Showing posts with label soulmate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label soulmate. Show all posts
Winging it
The biggest commitment one can make in love is to be parted by death. Now, it is up to me alone – the remainder of our pair – to remember. To remember the way you said 'I love you'. To remember the promises we intended to keep for ourselves and one another. To remember how it felt to dance wrapped in each others arms. To remember how peaceful it was to sleep next to you and wake up nestled in your body. To remember the way my heart felt warm when I was with you. To remember how OK everything always was when you were there. To remember the way your hand danced with mine – the way your fingers explored every ridge of my skin. To remember how it felt to lock our eyes – how our pupils dilated as our souls merged. To remember how we came together when we made love. To remember how safe I felt when you held me. Now, as I question everything, it is up to me to remember how it felt to question nothing.
I'm winging it now. When I keep my gaze down and my mind full, I can fake progress. Maybe it's not always faking. But when I catch my reflection in a mirror and see my own sad eyes staring back at me, I realize that I'm so not OK. Now I wear sunglasses when it's overcast. I wear them not to protect my eyes from the sun, but to protect the world from seeing me and from me seeing me. Loneliness grows like a spreading tumor. I reach out to cope. I reach out in some healthy ways. I reach out in some unhealthy ways. I reach out in some ways that I don't know what the fuck to think about them. But I reach out to try to catch my balance amidst a fall. I reach out to anything that I can cling to as I tumble down this hole. I don't know what's at the bottom. I don't know if there's ground. I don't know if there's light. I don't know if there's love. I don't know if there's peace. I don't know if there's death. I just know that I'm falling, I'm reaching, and I'm alone.
For the first time in my life, I've chosen to truly go inside. I am staying in my broken shell and dissecting the pieces that are left of me. I am not letting very many people in anymore. I'm scared of what I might lose. I'm scared of what they might find. I'm scared of showing that I've lost control. I've lost. My tail is between my legs and I cower, embraced in my own arms. But my arms don't comfort me. No arms comfort me. Only your arms ever made me feel truly safe, truly special, and truly loved. I have to learn to find comfort and safety within the confines of my self. But it's hard. It's like taking an icepick to a glacier. How deep does it go? Where is the root? Hidden so far under the surface. Floating. Cracked. Melting. Buried.
I try to protect myself from further pain, but what used to hurt me now only tingles numbly. I can't tell if the trembles help or hurt. Just more feelings to join in the dance of my despair. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not interacting with you. Every thing I do reminds me of my loneliness. I no longer want to climb in our bed at night. It's too sad. I don't want to sleep because I'll only wake one day farther from the last day I saw you. The void that exists in the space you filled becomes larger – every breath, every hour, every day. Even in the moments when I may smile, I may laugh, I may feel pleasure – the truth is that I am in severe pain. I am missing you indescribably. My love for you remains my guiding light. I am here, powerlessly lonely. Reaching. Praying. Coping. Winging it.
Wherever you are tonight, my love, I hope to God you're having a beautiful adventure. That's the thing about love, I would never want you to feel pain. So, today, despite the clouds covering my universe, I am grateful that you left us peacefully – and that I am the one who has to suffer, not you.
I'm winging it now. When I keep my gaze down and my mind full, I can fake progress. Maybe it's not always faking. But when I catch my reflection in a mirror and see my own sad eyes staring back at me, I realize that I'm so not OK. Now I wear sunglasses when it's overcast. I wear them not to protect my eyes from the sun, but to protect the world from seeing me and from me seeing me. Loneliness grows like a spreading tumor. I reach out to cope. I reach out in some healthy ways. I reach out in some unhealthy ways. I reach out in some ways that I don't know what the fuck to think about them. But I reach out to try to catch my balance amidst a fall. I reach out to anything that I can cling to as I tumble down this hole. I don't know what's at the bottom. I don't know if there's ground. I don't know if there's light. I don't know if there's love. I don't know if there's peace. I don't know if there's death. I just know that I'm falling, I'm reaching, and I'm alone.
