inch screw inserted into the left side of my back to stabilize my hips. I didn't walk again for five-weeks. I was told that I may never be able to give birth to children naturally because of the fixed screw. I was told never to do impact sports again. Then, came yoga. For nine years I have practiced yoga to heal my body, to sooth my hips, and to open up (literally) to the possibility of being able to have children naturally some day. Now, I can do the splits in every direction. I can put my feet behind my head. I also have run a triathlon and a half-marathon since then. The accident taught me about the capacity for the human body to heal itself through trauma.
The connection. Now, I am witnessing how the human body can support the soul, when it needs to heal.
I was talking to one of my best friends last night about loss. I've known this friend for over half of my life. He lost his mother just over a year ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. The grief, though impossibly painful and unwarranted, has brought out a gentleness in him that is truly beautiful. It is a side of him that I had never seen before. And while I'm sure he'd rather have his mother back rather than access this alternate aspect of his being (and I wish that were possible), it's really a remarkable thing to witness a person change so profoundly. Grief made him grow. It makes me wonder what your death will bring out in me. How will I change for the better? I imagine it will bring out suppleness. It already has. Hard edges, aggression, and disbelief don't make coping easier. Suddenly, you just have to trust in something bigger, something unexplainable, and open your heart to connection – in whatever way that is, however fleeting.
Grief shines light onto priorities. The things that were important three months ago are nearly nonexistent to me now. The chatter that consumed the vast ocean of my mind is still. I don't have the energy to over-analyze. I am not concerned with drama. I am not provoked by lustful excitement. Day-to-day irritations and to-dos are meaningless. I am not caught up in appearances. I mean, I'm still human – but I've been forced to soften. My body and mind work on healing full-time. I have lost control of life. Or rather, your death made me realize I never had control of it in the first place. I thought I did; I thought I could manipulate life to make it go my way. But that was a false assumption. What I can do, is be present in this moment. What, in this moment, right now, will bring me peace? And that's where I go.
Today I spent about thirty minutes pacing back and forth in my living room. In that moment, pacing was the only thing that I could muster, it was a constant. Also today, I spent thirty minutes swimming laps. So essentially, pacing back and forth, but just in a pool. It gave me steadiness to balance out the uncertainty that has clogged my perspective of future. In my yoga practice tonight, I ended with Yoga Nidra, a guided svasana/meditation. During the practice, the teacher spoke about how our nervous system does not allow the human body to cope and to heal at the same time. We must focus on one. When the parasympathetic nervous system is dominant, the body is in rest and digest mode. This means its priority is to recover, to heal, to deeply nourish and restore itself. The body knows how to do these things, but we get so caught up in our busy lifestyles that we often live in reactive sympathetic nervous system mode, where the body’s priority is coping (fight or flight), not healing. I can no longer operate reactively. I must be gentle. I must heal. I don't know what the right way of doing that is, or if there is one at all, but I am living in the moment. That's all I have.
Now, I pace, I meditate, I sooth my mind and my body in whatever way I need. I am listening to her. I am honoring her needs. I've learned that she, my body, is the only thing I have even a touch of control over. And yet, by softening, I also relinquish that control and admire her power over me.
Messages from Masters
Today I reread a book that was pivotal to you and I, Many Lives, Many Masters, by Dr. Brian Weiss. After I read the book initially when we were just starting our relationship, I sent it to you and simply said, "You must read this." You did and you told me it changed your life. I was glad, because it had changed mine too. More or less, the philosophy discussed in this book provided more peace than any religion or spiritual concept either of us had studied. It also changed our views on death. After reading the book, we had shared with one another that we "no longer feared death." And then I watched you die. I was VERY afraid.
Over the past couple weeks, I've been experiencing a deep depression in my grief – one that is definitely darker than anything I have ever felt or ever witnessed in someone else. The worst part of this phase of grief is that with it has come faithlessness. Before you died, I thought the world was at my fingertips, love was on my lips, and life was beautiful. I thought the universe was on my side. And since you've been gone, I've been cursed with suffering, uncertainty, and the loss of the man who knew me better and loved me more than anyone.
So this morning, as an attempt to remember what I once believed in, and moreover, what YOU believed in, I reread the book that had impacted our lives so intensely.
The book tells the true story of a psychiatrist, Dr. Weiss, and his patient, Catherine. Catherine had come to see Weiss because she struggled with intense phobias that prevented her from living a normal life. Dr. Weiss, who is rooted in the scientific method and rational Western medicine and thought, is used to prescribing medications and using general therapeutic procedures for treatment. The doctor's philosophy and perspective is shattered when he puts Catherine under mild hypnosis to help her unleash childhood memories, and instead, she regresses to a past life where she lives as a Nubian slave in ancient Egypt. She remembers details from that life and facts from the era that are so specific they could only be identified by historians who specialize on Egypt. It is her death at the end of her life in Egypt thousands of years before which plagues her and causes one of the irrational fears in her current life.
Dr. Weiss works with Catherine over the course of time and she regresses back to parts of 87 different lives that she had experienced on the physical plane. She was a solider in what is now Ukraine in the eighteenth century, a male teacher in Japan, worked in a monastery in Switzerland hundreds of years ago, she was a young Moroccan boy who died in his youth, a slave in the South who was the illegitimate daughter of her owner, a prostitute in Spain named Louisa, an American Indian who lived on the Southwest Florida coast, a very ancient cave dweller, and many more. There are many texts and stories out there that discuss reincarnation. In fact, reincarnation was prominent in the Old and New Testament, but was removed by Constantine at the Council of Nicea in 325 A.D. for fear that is would disrupt political stability. I have personally believed in reincarnation for as long as I can remember. But my main root in this philosophy is that a world of immortal souls is more hopeful than a destination of Hell or even nothing at all. But isn't hope what faith is all about anyway?
But what sets this book apart from the rest in its class is that Catherine goes on to convey information from in-between lives. She unleashes secrets and messages from the Masters – ascended spirits that exist in seven different planes in the spiritual realm. We learn about the purpose of life, karma, debts, and deaths. We learn about how groups of souls often travel together. While you may be my soulmate in this life, you could be my mother in the next, for example. We learn about what happens after death and between incarnations. We learn about if loved ones have the opportunity to connect with us from beyond the grave. We see information gleaned from the collective unconscious that Carl Jung spoke of. We learn about faith. Well, we learn about all of this if we're open to it. In the book, even Catherine has her doubts.
Dr Weiss writes, "The conscious Catherine, when awake, was much more anxious and limited, much simpler and comparatively superficial. She could not tap into this superconscious state. I wondered if the prophets and sages of Eastern and Western religions, those called "actualized," were able to utilize this superconscious state to obtain their wisdom and knowledge. If so, then we all had the ability to do so, for we must all possess this superconscious... I would become increasingly frustrated by the uncrossable gulf between Catherine's conscious, awake intellect and her trance-level superconscious mind. While she was hypnotized, I would have fascinating philosophical dialogues with her at the superconscious level. When awake, however, Catherine had no interest in philosophy or related matters. She lived in the world of everyday detail, oblivious of the genius within her."
What restores my faith is the hope that there is a purpose in this suffering. That maybe it will teach me, or you, or someone a lesson that will make the next step more peaceful and less painful. It gives me the hope that all is not lost. It gives me the hope that you are overseeing me and all of those who miss you so deeply.
The subscription to the beliefs addressed in the text allow me to think you are both conscious and blissful right now. Perhaps you are even nearby. One of the most painful aspects of my grief is that you are somewhere hurting and alone. Even worse, is the fear that you are completely gone, physically and spiritually. But why would I trouble myself with these fears when I didn't believe them two months ago? Why would I cause myself more pain by believing the worst now? I'm trying to get back to my core and remind myself that just because there has been a nightmare in my life, it does not mean I need to rewrite my belief system to be a nightmare too.
When Dr. Weiss is talking to a Master via Catherine in hypnosis, he asks, "Why do we come back [to the physical realm] to learn? Why can't we learn as spirits? The master responds, "Those are different levels of learning, and we must learn some of them in the flesh. We must feel the pain. When you're a spirit you feel no pain. It is a period of renewal. Your soul is being renewed. When you're in a physical state in the flesh, you can feel pain; you can hurt. In spiritual form you do not feel. There is only happiness, a sense of well-being."
While the book gives me tremendous hope at a point in my life where I've never needed it more, it doesn't relinquish the work. While I am clinging onto the faith that there is more than just this life and that we may meet again someday, I still have to live this life without you by my side. And while the big picture provides some solace, the short term is my whole life as I know it, and that's not to be taken lightly. Uncertainty, patience, and time are still the enemies I need to befriend and the the lessons I need to learn. But in the meantime, I am fueled with a bit more belief, faith, and connection today than the skepticism and isolation than I have been living with in the past couple of weeks.
A Master says, "Patience and timing... everything comes when it must come. A life cannot be rushed, cannot be worked on a schedule as so many people want it to be. We must accept what comes to us at a given time, and not ask for more. But life is endless, so we never die; we were never really born. We just pass through different phases. There is no end. Humans have many dimensions. But time is not as we see time, but rather in lessons that are learned."