For the first time in my life, I've chosen to truly go inside. I am staying in my broken shell and dissecting the pieces that are left of me. I am not letting very many people in anymore. I'm scared of what I might lose. I'm scared of what they might find. I'm scared of showing that I've lost control. I've lost. My tail is between my legs and I cower, embraced in my own arms. But my arms don't comfort me. No arms comfort me. Only your arms ever made me feel truly safe, truly special, and truly loved. I have to learn to find comfort and safety within the confines of my self. But it's hard. It's like taking an icepick to a glacier. How deep does it go? Where is the root? Hidden so far under the surface. Floating. Cracked. Melting. Buried.
I try to protect myself from further pain, but what used to hurt me now only tingles numbly. I can't tell if the trembles help or hurt. Just more feelings to join in the dance of my despair. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not interacting with you. Every thing I do reminds me of my loneliness. I no longer want to climb in our bed at night. It's too sad. I don't want to sleep because I'll only wake one day farther from the last day I saw you. The void that exists in the space you filled becomes larger – every breath, every hour, every day. Even in the moments when I may smile, I may laugh, I may feel pleasure – the truth is that I am in severe pain. I am missing you indescribably. My love for you remains my guiding light. I am here, powerlessly lonely. Reaching. Praying. Coping. Winging it.
Wherever you are tonight, my love, I hope to God you're having a beautiful adventure. That's the thing about love, I would never want you to feel pain. So, today, despite the clouds covering my universe, I am grateful that you left us peacefully – and that I am the one who has to suffer, not you.
Anniversary
I didn't know what to expect from this weekend. I am in Chicago for the Pink Party, the fundraiser event that your sister Berkley, and her husband Bob, founded to honor their beloved baby Jane who was born asleep 3 years ago. It is the event we met at. It is our two-year anniversary. A year ago, we attended this event arm-in-arm. I wore a European pink, chiffon, and sequin strapless gown. I'd bought it in Vail one day when you went skiing and I stayed at the house to work. I felt like a prima ballerina at the party that night, our one-year anniversary. You coordinated your outfit with my dress, as you always loved to do. We shopped together to find you a tie and a new shirt. Initially, you planned to wear a black suit – you felt it was appropriate for winter – but I convinced you to go with your grey one – a Hugo Boss we bought together for you in Austin. You looked so handsome in a suit. It was you in a suit that caught my eye two-years ago at this same event. But, I don't get to see you in a suit tomorrow. It is not only our two-year anniversary, but also marks three months since your death. I have my pink dress, but I don't have my love. Your sister has the memory of Jane, she has her newborn son, William, but she doesn't have her brother. Anxiety is creeping up into my chest. My skin feels chilled. My throat is raw. My heart beats loudly, a reminder that it is still working even though it's in severe pain. My eyes are cast low. The sound of my own laughter is a shock to my system; it hits like a static shock when you unknowingly touch a charged doorknob or railing. My dreams are cursed. My thoughts feel claustrophobic in the confines of my skull. I feel lost.
I walked by a store this morning called Material Possessions. I slowed and gazed at the window displays. I thought about all the things in there that people would purchase just so they could take ownership of something. So they could show off what they have. I used to show you off. I thought I had you. But I learned you cannot possess ones heart, not even your own – it can go at any time. I thought about how, over the past few months, material possessions have suddenly seemed so immaterial. And yet, at the same time, I've also felt a need to hold onto what is mine. This is my shoe. This is my car. This is my phone. You cannot take it! It is MINE. I've felt a sort-of deserving (a nasty word that I try to avoid) towards whatever I can possess. I have been robbed of what's most important to me. I am free-falling through life right now. Whatever I can cling to is giving me some sort of stability, some sort of wall to hold. When the lover is ripped from my bed, the career is pulled from before my eyes, and in some sense, the floor from beneath my feet – what am I supposed to hold on to? I wrap myself in my own arms, but I am still cold. I need your arms. But if I can't have your arms, I at least need a really warm, new, fancy blanket.
It's been painful for me to go back and look at photos of us. Seeing the joy in my eyes, the height of my cheekbones due to a smile so big, and the closeness of our bodies pressed together makes my whole being quake with sadness. I'm jealous of past-Sami. But I'm also scared that if I don't look, I'll forget. I'll forget the way I felt when I was with you – complete peacefulness, exuberant joy, unconditional love. I know the words I felt, but will I remember the feeling? When we were together, we didn't need to be anywhere else but with each other. We were just as happy under the covers alone as we were in a crowd of loved ones. We were always smiling together, even when we were grumpy about life. We were always having fun. There was never a lull in joy.