Over the past couple weeks, I've been experiencing a deep depression in my grief – one that is definitely darker than anything I have ever felt or ever witnessed in someone else. The worst part of this phase of grief is that with it has come faithlessness. Before you died, I thought the world was at my fingertips, love was on my lips, and life was beautiful. I thought the universe was on my side. And since you've been gone, I've been cursed with suffering, uncertainty, and the loss of the man who knew me better and loved me more than anyone.
So this morning, as an attempt to remember what I once believed in, and moreover, what YOU believed in, I reread the book that had impacted our lives so intensely.
The book tells the true story of a psychiatrist, Dr. Weiss, and his patient, Catherine. Catherine had come to see Weiss because she struggled with intense phobias that prevented her from living a normal life. Dr. Weiss, who is rooted in the scientific method and rational Western medicine and thought, is used to prescribing medications and using general therapeutic procedures for treatment. The doctor's philosophy and perspective is shattered when he puts Catherine under mild hypnosis to help her unleash childhood memories, and instead, she regresses to a past life where she lives as a Nubian slave in ancient Egypt. She remembers details from that life and facts from the era that are so specific they could only be identified by historians who specialize on Egypt. It is her death at the end of her life in Egypt thousands of years before which plagues her and causes one of the irrational fears in her current life.
Dr. Weiss works with Catherine over the course of time and she regresses back to parts of 87 different lives that she had experienced on the physical plane. She was a solider in what is now Ukraine in the eighteenth century, a male teacher in Japan, worked in a monastery in Switzerland hundreds of years ago, she was a young Moroccan boy who died in his youth, a slave in the South who was the illegitimate daughter of her owner, a prostitute in Spain named Louisa, an American Indian who lived on the Southwest Florida coast, a very ancient cave dweller, and many more. There are many texts and stories out there that discuss reincarnation. In fact, reincarnation was prominent in the Old and New Testament, but was removed by Constantine at the Council of Nicea in 325 A.D. for fear that is would disrupt political stability. I have personally believed in reincarnation for as long as I can remember. But my main root in this philosophy is that a world of immortal souls is more hopeful than a destination of Hell or even nothing at all. But isn't hope what faith is all about anyway?
But what sets this book apart from the rest in its class is that Catherine goes on to convey information from in-between lives. She unleashes secrets and messages from the Masters – ascended spirits that exist in seven different planes in the spiritual realm. We learn about the purpose of life, karma, debts, and deaths. We learn about how groups of souls often travel together. While you may be my soulmate in this life, you could be my mother in the next, for example. We learn about what happens after death and between incarnations. We learn about if loved ones have the opportunity to connect with us from beyond the grave. We see information gleaned from the collective unconscious that Carl Jung spoke of. We learn about faith. Well, we learn about all of this if we're open to it. In the book, even Catherine has her doubts.
Dr Weiss writes, "The conscious Catherine, when awake, was much more anxious and limited, much simpler and comparatively superficial. She could not tap into this superconscious state. I wondered if the prophets and sages of Eastern and Western religions, those called "actualized," were able to utilize this superconscious state to obtain their wisdom and knowledge. If so, then we all had the ability to do so, for we must all possess this superconscious... I would become increasingly frustrated by the uncrossable gulf between Catherine's conscious, awake intellect and her trance-level superconscious mind. While she was hypnotized, I would have fascinating philosophical dialogues with her at the superconscious level. When awake, however, Catherine had no interest in philosophy or related matters. She lived in the world of everyday detail, oblivious of the genius within her."
What restores my faith is the hope that there is a purpose in this suffering. That maybe it will teach me, or you, or someone a lesson that will make the next step more peaceful and less painful. It gives me the hope that all is not lost. It gives me the hope that you are overseeing me and all of those who miss you so deeply.
The subscription to the beliefs addressed in the text allow me to think you are both conscious and blissful right now. Perhaps you are even nearby. One of the most painful aspects of my grief is that you are somewhere hurting and alone. Even worse, is the fear that you are completely gone, physically and spiritually. But why would I trouble myself with these fears when I didn't believe them two months ago? Why would I cause myself more pain by believing the worst now? I'm trying to get back to my core and remind myself that just because there has been a nightmare in my life, it does not mean I need to rewrite my belief system to be a nightmare too.
When Dr. Weiss is talking to a Master via Catherine in hypnosis, he asks, "Why do we come back [to the physical realm] to learn? Why can't we learn as spirits? The master responds, "Those are different levels of learning, and we must learn some of them in the flesh. We must feel the pain. When you're a spirit you feel no pain. It is a period of renewal. Your soul is being renewed. When you're in a physical state in the flesh, you can feel pain; you can hurt. In spiritual form you do not feel. There is only happiness, a sense of well-being."
While the book gives me tremendous hope at a point in my life where I've never needed it more, it doesn't relinquish the work. While I am clinging onto the faith that there is more than just this life and that we may meet again someday, I still have to live this life without you by my side. And while the big picture provides some solace, the short term is my whole life as I know it, and that's not to be taken lightly. Uncertainty, patience, and time are still the enemies I need to befriend and the the lessons I need to learn. But in the meantime, I am fueled with a bit more belief, faith, and connection today than the skepticism and isolation than I have been living with in the past couple of weeks.
A Master says, "Patience and timing... everything comes when it must come. A life cannot be rushed, cannot be worked on a schedule as so many people want it to be. We must accept what comes to us at a given time, and not ask for more. But life is endless, so we never die; we were never really born. We just pass through different phases. There is no end. Humans have many dimensions. But time is not as we see time, but rather in lessons that are learned."
Fallen Queen
We were so in love.
Our hearts exploded all over one another like stars scattered across the Milky Way. I kissed every inch of your body. I ran my fingers through every strand of your hair and I sucked on each one of your toes. Your tongue discovered every wet place of mine that had never been reached. You even pressed it to my wisdom teeth and while you licked you siphoned poetry into my soul. You made me come alive with your touch. Your hand fit into mine like the latched lock on a buried treasure on the bottom of the sea. When clasped, our hands had a priceless secret between them. A knowing. A truth.
You made me feel like a princess. No, you made me feel like the queen. The queen of the universe. A universe where peace reigns and freedom is the only option. Where marching soldiers shoot arrows of compassion. A universe in which broken hearts don't exist because there is only love. Where tears aren't recognized as sadness because they only come from laughter. Where a child never dies. Where every woman is beautiful and every breast is a perfect handful. Where the soundtrack is the cry of passion and everyone wants to hear it. Where all cities are like New York in the sixties. Where every day is a good hair day. Where every photo is a keeper. Where tumors cause longer eyelashes and smaller pores. Where every family lives in a luxurious home with heated floors and everybody has a swimming pool with a slide. Where sleep arrives effortlessly and only puppies and kittens snore. Where the band is always awesome. Where the coffee is always hot, but not so hot you burn your mouth. Where goldfish have the memory of elephants. Where the vegetables grow from real seeds and you don't have to kill an animal to eat meat. Where the dress always makes my ass look fantastic. Where the biggest argument is over who pays the bill, but there – everyone actually wants to pay. Where babies always sleep through the night. Where bouquets of flowers in vases keep living infinitely. Where farts are always funny and never smell. Where everyone likes to dance. Where every game is won by the underdog. Where no one ever has to be alone and even if you want to be – the space will still give you a hug. Where the good guys always finish first. You made me the queen of that universe.
When we were together, our souls shot out of our fingertips like magic from a wizard's wand and connected like two beams of lightning. We became one. The wrinkles around our eyes grew deeper because all we did was smile. We could have powered all the energy needed for the world with our laughs, magic, and rainbows. Our love caused mountains to grow taller. The peaks swelled up from the earth with the Heavens as their magnet and gravity as a forgotten foe. When I was sad you would rock me like a baby in the arms of my mother. And then everything was perfect. We were learning how to fly.
And then we fell. And then you evaporated. And then I crashed. We wanted to make love in the moonlight but instead, it fucked us. You died in the moonlight. When the executioner slaughtered that day's sun it took you with it. The darkness was supposed to be our dance floor and it ended up being a cemetery. And our bedroom is the morgue. Now our memories don't even rob my dreams instead they are drained from my brain like innocence from a child. You disappear into stardust or sawdust or nothing… I don't know.
I am bound. I'm trapped in this world because I believe if I take my life I won't get to go to the same place as you. I'll be captive on the wrong side of a one-way glass window. And I'm too scared to leave. And I don't really want to. I just want you back.
I want you back so we can press our hands into wet concrete and leave an impression for the future. I want you back so when I do my yoga, I can reach for your outstretched fingers instead of a box of tissue. I want you back so I can hold your sisters in a hug of love rather than needing them as a brace to hold me up from crumpling onto the floor as my knees give out. I want you back so we can talk to your mother on Bluetooth while we're driving through the mountains. I want to hear her smile on the other side of the line call you Bubs and you call her Mud. I want to hand her a grandchild in a polka-dotted blanket that looks half like you, half like me, and one-hundred percent like an angel. I want to watch you play catch in the front yard with our little boy and not know who is actually the kid because you will always be my Peter Pan.
Now I imagine sixty more years of life with my head looking backwards over my shoulder remembering the time I carried pixie dust. Dreaming of the treasure I once had, the man I got to touch every night and was supposed to still be touching. At what was supposed to be. I imagine trading in our castle in the sky for a windowless, basement studio apartment with dingy carpet and yellowed, linoleum countertops. I imagine a future of boredom and faithlessness. A future of stumbling steps because I'm too busy straining my eyes at what once was. I imagine kissless love and touchless nights. I imagine sex that's governed by ovulation dates and once in a while maybe too much tequila. I imagine divorce. I imagine searching for a time machine so I can go back to the day before that night. I imagine looking for God in everything and never being able to find him. Hidden beneath my clothes, I imagine scratching the skin off my bones and ripping my nails out of their beds just to try to feel pain worse than loosing you. But it never comes.
And then someday I'll die. Alone. And disappear into stardust or sawdust or nothing… I don't know.
Our hearts exploded all over one another like stars scattered across the Milky Way. I kissed every inch of your body. I ran my fingers through every strand of your hair and I sucked on each one of your toes. Your tongue discovered every wet place of mine that had never been reached. You even pressed it to my wisdom teeth and while you licked you siphoned poetry into my soul. You made me come alive with your touch. Your hand fit into mine like the latched lock on a buried treasure on the bottom of the sea. When clasped, our hands had a priceless secret between them. A knowing. A truth.
You made me feel like a princess. No, you made me feel like the queen. The queen of the universe. A universe where peace reigns and freedom is the only option. Where marching soldiers shoot arrows of compassion. A universe in which broken hearts don't exist because there is only love. Where tears aren't recognized as sadness because they only come from laughter. Where a child never dies. Where every woman is beautiful and every breast is a perfect handful. Where the soundtrack is the cry of passion and everyone wants to hear it. Where all cities are like New York in the sixties. Where every day is a good hair day. Where every photo is a keeper. Where tumors cause longer eyelashes and smaller pores. Where every family lives in a luxurious home with heated floors and everybody has a swimming pool with a slide. Where sleep arrives effortlessly and only puppies and kittens snore. Where the band is always awesome. Where the coffee is always hot, but not so hot you burn your mouth. Where goldfish have the memory of elephants. Where the vegetables grow from real seeds and you don't have to kill an animal to eat meat. Where the dress always makes my ass look fantastic. Where the biggest argument is over who pays the bill, but there – everyone actually wants to pay. Where babies always sleep through the night. Where bouquets of flowers in vases keep living infinitely. Where farts are always funny and never smell. Where everyone likes to dance. Where every game is won by the underdog. Where no one ever has to be alone and even if you want to be – the space will still give you a hug. Where the good guys always finish first. You made me the queen of that universe.
When we were together, our souls shot out of our fingertips like magic from a wizard's wand and connected like two beams of lightning. We became one. The wrinkles around our eyes grew deeper because all we did was smile. We could have powered all the energy needed for the world with our laughs, magic, and rainbows. Our love caused mountains to grow taller. The peaks swelled up from the earth with the Heavens as their magnet and gravity as a forgotten foe. When I was sad you would rock me like a baby in the arms of my mother. And then everything was perfect. We were learning how to fly.
And then we fell. And then you evaporated. And then I crashed. We wanted to make love in the moonlight but instead, it fucked us. You died in the moonlight. When the executioner slaughtered that day's sun it took you with it. The darkness was supposed to be our dance floor and it ended up being a cemetery. And our bedroom is the morgue. Now our memories don't even rob my dreams instead they are drained from my brain like innocence from a child. You disappear into stardust or sawdust or nothing… I don't know.
I am bound. I'm trapped in this world because I believe if I take my life I won't get to go to the same place as you. I'll be captive on the wrong side of a one-way glass window. And I'm too scared to leave. And I don't really want to. I just want you back.
I want you back so we can press our hands into wet concrete and leave an impression for the future. I want you back so when I do my yoga, I can reach for your outstretched fingers instead of a box of tissue. I want you back so I can hold your sisters in a hug of love rather than needing them as a brace to hold me up from crumpling onto the floor as my knees give out. I want you back so we can talk to your mother on Bluetooth while we're driving through the mountains. I want to hear her smile on the other side of the line call you Bubs and you call her Mud. I want to hand her a grandchild in a polka-dotted blanket that looks half like you, half like me, and one-hundred percent like an angel. I want to watch you play catch in the front yard with our little boy and not know who is actually the kid because you will always be my Peter Pan.
Now I imagine sixty more years of life with my head looking backwards over my shoulder remembering the time I carried pixie dust. Dreaming of the treasure I once had, the man I got to touch every night and was supposed to still be touching. At what was supposed to be. I imagine trading in our castle in the sky for a windowless, basement studio apartment with dingy carpet and yellowed, linoleum countertops. I imagine a future of boredom and faithlessness. A future of stumbling steps because I'm too busy straining my eyes at what once was. I imagine kissless love and touchless nights. I imagine sex that's governed by ovulation dates and once in a while maybe too much tequila. I imagine divorce. I imagine searching for a time machine so I can go back to the day before that night. I imagine looking for God in everything and never being able to find him. Hidden beneath my clothes, I imagine scratching the skin off my bones and ripping my nails out of their beds just to try to feel pain worse than loosing you. But it never comes.
And then someday I'll die. Alone. And disappear into stardust or sawdust or nothing… I don't know.
In Line
I'm sitting on the airplane flying over the Atlantic back to the USA. I think you are hanging around me on this flight. I was watching a movie. It was one we planned to see together because it stars one of my distant cousins and is his first Hollywood hit. While everyone else's TV worked flawlessly, mine had a complete mind of it's own. It kept stopping and starting and flipping to different movies and entertainment options. The mouse would appear on the screen and flail all around, even though I was not interacting with it. They restarted it twice and it kept doing the same thing, the flight attendant was quite puzzled. Then a bit later it worked just fine. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. But the thought that it was not made me happy. So I decided to choose happiness.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
Marrakech
I'm pretty certain you wouldn't like Marrakech. It's not a place to come to clear your mind. Clearing my mind was ever my intention, keeping it abuzz was more of the plan. Yet it's interesting because as I've moved through the maze of this city today – it's been one of the first times since you left that I thought, "Thank God Ted's not here!" The reason that's come to my mind is NOT because I don't want you here, but simply that I don't think you would want to be here.
It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.
I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.
You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist.
I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.
A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.
I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.
When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.
So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.
The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.
Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.
I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.
Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.
The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.
This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.
But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.
Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.
It reminds me that no matter how in love we were, how agreeable we were, how much we had in common, and how much fun we always had together – we still were very different people.
I've written a lot about our love. And I've thought about it much more than that. Our love was and is beautiful. It was and is irreplaceable. But, our love was and is not perfect. Perfect does not exist. To call our love perfect would be to discredit what we had and have.
You often referred to yourself as a recovering perfectionist.
I imagine us in the kitchen. It's after lunch and I offer to do the dishes. As I rinse each dish and place them in the dishwasher, I can feel your gaze from across the kitchen. You're putting away food, but your eyes are fixed on what's happening near the sink instead. In your eyes, I could never load the dishwasher correctly. Alright, so in most peoples' eyes I couldn't load the dishwasher correctly, I'll give it to you. But my way of doing dishes was unacceptable to you. You liked every dish to be completely, well... clean... before putting it in the washer. Once they were loaded, there was this... system... you had. Plates in this spot... facing this way. "If they don't all face the same way, the water won't spray on them and they won't get clean," you'd explain. "Uh huh," I'd answer. I'd move them to the way you liked them, because I knew you were right and moreso because I liked to make you happy. The glasses went in the top... I did that part right. But sometimes, a glass would slip and end up right-side-up. "Sweetheart, do you know how a dishwasher works?" you'd ask. "Kinda," I'd say. You'd continue, "Let me explain. You see... the water comes from here and it..." "MAGIC!" I'd interrupt, "It works cause of MAGIC." And then I'd bump your hip with mine playfully. I'd kiss your cheek and grin mischievously. I didn't really care about how the machine worked. The dishes would get clean enough for my liking even if they were loaded imperfectly. I didn't have the need to fit as many dishes as possible in the dishwasher. We had plenty of extras to use. And if one slipped and turned upside-down, I'd rinse it out and call it a day.
A similar situation went for laundry. You would do laundry more than me. You said it was because you had less underwear and needed to do it in order to have fresh boxers. But then I bought you a ton more underwear and you kept doing the laundry before me anyway. I'm convinced you really secretly loved to do laundry.
I would wander into our bedroom, eyes glazed over from staring at the computer screen for work. "Oh shit! I didn't know you were doing laundry? Let me help," I'd say. You would be folding clothes. I'd start hanging your t-shirts just like you liked them – color coordinated, all facing the same direction, and de-wrinkled from extra time in the dryer. At some point I'd look over at you because I'd realize you'd been struggling with a garment. You would be caught up trying to fold one of my two-layered yoga tops – one of the ones with a built in sports-bra and an additional layer or two over top. "I just...can't... figure out... how to fold this," you'd say, confused. You'd be folding, and refolding, and refolding. I'd grab the shirt from your hand, haphazardly fold it into a half-ass ball of fabric and respond, "Like this." You'd shrug, "Alright..." Just by the look in your eyes it was obvious you were thinking of how wrinkled the top was about to become if I actually used that method. You were right. But then you'd let it go and go back to folding your boxers into perfect sixths and placing them scrupulously on your shelf.