So, to preserve the memories, I looked at the photos of us from this same event, one year ago. I admired the giddyness in my eyes with an envious despair. I looked at how your fingers gripped into my shoulder in one photo, a proud possessiveness. I looked at how your hands interlaced around my waist in another, pulling me close into your hug. I pressed into you with beaming willingness. I looked at a photo of us kissing. We are smiling so big that our lips are too puckered to kiss properly. My cheekbones smash into my eye sockets because of my grin. We look like two frozen goldfish. My eyes are slivers that can't see – but they don't need to because they feel your touch, your caress. I would happily be blind for the rest of my life if I could just feel you alive, if I could just hear your voice.
As an anniversary gift to us, I plan to listen to the one voice-mail I have from you that I have never checked. You left it for me about a week before you died. It will probably be you asking me to pick up some avocados or you letting me know that you scheduled an appointment to get your tires rotated. But, just maybe, it will be a message I need to hear. Maybe you will tell me you are always around me. Maybe you will tell me that I will be happy again someday. And maybe, hopefully, I will be able to hear you say "I love you" in your voice, one final time, for the first time.
I walked by a store this morning called Material Possessions. I slowed and gazed at the window displays. I thought about all the things in there that people would purchase just so they could take ownership of something. So they could show off what they have. I used to show you off. I thought I had you. But I learned you cannot possess ones heart, not even your own – it can go at any time. I thought about how, over the past few months, material possessions have suddenly seemed so immaterial. And yet, at the same time, I've also felt a need to hold onto what is mine. This is my shoe. This is my car. This is my phone. You cannot take it! It is MINE. I've felt a sort-of deserving (a nasty word that I try to avoid) towards whatever I can possess. I have been robbed of what's most important to me. I am free-falling through life right now. Whatever I can cling to is giving me some sort of stability, some sort of wall to hold. When the lover is ripped from my bed, the career is pulled from before my eyes, and in some sense, the floor from beneath my feet – what am I supposed to hold on to? I wrap myself in my own arms, but I am still cold. I need your arms. But if I can't have your arms, I at least need a really warm, new, fancy blanket.
It's been painful for me to go back and look at photos of us. Seeing the joy in my eyes, the height of my cheekbones due to a smile so big, and the closeness of our bodies pressed together makes my whole being quake with sadness. I'm jealous of past-Sami. But I'm also scared that if I don't look, I'll forget. I'll forget the way I felt when I was with you – complete peacefulness, exuberant joy, unconditional love. I know the words I felt, but will I remember the feeling? When we were together, we didn't need to be anywhere else but with each other. We were just as happy under the covers alone as we were in a crowd of loved ones. We were always smiling together, even when we were grumpy about life. We were always having fun. There was never a lull in joy.
So, to preserve the memories, I looked at the photos of us from this same event, one year ago. I admired the giddyness in my eyes with an envious despair. I looked at how your fingers gripped into my shoulder in one photo, a proud possessiveness. I looked at how your hands interlaced around my waist in another, pulling me close into your hug. I pressed into you with beaming willingness. I looked at a photo of us kissing. We are smiling so big that our lips are too puckered to kiss properly. My cheekbones smash into my eye sockets because of my grin. We look like two frozen goldfish. My eyes are slivers that can't see – but they don't need to because they feel your touch, your caress. I would happily be blind for the rest of my life if I could just feel you alive, if I could just hear your voice.
As an anniversary gift to us, I plan to listen to the one voice-mail I have from you that I have never checked. You left it for me about a week before you died. It will probably be you asking me to pick up some avocados or you letting me know that you scheduled an appointment to get your tires rotated. But, just maybe, it will be a message I need to hear. Maybe you will tell me you are always around me. Maybe you will tell me that I will be happy again someday. And maybe, hopefully, I will be able to hear you say "I love you" in your voice, one final time, for the first time.
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.
Too Sad To Write
I have been too sad to write for the past three days. Grief can be like paralysis.
Three days ago we celebrated New Years. I didn't want to celebrate. I didn't open my blinds to see 2015 until this morning. I wanted to remain cocooned in darkness. I didn't want to see what a new year looked like without you. I have stepped outside one time so far this year. I don't want to feel the breath of the new year on my skin. I have hardly responded to my phone messages. I've ignored my email. I haven't opened my computer. I don't want to see what the technology is offering. I don't want to hear the "Happy New Years". I don't want to see who got engaged. I don't want to hear the pop of champagne bottles or the clink of glasses. I've stayed as horizontal as possible until friends coerced me up to eat or Kira asked to go outside. But even she didn't want to see the sun.
Everyone who knows you is sad. I know that. I don't want to compare my grief to others. But watching others smile, celebrate, and honor you through stickers, signs, stories, and memorabilia isn't enough for me. I tried to do it. It worked for a few hours. But the highs are low and the lows aren't describable by language. That's why I haven't been writing. I can't put words to my sadness. There's no way to explain the sorrow when I wake up and you're not there. There's no way to explain how it feels to remember you're gone minute-after-minute. There's no way to explain what life looks like with the knowledge that I can't be with you. Every time I close my eyes I'm taken back to that night. When I sleep, what used to be dreams are now robbed by chilling nightmares. When I feel close to you for a moment – maybe by hearing a song you loved, being near someone who reminds me of you, or seeing a sign from above – the comfort is fleeting. What lingers is a gut-wrenching reminder of how absent you are and guilt for my temporary solace.
I've spent the last week or so surrounded by friends of yours who have been in your life for years, many more years then I was. I have heard story after story that I wasn't around for. I have met people that you never got to introduce me to. I've had heart-to-hearts with friends that I wasn't able to deeply connect with until now, until tragedy hit. And they're all sad. They all miss you. They all love you. But I watch their lives continue and it makes me feel angry. It's anger that I know isn't warranted. But I want to dive under my covers, ignore any semblance of forward motion, and never come out – and definitely not watch others move forward with their new year and their happy lives.
I'm envious of all the people who shared decades with you. I didn't even get two years with you. And yet I had dreams about you since I was a child. And since we started our life together, since we fell in love, I needed to wake up with you each morning. I depended on your kiss to fuel the start of my day. I got to admire you as you did little nothings like brush your teeth, shave, or make tea. I took great care in sudsing you up in the shower, cleaning every bit of you with love and organic soap. I exercised more patience than I knew I had when I'd towel you dry. I moved slowly when I'd kiss your chest and watch your eyes light up with desire. I got to combine my pleasure with your pleasure and witness the creation of true love.
But now I wake up alone. I washed the sheets yesterday because they smelled of tears, sweat, loneliness, and nightmares. And last night I barely slept. I was cold in our bed. I felt so foreign on those clean sheets, the ones that I'd surprised you with one day because they were made out of bamboo and I knew you'd love them. When I did sleep, I dreamt that our house was being robbed while I lay in bed unaware. I woke up in fear and I realized it's a dream I've had a few times now – everything I thought was mine disappearing, everything I thought I could trust being ripped out from under me – a thinly veiled reality.
Kira sleeps on the bed next to me now. She can tell she's needed. She tries to let the weight of her body and the rise and fall of her breath comfort me, but it hardly helps. It just makes me feel even more sad for her loss. Because she misses you too. She wanders around the house and stares out into the distance with the sad eyes of an old dog who's left watching her mom cry all day when just months ago we were all so happy together.
On New Year's Eve I went all-access to your favorite show. I wore stickers with your initials all over me. I stuck smiley faces all over myself and everything I touched, something you were known for doing. I held a sign in the air that read "Team Welles". I brought a bit of your ashes with me to the show in a Ziploc bag and dozens of your friends poured tubes of glitter in with them. I told those who knew you, "If you'd like to take some of him, you can. We can all toss him up in the air at midnight." We called it 'Teddy Confetti'.