When we checked into a hotel, you would unpack your bag and meticulously arrange it in the dresser provided. If there were no drawers available, you would hang as much as possible and keep the rest folded methodically in your bag. You were the world's best folder. You would have been the GAP's wet dream of an employee. However, you didn't like to iron because you could never get it perfect enough. Therefore, the dry cleaners knew you well. I, on the other hand, explode like a tornado in my suitcase. I'm not messy. I don't leave clothes on the floor. But I have no problem treasure hunting through my bag to find a matching sock or a missing blouse.
So here I am in Marrakech. I knew this city would be intense, so I spent the extra dime for a great hotel that would afford Natalia and I some zen amidst the craziness. That's just the fancy in me (which you and I had in common). We appreciate a quiet space, a safe refuge, and some class. I had this 'thing' where I would stick up my nose at a hotel if it didn't have white bedspreads. "I can't tell if they're clean if they're not white," I'd insist. You'd get it. You wouldn't think I was just being prissy. So here I am in this beautiful hotel that I can barely afford. They provide rose water, fresh dates and figs, cinnamon scented rooms with lavish tapestries, and Turkish coffee delivered each morning. But just outside the rose-tinted glass door of this beautiful sanctuary is a mad and hectic world.
The tangle of alleys here in Marrakech have no logical pattern. I spent my entire day lost and you know I have a fantastic sense of direction. You would have gone berserk trying to figure out how to get to the next destination because of the impossible wayfinding. Mopeds whizzed around corners, crashing, honking, and nearly running over toes, tourists, and stray cats. When it's not a motorbike, it's a skeletal mule trotting alone pulling a broken down wagon. I imagined your anxiety. You liked calm. You liked space. You liked breath. You liked order. You liked cats.
Add to that the hassling venders while trying to make our way through the souks. One after the other, taunting us with the cheapest deal in town. "Free for you!" they'd lie. "This is Berber silver, not China silver," they'd claim while holding a tin bracelet. "It is real amber, not plastic," they'd demonstrate by holding a lighter's flame up to the obviously glass bead. The vendors, though delightful in many ways, have a discerning ability to make you feel important and beautiful one moment, when you're making them a good deal – and then ugly and angry in the next moment, when you don't agree to their barter. Rather than being excited when you make a deal, they pout with disrespectful theatrics as you walk away with your new purchase.You would have been crushed by the dishonesty. You would have been sad that you could not make them happier. Not to mention the fact that you would be completely unimpressed by 99% of the wares they had to offer. I was stoked by the fresh styles, cheap prices, and exciting banter, but I couldn't help but think about your reaction.
I could imagine the scenario if you were here. I'd be in the sixth store selling the exact same argon oil. Like the good Jew that I am, I'd be bartering for the best price, "The guy down the street said 200 dirhams!" "No, no. This is very good price for you," this shopkeeper would respond, eight of the fifty words he knew in English. You'd be patiently waiting near the door. "No thank you. Shukran," I'd say as I dragged you out of the store, using the one of two words I knew in Arabic. Before walking into store number seven, you would say calmly, "Babe. We should consider how much our time is worth. Maybe just pay the cost they're giving you and we can move on to the next thing?" Always so sensible. As the next shop owner started his theatrics by pulling a dried chameleon out of the apothecary jar, claiming it worked as Viagra, I thought about how you want want to support the economy. How you'd recognize that the cheapest price isn't always the best price, because the locals deserved to make profit too.
Despite my effort to cover my blonde hair and be respectful to the Arabic culture, as a young Western woman, I attract attention. The moment I boarded Air Maroc from Malaga, Spain, I witnessed the change in attitude. The flight attendant flirted as he delivered my in-flight beverage. He told me I had a beautiful smile. When I went to the bathroom, I waited for him to be in a distant area of the cabin, because male attention is unwarranted to me these days. When I left the bathroom, he, unfortunately, was stationed by the lavatory door. "You have a very beautiful eye," he whispered in my ear, as I snuck by him, heading back to my seat. Just one beautiful eye, not two. Since we've been here, there have been some good ones. "Can I put a baby in you?" asked one man in an alley. "Do you want a nice massage?" asked another. And others, just clicked their tongues grossly. In all honesty, I've felt pretty ugly since you left. I went from feeling hot and in love to depressed and lonely. The catcalls are not ideal, but still a stroke to the ego. I imagine you witnessing this vulgar attention I've been receiving. You, never jealous, would let it go with a chuckle – but you would still be concerned with the attitude the women here receive. You appreciated women.
The sound system from the mosques for the call-to-prayer would ricochet throughout the medina throughout the day. I could just imagine you cringing as you heard the muffled audio and fuzzy speakers. I thought about how the slightest bit of static on a radio station would drive you nuts. How if I played a song for you out of the speakers on my iPhone, you simply couldn't offer an opinion on the music because you were so distracted by the unacceptable acoustics. For me, the call-to-prayer was incredibly touching. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stood as a witness to the Muslim's diligent service to God. While you were often governed by acoustics, I am governed by sight. The rhythmic bowing was moving and the sense of community was sublime.
This city is not perfect at all. It's mad. Honestly, I don't know if I like it or not. But I do know that I'm happy I get this opportunity for discovery. And in some ways, I'm OK that I'm doing it without you – because it is allowing me to decide for me, rather than for you (however, in some ways, I'm doing that too...). I get to witness the manic frenzy of traffic, back alleys, birds in jars, shoptalk, haggling, and whistles for what they are to me, not anyone else.
But after my day of getting lost, when my anxiety had risen into high gear and I came back to the hotel for refuge – that's when I really missed you. Even though my suitcase would be a mess and you would be organized like a prince, it wouldn't matter. Because in our own imperfection, we would be a pair. We would have a drink together, crawl under the covers, make love, tell jokes, and get ready for a nice dinner reservation – because while there were certain things we didn't have in common, there were many things we did. We loved to laugh. We loved to relax. We loved to fuck. We loved a glass of good wine. We loved to eat something politically incorrect. We loved so many of the same things. And most of all, we loved to fall asleep happy.
Our love was not perfect. We were two parts that made up a near-perfect whole. But not a perfect whole. And I'm glad of that. But it was the closest thing to perfect I have ever experienced. I never woke up a happier woman then everyday I woke up next to you. You are the closest man to perfect I have ever known. The only imperfection I know, is that you are no longer here.
Dust
The loneliest moment is right before I fall asleep. When I'm laying in the silence trying to pass into my dream world, everything gets very still. Stillness is hard for me, as you know. It's in stillness that I miss you the most.
I miss your warm body next to mine as we drifted off. If I was having trouble getting to sleep, I could rock to my side and snuggle into you. You, even in your unconscious, would murmur love and nestle in closer to me too. It was there, in that cocoon, when sleep would come. And if it didn't, it was ok, because I could just breath you.
Now, the path towards sleep is lonely. It's when I really, really cry. It's when I feel incredibly helpless. It's when the world feels very small, only as big as my body curled alone on a mattress. Alone. There is no you to spoon me. There is no ear to whisper love into. There is no body to arouse. There is no conversation to distract me. There is no excitement for the morning. There are no dreams to share. There is only the hope of sleep to distract me from the pain of waking. There are only tears.
I am trying to focus on the world's bigness. I am trying to focus on the light. I'm trying to show myself that while you are not here, there is so much else that IS here. I am searching for beauty in what is, while cherishing the memory of what is not.
A few months ago, we pulled up to the Burning Man Temple on our scooter. Kevin parked his bicycle behind us. The Temple is a spiritual, solemn, and sacred space for memorials, reflection, and commemorations of life transitions. Visiting the Temple is a stark contrast to experiencing the rest of the city. It was Friday. We had been on the Playa for five days already and were worn out. We were dusty and emotional. We locked up to the perimeter of the Temple of Grace and took deep breaths. We knew this was going to be hard.
It was dusk and a dust storm was setting in. As we entered the walls of the Temple, a whiteout prevented us from seeing anything outside. We all split up. I walked to the left, you went straight, Kevin headed right. The sacred area was full of grieving Burners. People who were broken. People who had loved and lost. The muffled sound of sobs filled the space like a soundtrack. My own tears came immediately. I grieved for my grandmother, who I'd lost a few months prior. I grieved because I knew you were grieving for Sarah, for Jane, and for the world. I grieved because I thought of Kevin's grief for his struggling nephew and his late father. I grieved for the sadness in everyone. The resonance of suffering made my heart throb and my throat tighten. For all the love I have in my heart, the suffering in the Universe is its equal, I thought.
I read the notes that were inscribed on every single beam of wood of the structure: a wallpaper of Sharpie'd messages. I read quotes. I read love notes. I read prayers. I saw altars constructed of memorabilia and soul. I saw photos adhered to the walls of people who had left this world for another dimension. I looked into their two dimensional eyes and offered them peace. I saw sorrow. I saw ashes of a friend who should have been there. I saw grandparents that had lived out their days fully. I saw a mother who died before her child could offer her an apology. I saw a father who was also a best friend. I saw a husband who would never get to meet his unborn child. I saw children who had never been able to take a breath in this lifetime. I saw soldiers who never made it home from war. I saw pets that had run into traffic. I saw tragedy. I saw accidents. I saw addiction that morphed innocence into helplessness. I saw fifty thousand names and offerings. I saw compassion. I saw effigies. I saw offerings. I saw religion. I saw art. I saw love. I saw a carpet of sorrowful tears.