I thought people would think I was nuts. But they didn't. With gratitude and love, hand after hand after hand (including band members and their wives!) scooped up your glittery remains and not only offered you to the air, but put you on their faces like warpaint and pressed you to their lips like a kiss. There was more Ted on people's faces than I ever would have been OK with had you been alive! It was an honor to know that the man I love so much, the man I miss and crave so desperately will never be forgotten. And it was truly beautiful to witness how much people wanted a part of you to be a part of them. During the encore, the lights lit up with your name and the band sang the refrain, "Sometimes it seems like such a hard life, but there's good times around the bend. The rollercoaster's got to roll to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again". For about five-minutes, I felt joyful. But when the band left the stage and the house lights came on displaying the wreckage of dirty confetti and popped balloons, my sadness sank in deeper and the guilt-clock chimed.
For every step forward, it's a few steps back. I feel I'm still lingering somewhere around the start-point. Time slithers forward even though I regress. What is time anyway? What is something you can't see, you can't feel, you can't taste? Is it even real? And yet we celebrate the damned thing anyway. So, New Years – the end of a year that housed so much love, so much beauty, and both the happiest and the saddest days of my life. Around me, I watched people curse the old and await the new, while I curse the now and the new, and hide under my sheets hoping to go back three months – back to happiness, back to love, and back to when I wanted to see the light that each day brings.
Three days ago we celebrated New Years. I didn't want to celebrate. I didn't open my blinds to see 2015 until this morning. I wanted to remain cocooned in darkness. I didn't want to see what a new year looked like without you. I have stepped outside one time so far this year. I don't want to feel the breath of the new year on my skin. I have hardly responded to my phone messages. I've ignored my email. I haven't opened my computer. I don't want to see what the technology is offering. I don't want to hear the "Happy New Years". I don't want to see who got engaged. I don't want to hear the pop of champagne bottles or the clink of glasses. I've stayed as horizontal as possible until friends coerced me up to eat or Kira asked to go outside. But even she didn't want to see the sun.
Everyone who knows you is sad. I know that. I don't want to compare my grief to others. But watching others smile, celebrate, and honor you through stickers, signs, stories, and memorabilia isn't enough for me. I tried to do it. It worked for a few hours. But the highs are low and the lows aren't describable by language. That's why I haven't been writing. I can't put words to my sadness. There's no way to explain the sorrow when I wake up and you're not there. There's no way to explain how it feels to remember you're gone minute-after-minute. There's no way to explain what life looks like with the knowledge that I can't be with you. Every time I close my eyes I'm taken back to that night. When I sleep, what used to be dreams are now robbed by chilling nightmares. When I feel close to you for a moment – maybe by hearing a song you loved, being near someone who reminds me of you, or seeing a sign from above – the comfort is fleeting. What lingers is a gut-wrenching reminder of how absent you are and guilt for my temporary solace.
I've spent the last week or so surrounded by friends of yours who have been in your life for years, many more years then I was. I have heard story after story that I wasn't around for. I have met people that you never got to introduce me to. I've had heart-to-hearts with friends that I wasn't able to deeply connect with until now, until tragedy hit. And they're all sad. They all miss you. They all love you. But I watch their lives continue and it makes me feel angry. It's anger that I know isn't warranted. But I want to dive under my covers, ignore any semblance of forward motion, and never come out – and definitely not watch others move forward with their new year and their happy lives.
I'm envious of all the people who shared decades with you. I didn't even get two years with you. And yet I had dreams about you since I was a child. And since we started our life together, since we fell in love, I needed to wake up with you each morning. I depended on your kiss to fuel the start of my day. I got to admire you as you did little nothings like brush your teeth, shave, or make tea. I took great care in sudsing you up in the shower, cleaning every bit of you with love and organic soap. I exercised more patience than I knew I had when I'd towel you dry. I moved slowly when I'd kiss your chest and watch your eyes light up with desire. I got to combine my pleasure with your pleasure and witness the creation of true love.
But now I wake up alone. I washed the sheets yesterday because they smelled of tears, sweat, loneliness, and nightmares. And last night I barely slept. I was cold in our bed. I felt so foreign on those clean sheets, the ones that I'd surprised you with one day because they were made out of bamboo and I knew you'd love them. When I did sleep, I dreamt that our house was being robbed while I lay in bed unaware. I woke up in fear and I realized it's a dream I've had a few times now – everything I thought was mine disappearing, everything I thought I could trust being ripped out from under me – a thinly veiled reality.