I inscribed my own tributes to the walls. I wrote a note to my grandmother. I wrote a note to your friend Sarah, who I had never met. I wrote a note to humanity. 'Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all.'
I found you and Kevin somewhere amidst the chorus of sobs, each of us uniquely contributing to the refrain. You and I embraced, chests heaving with sorrowful weeping. Kevin joined the hug. The three of us stood there for a long time, holding space for suffering. Eventually, we left the Temple. The ride back to our camp was quiet. We honored the mourning.
The three of us gathered again on Sunday night to watch the Temple of Grace burn, an effigy of light and heat. It's a silent burn. Tens of thousands of people stand in stillness and watch the offering. Weeping is generally the only sound you hear. Every so often, a broken heart will longingly cry out, "Mom...," "I miss you dad...," "I love you...".
I love you, Ted. I miss you, Ted. I miss you all of the time. But I especially miss you in the stillness, when movement can't distract me. I especially miss you in the night, when the sun can't illuminate the beauty of what is still here. I miss you when I am caught in between waking and sleeping and all I want is to reach out and embrace my soul mate. I miss you so much.
I miss your warm body next to mine as we drifted off. If I was having trouble getting to sleep, I could rock to my side and snuggle into you. You, even in your unconscious, would murmur love and nestle in closer to me too. It was there, in that cocoon, when sleep would come. And if it didn't, it was ok, because I could just breath you.
Now, the path towards sleep is lonely. It's when I really, really cry. It's when I feel incredibly helpless. It's when the world feels very small, only as big as my body curled alone on a mattress. Alone. There is no you to spoon me. There is no ear to whisper love into. There is no body to arouse. There is no conversation to distract me. There is no excitement for the morning. There are no dreams to share. There is only the hope of sleep to distract me from the pain of waking. There are only tears.
I am trying to focus on the world's bigness. I am trying to focus on the light. I'm trying to show myself that while you are not here, there is so much else that IS here. I am searching for beauty in what is, while cherishing the memory of what is not.
A few months ago, we pulled up to the Burning Man Temple on our scooter. Kevin parked his bicycle behind us. The Temple is a spiritual, solemn, and sacred space for memorials, reflection, and commemorations of life transitions. Visiting the Temple is a stark contrast to experiencing the rest of the city. It was Friday. We had been on the Playa for five days already and were worn out. We were dusty and emotional. We locked up to the perimeter of the Temple of Grace and took deep breaths. We knew this was going to be hard.
It was dusk and a dust storm was setting in. As we entered the walls of the Temple, a whiteout prevented us from seeing anything outside. We all split up. I walked to the left, you went straight, Kevin headed right. The sacred area was full of grieving Burners. People who were broken. People who had loved and lost. The muffled sound of sobs filled the space like a soundtrack. My own tears came immediately. I grieved for my grandmother, who I'd lost a few months prior. I grieved because I knew you were grieving for Sarah, for Jane, and for the world. I grieved because I thought of Kevin's grief for his struggling nephew and his late father. I grieved for the sadness in everyone. The resonance of suffering made my heart throb and my throat tighten. For all the love I have in my heart, the suffering in the Universe is its equal, I thought.
I read the notes that were inscribed on every single beam of wood of the structure: a wallpaper of Sharpie'd messages. I read quotes. I read love notes. I read prayers. I saw altars constructed of memorabilia and soul. I saw photos adhered to the walls of people who had left this world for another dimension. I looked into their two dimensional eyes and offered them peace. I saw sorrow. I saw ashes of a friend who should have been there. I saw grandparents that had lived out their days fully. I saw a mother who died before her child could offer her an apology. I saw a father who was also a best friend. I saw a husband who would never get to meet his unborn child. I saw children who had never been able to take a breath in this lifetime. I saw soldiers who never made it home from war. I saw pets that had run into traffic. I saw tragedy. I saw accidents. I saw addiction that morphed innocence into helplessness. I saw fifty thousand names and offerings. I saw compassion. I saw effigies. I saw offerings. I saw religion. I saw art. I saw love. I saw a carpet of sorrowful tears.
I inscribed my own tributes to the walls. I wrote a note to my grandmother. I wrote a note to your friend Sarah, who I had never met. I wrote a note to humanity. 'Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all.'
I found you and Kevin somewhere amidst the chorus of sobs, each of us uniquely contributing to the refrain. You and I embraced, chests heaving with sorrowful weeping. Kevin joined the hug. The three of us stood there for a long time, holding space for suffering. Eventually, we left the Temple. The ride back to our camp was quiet. We honored the mourning.
The three of us gathered again on Sunday night to watch the Temple of Grace burn, an effigy of light and heat. It's a silent burn. Tens of thousands of people stand in stillness and watch the offering. Weeping is generally the only sound you hear. Every so often, a broken heart will longingly cry out, "Mom...," "I miss you dad...," "I love you...".
I love you, Ted. I miss you, Ted. I miss you all of the time. But I especially miss you in the stillness, when movement can't distract me. I especially miss you in the night, when the sun can't illuminate the beauty of what is still here. I miss you when I am caught in between waking and sleeping and all I want is to reach out and embrace my soul mate. I miss you so much.
Self Love
This morning, I pulled up photo albums on my iPhone. For one of the first times since your death, I began to scroll through recent photos we took together. I looked at the photos of us dressed to the nines in eclectic gear at Burning Man – in love, in feathers. I smiled at the image of us pointing out our twin bandaids from immunizations before traveling to South Africa this past summer. I saw the looks in our eyes as we were candidly caught sharing a joke at a recent wedding – wide-eyed, laughing, and mid-dance move. There was the photo I stole of you asleep – peaceful, naked, and with your slender arm draped across Kira. We shared gleeful grins and showed off custom hats at a summer theme wedding. There was an image of the two of us at the Chihuly exhibit at the Botanic Gardens – glorious smiles in front of beautiful artwork, right before we got rained on.
I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.
Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.
Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.
As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.
I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.
I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.
I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.
My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.
I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.
As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?
I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.
When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.
And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?
I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.
I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.
Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.
I felt like a voyeur looking at our photos. I felt like someone who was sneaking a peek on someone else's happiness – happiness that wasn't mine to witness. I saw love that I couldn't touch, but thought I had a right to.
Looking at our photos was a reminder of the physical you. I imagined your chest. I thought about how I loved to lay my check across your heart and listen to it beat. How I loved to kiss your torso. How I would run my hand across your strong abs, tracing the faint definition of your six-pack. I would admire each muscle. Your skin was so smooth, like a luxurious silk. Your chest was nearly hairless, a barely-there layer of peach fuzz. We noticed one time that your left nipple was a couple centimeters higher than your right one. It was only noticeable when you were in a tight t-shirt or topless. Your asymmetry made you human. It made you even more beautiful to me. I thought of the way your skin would taste when I would put my lips on you – a mix of organic eucalyptus and Himalayan salt. I would give anything to taste you again, to touch you again.
Despite my faith that we are still connected spiritually – the absence of your physical body made me incredibly lonely.
As I wandered the tiny streets and alleyways of Malaga today I witnessed public displays of affection between Spanish couples. I saw kisses. I saw interlaced hands. I saw women who were able to touch the gorgeous chests of their men. Despite being so surrounded by people, by the static energy of city life, by love, by my dear friend, and by the big world – I was alone.
I walked across a bridge where lovers had attached inscribed padlocks to the metal grates and thrown the keys over the aqueduct. The locks were fixed on the bridge forever, a sign of undying love. I looked at all the names, the hearts, the initials, the various styles of locks – and I wondered how long they had been there. I wondered about the loves those locks represented. Where was that love now? Was it still alive? I imagined women who were able to touch their man, in the flesh. I felt envy as solitude burned.
I've been thinking a lot about my fear of being alone. It's a new experience for me. I haven't been on my own since I began dating at about seventeen or eighteen. There's always been someone. Natalia said today, "You're quite the serial monogamist!" It's true. I'm scared shitless of being without a partner. And yet, unlike the past – I don't want to be with anybody at all. When a vision of partnership creeps into my mind (because it's been the natural step for me in the past) – I shudder. My mouth waters with nausea. My body contracts. My heart cracks more. My eyes fill with tears. I think about my cheek on your chest, just your chest. I want just you.
I've always been a planner. When I graduate high school, I will go far away for college. I will go to school to be a designer. This year I will find the man of my dreams. Next year I will move in with said lover. This will be the last man I ever live with. Next year I will get engaged. I will design and live in a beautiful home. I will have a baby when I am 29, the first of three. They will all be blonde. I will have a breast lift after my third child. I will raise them Jewish (the children, not the boobs). I will have sex daily until I can no longer walk. There's been a whole lot of planning that hasn't panned out the way I expected.
My only option for survival is to drop the master plan and embrace being alone.
I imagine myself partner-less. It is horrifying. I see myself sobbing through romantic comedies while eating MSG-fueled cashew chicken with a plastic fork. I see my bed never made and the sheets still unwashed since your passing. I see my beautiful lingerie being eaten by moths as it rots in the back of a drawer. I see empty bottles of two-buck-chuck wine littering the kitchen counter. I see a leaky pipe that drips and drips and drips because I don't know how to fix it. I see running marathons and pretending it's fun. I see being Sad Auntie Sami to dozens of my friends' children. I see many, many cats. I see overworking myself just to fill time. I see buying new pairs of sweatpants in a larger size.
As I have shared my fears with those around me, I've realized there may be another option. Maybe I can take the love we shared, and ACTUALLY give it to myself. Not lie and say that's the plan, but actually do it. Then I wonder, do I actually love myself?
I had a sore throat this morning and it reminded me of you. When you were under the weather – you were on a mission of self care. You would wake up and drink an entire glass of water. You would make a fresh breakfast, but carefully avoid dairy as to not build the bacteria. You would drink a tincture of KickAss Immune, Astragalus Root, Echinacea, and Colloidal Silver every ninety minutes. You'd remember it because you set an alarm to go off at increments. You'd take at least a dozen vitamins. You'd mince raw garlic and let it sit out for thirty minutes – then you'd eat half the garlic, raw. Your pores reeking of garlic, you'd take the remainder of the root and mix it with fresh ginger, turmeric, cayenne, honey, and natural throat coat and make it into a tea. You'd re-steep the tea all day. You would swallow two spoonfuls of honey with a tablespoon of cinnamon mixed in. You would relax and give yourself space. You would not feel guilty for laying on the couch and putting your to-do list aside. This was your routine. And you didn't do it for anyone but yourself – you did it because you LOVED yourself and because you were committed to being healthy. You did it to make yourself happy.
When I got sick, I would make some tea, take an Advil, complain, and go to work. I would think about self-care when I had the time for it – which I didn't often find. You would bring me vitamins and tincture to me at my desk. I'd swallow the tincture and say thank you. You would arrive ninety minutes later with a fresh tincture refill and a mug of the 'get-better' tea. The vitamins you'd brought me would still be sitting there because I would have forgotten to take them. My desire to actually get better was half-assed. I was more concerned with keeping my boss, co-workers, and you happy – I was on the back burner.
And then I think about my yoga practice. While it's been a journey in the right direction – what has the purpose of my practice REALLY been about? Self-love or looking good? I fear it's the latter. I don't say this to sell myself short – I can hear you in the back of my mind saying "Sami, give yourself more credit than that. You are incredible!" But that's another example right there. Do I believe in my own success?
I have been living on a battleground of ego versus heart for my entire life. Ego has generally won – the need for acceptance, the desire to look good, the thrill of success. But now, through this devastation, my heart has been forced to take the lead. I no longer have the energy to confront my ego. I only have my broken heart. It's the only option. So, now, through this tragedy I must learn to truly love myself. I must learn to be alone.
I choose to redefine the scenario of me, on my own. I will take myself out on dates, eating at a table alone without fear. I will sleep in my lingerie because I like the way I look and feel in it, without a need for someone to tell me I look sexy. I will become friends with men and not sleep with them. I will go to yoga and practice because it's good for my body and healing to my soul. I will learn to meditate without fear of stillness. I will take care of my cold because I have the power to feel good on my own. I will follow the football team that I like. I will discover what I actually want for breakfast – not just adopt my partner's routine. I will watch romantic comedies if I want to – or I will read a book because I won't need to fill space with screens and static. I will learn how to grow herbs and flowers and actually have the patience for their slow life. I will travel to a place (or even live somewhere!) of my own choosing. I will cook for one. I will be one.
Instead of focusing on my failed plans, I will honor life's uncertainty and surrender to my own solitude. I will let grief run its course – even if it takes years or decades. I will go inside to my heart and my body, rather than battle with my ego mind. I will honor the memory of our true love with self love.
Labyrinth
This past year at Burning Man, Kevin, you, and I took a ride out to Deep Playa. We were searching for nothing and everything at the same time. We had no plan, which was your favorite way to journey. Far away from the lights and bass of the city, almost to the trash fence, we stumbled upon a labyrinth carved into the earth. It was camouflaged, a facade amongst the clay earth. We headed to the entrance of the maze and began to walk.
The network of paths was narrow and we moved forward in a single file line. At first we moved in silence, one foot in front of the other, moving slowly. Then, we began to talk about unique experiences of our own life-wanderings. We shared, we laughed, we cried, and we walked within the web for a long time.
The labyrinth's network was unclear. We couldn't tell where we were in the system – at times we'd laugh and ask, "Are we even halfway through this?" The mid-point was unrecognizable from our place in the midst of the web. "Is this the beginning, middle or end?" I would ask, impatiently. "It doesn't matter," you would respond, "It could be anything." We continued on our pilgrimage.
Do we ever really know the end from the beginning? What I thought was the beginning for us, turned out to be our last day together. And yet, maybe that terrible night was just the beginning, or maybe a dot within the middle of our own odyssey together through consciousness.
As I sat on Natalia's patio for la comida (a leisurely lunch) this afternoon, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore blended in the distance with Nati's partner, Jaime's classical guitar melody. As I heard the sounds I felt a sense of clairaudience. You are here even in your absence. It's all connected. I suddenly knew. It's all one and the same. As clear as it is that you are not here, it is also clear that you are here.
I heard you in the soulful conversation at lunch. I heard the ideas that you loved to discuss. I heard the music that you loved to create. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and it reminded me of the dream I had last night where you appeared and we had a new adventure together. I saw you in the love of Nati and Jamie. They met not long after we did, but after Natalia told me she was inspired by our love. So, in some ways, we helped foster their love, and therefore, you are inside of them. And I felt it absolutely.
The morning after your death, as I clung to your Aunt Ginny's mattress, trying to ground myself and understand this new emotion – grief – my friend Amirah was the first person to arrive. Her face stained with tears and mind aghast at the tragedy, she simply held space for my devastation. She brought her baby, Sora, with her to the house. As she entered the bedroom, she apologized for bringing the baby. She hadn't been able to find someone to watch her on such short notice. I told her not to worry. I was glad Sora was there, but I didn't know why yet.
As Amirah sat with me, in essence she cradled both her baby and her friend. All of a sudden, Sora, with huge brown eyes of innocence, looked into my grief-stricken eyes and reached out towards me. She grabbed your necklace, which was on my neck. It was the necklace you wore beneath your shirt every day – a wrap that contained both sides of an ammonite nested within a alkaline dust of gold, silver, and burning man ash. It was the necklace that only a few hours before, in the hospital, I'd removed from your neck and placed on mine. The baby reached for the necklace, grasped it in her tiny hand, and looked into my eyes, and I gasped. "Ted is inside of Sora," I told Amirah, "I'm so glad you brought her." It was the first time I saw your spirit in something other than your physical self.
William Blake wrote:
To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
We are all connected. You are here. You are in the ocean. You are in each grain of sand. You are in my voice. You are in the dog's tongue that kisses my cheek. You are in the conversation I'm having and the one the strangers down the beach are having too. You are in a star that makes up the farthest constellation away from this place. You are in your friends' rituals. You are in the love I offer to myself. You are in your mother's heartbeat.
Quantum physicist, Michael Talbot, who authored your favorite book, The Holographic Universe, says that the energy of a trillion atomic bombs is in every cubic centimeter of space. Space is not empty, as we often see. Instead, it is full. It is more dense than any other matter – a plenum as opposed to a vacuum. So when your soul ascended from your body that night and I watched your spirit leave its physical habitat, you became a part of the fabric of the universe. You became the light. You became time. You became space.
So I continue on my journey. What I thought was the beginning of our life was redefined by the Universe's lesson. Is it the beginning, the middle, or the end? It is all three. Am I alone or among all? I am both. I have learned that placing faith in the future is fruitless. I cannot trust the future – not even this very breath. Though expectations and plans are not entirely futile – they are an important exercise in patience and uncertainty.
For now, I walk with myself on this journey. Myself – which is the sum of everything I am and have been, all I've learned, all my memories, all I love, all I've touched – and I honor this very moment in my understanding of time, this very lesson in my own pilgrimage, and seize an openness to the connectedness of us all, you included, within this labyrinth of consciousness.
The network of paths was narrow and we moved forward in a single file line. At first we moved in silence, one foot in front of the other, moving slowly. Then, we began to talk about unique experiences of our own life-wanderings. We shared, we laughed, we cried, and we walked within the web for a long time.
The labyrinth's network was unclear. We couldn't tell where we were in the system – at times we'd laugh and ask, "Are we even halfway through this?" The mid-point was unrecognizable from our place in the midst of the web. "Is this the beginning, middle or end?" I would ask, impatiently. "It doesn't matter," you would respond, "It could be anything." We continued on our pilgrimage.
Do we ever really know the end from the beginning? What I thought was the beginning for us, turned out to be our last day together. And yet, maybe that terrible night was just the beginning, or maybe a dot within the middle of our own odyssey together through consciousness.
As I sat on Natalia's patio for la comida (a leisurely lunch) this afternoon, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore blended in the distance with Nati's partner, Jaime's classical guitar melody. As I heard the sounds I felt a sense of clairaudience. You are here even in your absence. It's all connected. I suddenly knew. It's all one and the same. As clear as it is that you are not here, it is also clear that you are here.
I heard you in the soulful conversation at lunch. I heard the ideas that you loved to discuss. I heard the music that you loved to create. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and it reminded me of the dream I had last night where you appeared and we had a new adventure together. I saw you in the love of Nati and Jamie. They met not long after we did, but after Natalia told me she was inspired by our love. So, in some ways, we helped foster their love, and therefore, you are inside of them. And I felt it absolutely.
The morning after your death, as I clung to your Aunt Ginny's mattress, trying to ground myself and understand this new emotion – grief – my friend Amirah was the first person to arrive. Her face stained with tears and mind aghast at the tragedy, she simply held space for my devastation. She brought her baby, Sora, with her to the house. As she entered the bedroom, she apologized for bringing the baby. She hadn't been able to find someone to watch her on such short notice. I told her not to worry. I was glad Sora was there, but I didn't know why yet.
As Amirah sat with me, in essence she cradled both her baby and her friend. All of a sudden, Sora, with huge brown eyes of innocence, looked into my grief-stricken eyes and reached out towards me. She grabbed your necklace, which was on my neck. It was the necklace you wore beneath your shirt every day – a wrap that contained both sides of an ammonite nested within a alkaline dust of gold, silver, and burning man ash. It was the necklace that only a few hours before, in the hospital, I'd removed from your neck and placed on mine. The baby reached for the necklace, grasped it in her tiny hand, and looked into my eyes, and I gasped. "Ted is inside of Sora," I told Amirah, "I'm so glad you brought her." It was the first time I saw your spirit in something other than your physical self.
William Blake wrote:
To see a world in a grain of sand
And heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
We are all connected. You are here. You are in the ocean. You are in each grain of sand. You are in my voice. You are in the dog's tongue that kisses my cheek. You are in the conversation I'm having and the one the strangers down the beach are having too. You are in a star that makes up the farthest constellation away from this place. You are in your friends' rituals. You are in the love I offer to myself. You are in your mother's heartbeat.
Quantum physicist, Michael Talbot, who authored your favorite book, The Holographic Universe, says that the energy of a trillion atomic bombs is in every cubic centimeter of space. Space is not empty, as we often see. Instead, it is full. It is more dense than any other matter – a plenum as opposed to a vacuum. So when your soul ascended from your body that night and I watched your spirit leave its physical habitat, you became a part of the fabric of the universe. You became the light. You became time. You became space.
So I continue on my journey. What I thought was the beginning of our life was redefined by the Universe's lesson. Is it the beginning, the middle, or the end? It is all three. Am I alone or among all? I am both. I have learned that placing faith in the future is fruitless. I cannot trust the future – not even this very breath. Though expectations and plans are not entirely futile – they are an important exercise in patience and uncertainty.
For now, I walk with myself on this journey. Myself – which is the sum of everything I am and have been, all I've learned, all my memories, all I love, all I've touched – and I honor this very moment in my understanding of time, this very lesson in my own pilgrimage, and seize an openness to the connectedness of us all, you included, within this labyrinth of consciousness.
The List
When I was in my early-to-mid twenties and getting to know my 'needs' through relationships – when a partnership ended – I would add attributes to 'the list'. You know, the list that women, and some men, devise in their mind or journal of what their partner NEEDS to be like.
When one relationship ended and another began, I generally would dismiss every red flag that appeared. My girlfriends would calmly say something like, "I thought you weren't going to date any more men who drink that much?" or "Remember how you said your next boyfriend was going to have a job?" or "Do you think meeting someone who's fifteen years older than you and has never has a relationship longer than six months is a good call?" or "I don't think he's actually single." I became very good at dismissing the warnings and concocting a reason in my mind regarding how and why this person fit the bill. I'd generally give it a good year or more before realizing that the warnings should have been heeded.
I would leave the relationship more broken than I was when I began. Generally, my pride would be incredibly damaged. Sometimes, I would have been taken advantage of financially. My friends and family would have a little less faith in my decision-making skills. Maybe I'd loose some friends altogether in the process. But, even though I NEVER adhered to it, I had my list. I also learned lessons along the way. I may have been stubborn or not always acted wisely when I moved forward, but the lessons were in me.
Then around Christmas of 2012, I went through yet another shitastic breakup – one that I should have seen coming since day one, one that I should not only have heeded the advice regarding but one that I should have been smart enough to see myself. So after that breakup, I ripped up my list. I decided I had set my standards and hopes too high. Essentially, I gave up on love. I'd have to settle.
I reworked the list:
• not an alcoholic
• not abusive
• not severely in debt
• not mentally insane
• well-endowed (bonus)
I decided I no longer cared if the person had 'baggage' – like six children or a hateful ex-wife. I originally wanted a man who was smarter than I and who would always keep me learning, but I gave that up. I decided as a twenty-eight year old women, I was far too old and too fat to attract a good-looking man, so I would be OK with someone who was passable in the right light. I decided a man who owned a home or, shit, had a savings account was asking far too much. I gave up on needing a man who was athletic or interested in health. Good-in-bed and passionate, I let it go – as long as he was decently endowed I would just do the work myself. I thought a good relationship with his family and parents who are still married would be a strong plus, but then I decided to scratch that too, that was cutting out fifty percent of men at least, and I needed options open. A man who likes children and would be a good dad was an original necessity, but I let those go too. I preferred a democrat, but hey, forget it. They were hard to come by in Texas. Someone who's well-traveled or at least had a stamp in his passport. I let it go, no passport necessary. A man who would try yoga or in the very least not ridicule my practice... that was also eliminated from the list. Someone who had his own passions and hobbies – oh well, I decided, no hobbies is fine. A man who doesn't drink a lot. Well, I guess that's not my choice to make. I wouldn't want to seem too overbearing. I'd love a man who appreciates the arts, and isn't all math and science. But, screw it, bring me a computer engineer. I'd love a guy who likes to enjoy fine food and wine – however, I gave that up too. Chicken lo mein and White Zinfandel are eclectic, right? A man who doesn't watch TV or play video games for hours a day would have been nice, I but I gave it up. On my original list, I wanted a man who brushed his teeth at least twice a day. I dropped it, I'll deal with fuzzy-sweater teeth. Originally, I thought it would be great if he put the seat down after peeing. Scratched that off. I had always dreamed of having a man who liked to dance with me and would randomly start to sing out-of-nowhere, but I had never actually met a guy like that except for my Dad, so I crossed it off the list with the decision that men like that weren't a part of my generation. Oh yeah, kind and funny... that would be cool, but I guess I could live without it. Also, I gave up needing a MAN. I decided to keep my options open to women too, even though I'd never swung that way.
So, let's just say I lowered my standards.
And then I met you. And, for starters, you fit my five needs.
Then, I realized you automatically fit a bunch of the other attributes from "the list" that I'd pitched and smudged-sticked away the memory of. As we continued to date, I realized you were fitting into more and more of those desires that I'd given up on. I began to fish them back out of the dump in the back of my brain – checking off checkbox, after checkbox, after checkbox. I told you about my list. You laughed. You had done the same thing. We were each other's list. And more than that, we were even filling the little boxes at the end of the lists, the hopefuls at the very bottom, written lightly in pencil. You were the definition of my list. You were the one I had been looking for all along. You were the man of my dreams.
When I learned about how obsessed you were with dental hygiene, I was tickled. You were dedicated to teeth-cleanings every three months. You couldn't believe I hadn't gone in over a year! You not only knew your hygienist by name (Stephanie) but you also knew her little girl was Sami. You didn't only brush, but you also flossed. You bought my an electric toothbrush for my birthday.
When we began dating, you came to your first yoga class within a month. You told me you'd always wanted to do yoga, you just hadn't had someone to show you how. You'd imagined someday dating a yoga teacher so she could show you the ropes. It had been a pipe dream of yours. As we continued to date, our practices grew together.
You put the seat down after peeing every time.
I remember the first time I heard you sing. We were in your bathroom in Boulder. I was still in the shower, but you were toweling off. You began to sing. I don't remember the song. I froze. I couldn't believe it. My heart started to beat so loudly I thought I'd be able to see it pounding through my chest. I fell in love with you more in that moment. I got out of the shower, and decided to test my luck. I walked over you to hold your hands. You took them, pulled me in, and we danced. Naked. While you sang to me. It was fucking glorious.
And then there was your family. Not only were you close with them and your family very connected, but it just so happens that I've know them for over fifteen years. Your youngest sister is one of my closest friends. She'd sent me a birthday card at dance camp when I turned thirteen. I'd attended your other sister's wedding. I went to the same school as you. Your parents are kind, generous, funny, and classy beyond my highest expectations.
And then, as I met your extended family – I was floored. Over and over. Every single member of your family was incredible. They were intelligent, sophisticated, beautiful, healthy, creative, and doing good in their lives and the world. I couldn't have dreamt of a better family to marry in to. I never thought it was possible to love a family as much as I loved my own – and then I met your family, and I could. After I'd meet a new cousin or uncle, I'd say, "Seriously Ted? Do you have anyone whose not gorgeous in this family? Do you have anyone whose socially awkward? Any black sheep, anywhere?" No. None. Nada. I couldn't believe this was to become the family I would be a part of. This was the family that I would summer with, raise our own children beside, and get to know more and more forever. I was the luckiest woman alive.
And then there was you, my love. Simply you – none of the 'stuff' that you came 'with'. Not the house, the vacation homes, or the bank account. Not the stamps in your passport, liberal mindset, love of music, or passion for sushi. Not even the family or the way you made my heart jump when you held a baby. Just you.
A man who was so kind. Who would reach across the car and rest your hand on my leg while driving, without thought, just to touch me. A man who would look me in the eye and smile with devout love when we were simply chopping vegetables. A man who surprised me on my doorstep in Austin when we were still dating long distance – with roses. A man who would hide polished stone hearts in secret hiding places for me to find when I wasn't expecting them. A man who always said "NO" when I asked if my outfit made me look fat. A man who every time we were sat at a booth in a restaurant would move the menu from across the booth to the same side, and slide in beside me, just so we could be a bit closer. A man who in yoga, would give up the spot in the row he liked and come to the front, next to me, so he could hold my hand in svasana. A man who always remembered to leave the lights on if I was coming home later. A man who would listen when I had something to say, no matter how silly it was. A man who taught me new things about myself everyday. A man with more depth than the deepest floors of the ocean. A man who was willing to change but always stay true to himself. A man who would kiss me softly if I needed it. A man who would kiss me hard if I needed it. A man who was a better man when he was with me, and made me a better woman when I was with him.
And now, here I am without you. Lost. Confused. Unsure. Did something wrong. Did I ask for too much? Was it all a cruel joke? What do I do next? Where do I go from here? How can I live without you? Do I burn the list?
When one relationship ended and another began, I generally would dismiss every red flag that appeared. My girlfriends would calmly say something like, "I thought you weren't going to date any more men who drink that much?" or "Remember how you said your next boyfriend was going to have a job?" or "Do you think meeting someone who's fifteen years older than you and has never has a relationship longer than six months is a good call?" or "I don't think he's actually single." I became very good at dismissing the warnings and concocting a reason in my mind regarding how and why this person fit the bill. I'd generally give it a good year or more before realizing that the warnings should have been heeded.
I would leave the relationship more broken than I was when I began. Generally, my pride would be incredibly damaged. Sometimes, I would have been taken advantage of financially. My friends and family would have a little less faith in my decision-making skills. Maybe I'd loose some friends altogether in the process. But, even though I NEVER adhered to it, I had my list. I also learned lessons along the way. I may have been stubborn or not always acted wisely when I moved forward, but the lessons were in me.
Then around Christmas of 2012, I went through yet another shitastic breakup – one that I should have seen coming since day one, one that I should not only have heeded the advice regarding but one that I should have been smart enough to see myself. So after that breakup, I ripped up my list. I decided I had set my standards and hopes too high. Essentially, I gave up on love. I'd have to settle.
I reworked the list:
• not an alcoholic
• not abusive
• not severely in debt
• not mentally insane
• well-endowed (bonus)
I decided I no longer cared if the person had 'baggage' – like six children or a hateful ex-wife. I originally wanted a man who was smarter than I and who would always keep me learning, but I gave that up. I decided as a twenty-eight year old women, I was far too old and too fat to attract a good-looking man, so I would be OK with someone who was passable in the right light. I decided a man who owned a home or, shit, had a savings account was asking far too much. I gave up on needing a man who was athletic or interested in health. Good-in-bed and passionate, I let it go – as long as he was decently endowed I would just do the work myself. I thought a good relationship with his family and parents who are still married would be a strong plus, but then I decided to scratch that too, that was cutting out fifty percent of men at least, and I needed options open. A man who likes children and would be a good dad was an original necessity, but I let those go too. I preferred a democrat, but hey, forget it. They were hard to come by in Texas. Someone who's well-traveled or at least had a stamp in his passport. I let it go, no passport necessary. A man who would try yoga or in the very least not ridicule my practice... that was also eliminated from the list. Someone who had his own passions and hobbies – oh well, I decided, no hobbies is fine. A man who doesn't drink a lot. Well, I guess that's not my choice to make. I wouldn't want to seem too overbearing. I'd love a man who appreciates the arts, and isn't all math and science. But, screw it, bring me a computer engineer. I'd love a guy who likes to enjoy fine food and wine – however, I gave that up too. Chicken lo mein and White Zinfandel are eclectic, right? A man who doesn't watch TV or play video games for hours a day would have been nice, I but I gave it up. On my original list, I wanted a man who brushed his teeth at least twice a day. I dropped it, I'll deal with fuzzy-sweater teeth. Originally, I thought it would be great if he put the seat down after peeing. Scratched that off. I had always dreamed of having a man who liked to dance with me and would randomly start to sing out-of-nowhere, but I had never actually met a guy like that except for my Dad, so I crossed it off the list with the decision that men like that weren't a part of my generation. Oh yeah, kind and funny... that would be cool, but I guess I could live without it. Also, I gave up needing a MAN. I decided to keep my options open to women too, even though I'd never swung that way.
So, let's just say I lowered my standards.
And then I met you. And, for starters, you fit my five needs.
Then, I realized you automatically fit a bunch of the other attributes from "the list" that I'd pitched and smudged-sticked away the memory of. As we continued to date, I realized you were fitting into more and more of those desires that I'd given up on. I began to fish them back out of the dump in the back of my brain – checking off checkbox, after checkbox, after checkbox. I told you about my list. You laughed. You had done the same thing. We were each other's list. And more than that, we were even filling the little boxes at the end of the lists, the hopefuls at the very bottom, written lightly in pencil. You were the definition of my list. You were the one I had been looking for all along. You were the man of my dreams.
When I learned about how obsessed you were with dental hygiene, I was tickled. You were dedicated to teeth-cleanings every three months. You couldn't believe I hadn't gone in over a year! You not only knew your hygienist by name (Stephanie) but you also knew her little girl was Sami. You didn't only brush, but you also flossed. You bought my an electric toothbrush for my birthday.
When we began dating, you came to your first yoga class within a month. You told me you'd always wanted to do yoga, you just hadn't had someone to show you how. You'd imagined someday dating a yoga teacher so she could show you the ropes. It had been a pipe dream of yours. As we continued to date, our practices grew together.
You put the seat down after peeing every time.
I remember the first time I heard you sing. We were in your bathroom in Boulder. I was still in the shower, but you were toweling off. You began to sing. I don't remember the song. I froze. I couldn't believe it. My heart started to beat so loudly I thought I'd be able to see it pounding through my chest. I fell in love with you more in that moment. I got out of the shower, and decided to test my luck. I walked over you to hold your hands. You took them, pulled me in, and we danced. Naked. While you sang to me. It was fucking glorious.
And then there was your family. Not only were you close with them and your family very connected, but it just so happens that I've know them for over fifteen years. Your youngest sister is one of my closest friends. She'd sent me a birthday card at dance camp when I turned thirteen. I'd attended your other sister's wedding. I went to the same school as you. Your parents are kind, generous, funny, and classy beyond my highest expectations.
And then, as I met your extended family – I was floored. Over and over. Every single member of your family was incredible. They were intelligent, sophisticated, beautiful, healthy, creative, and doing good in their lives and the world. I couldn't have dreamt of a better family to marry in to. I never thought it was possible to love a family as much as I loved my own – and then I met your family, and I could. After I'd meet a new cousin or uncle, I'd say, "Seriously Ted? Do you have anyone whose not gorgeous in this family? Do you have anyone whose socially awkward? Any black sheep, anywhere?" No. None. Nada. I couldn't believe this was to become the family I would be a part of. This was the family that I would summer with, raise our own children beside, and get to know more and more forever. I was the luckiest woman alive.
And then there was you, my love. Simply you – none of the 'stuff' that you came 'with'. Not the house, the vacation homes, or the bank account. Not the stamps in your passport, liberal mindset, love of music, or passion for sushi. Not even the family or the way you made my heart jump when you held a baby. Just you.
A man who was so kind. Who would reach across the car and rest your hand on my leg while driving, without thought, just to touch me. A man who would look me in the eye and smile with devout love when we were simply chopping vegetables. A man who surprised me on my doorstep in Austin when we were still dating long distance – with roses. A man who would hide polished stone hearts in secret hiding places for me to find when I wasn't expecting them. A man who always said "NO" when I asked if my outfit made me look fat. A man who every time we were sat at a booth in a restaurant would move the menu from across the booth to the same side, and slide in beside me, just so we could be a bit closer. A man who in yoga, would give up the spot in the row he liked and come to the front, next to me, so he could hold my hand in svasana. A man who always remembered to leave the lights on if I was coming home later. A man who would listen when I had something to say, no matter how silly it was. A man who taught me new things about myself everyday. A man with more depth than the deepest floors of the ocean. A man who was willing to change but always stay true to himself. A man who would kiss me softly if I needed it. A man who would kiss me hard if I needed it. A man who was a better man when he was with me, and made me a better woman when I was with him.
And now, here I am without you. Lost. Confused. Unsure. Did something wrong. Did I ask for too much? Was it all a cruel joke? What do I do next? Where do I go from here? How can I live without you? Do I burn the list?
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