Kira sleeps on the bed next to me now. She can tell she's needed. She tries to let the weight of her body and the rise and fall of her breath comfort me, but it hardly helps. It just makes me feel even more sad for her loss. Because she misses you too. She wanders around the house and stares out into the distance with the sad eyes of an old dog who's left watching her mom cry all day when just months ago we were all so happy together.
On New Year's Eve I went all-access to your favorite show. I wore stickers with your initials all over me. I stuck smiley faces all over myself and everything I touched, something you were known for doing. I held a sign in the air that read "Team Welles". I brought a bit of your ashes with me to the show in a Ziploc bag and dozens of your friends poured tubes of glitter in with them. I told those who knew you, "If you'd like to take some of him, you can. We can all toss him up in the air at midnight." We called it 'Teddy Confetti'.
I thought people would think I was nuts. But they didn't. With gratitude and love, hand after hand after hand (including band members and their wives!) scooped up your glittery remains and not only offered you to the air, but put you on their faces like warpaint and pressed you to their lips like a kiss. There was more Ted on people's faces than I ever would have been OK with had you been alive! It was an honor to know that the man I love so much, the man I miss and crave so desperately will never be forgotten. And it was truly beautiful to witness how much people wanted a part of you to be a part of them. During the encore, the lights lit up with your name and the band sang the refrain, "Sometimes it seems like such a hard life, but there's good times around the bend. The rollercoaster's got to roll to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again". For about five-minutes, I felt joyful. But when the band left the stage and the house lights came on displaying the wreckage of dirty confetti and popped balloons, my sadness sank in deeper and the guilt-clock chimed.
For every step forward, it's a few steps back. I feel I'm still lingering somewhere around the start-point. Time slithers forward even though I regress. What is time anyway? What is something you can't see, you can't feel, you can't taste? Is it even real? And yet we celebrate the damned thing anyway. So, New Years – the end of a year that housed so much love, so much beauty, and both the happiest and the saddest days of my life. Around me, I watched people curse the old and await the new, while I curse the now and the new, and hide under my sheets hoping to go back three months – back to happiness, back to love, and back to when I wanted to see the light that each day brings.
Anchors
This week in my therapy session, we talked about anchors. Anchors are stimuli that trigger certain states of mind - thoughts and
emotions. They can be brought on unconsciously without knowing what the anchor is. They can be triggered by memories, like the smell of a rhubarb pie making me hungry, the sound of an old favorite song making me nostalgic, or the love I feel from the unconditional kiss and wagging tail my ten-year-old dog greets me with whenever I come home. An anchor can be a scent, a sight, a taste, a feeling, a person, or a sound. People develop hundreds of them as we grow, unconsciously.
I'm back in Toledo, Ohio – my hometown – for the holidays. I've been thinking about the anchors that draw me back to this place. For me, the smell of a Gino's pizza, extra crispy with pineapple and banana pepper makes me feel like a salivating seven-year-old. The Christmas Eve tradition of spaghetti dinner with our best family friends brings me back together. No matter what's happening in my life, on that night there will always be meat sauce, paper crowns, and lotto tickets on every seat. Even tomorrow night, despite all my pain and holiday cynicism, there will still be hot spaghetti and those dear friends.
Tonight, I'm in my bedroom, sitting in the same bed I've slept in since I was ten years old. My bed is an anchor.
I remember lying here when I was in the sixth grade listening to Love Phones on my alarm clock radio. It was a late-night hotline style radio show where callers rang in to ask about sex-related questions. I would listen to it for hours before falling asleep with the radio volume as low as possible, so my parents wouldn't hear. I was certainly not supposed to be listening to such content. I learned much more about sex than an eleven-year-old should have ever known.
I remember being in this bed when I was a junior in high school and my on-again/off-again boyfriend came over after school. He was just supposed to be dropping me off, but when we saw that my parents weren't home, he came in. Mid-session, my father came home. He saw my boyfriend's car in the driveway. We could barely pull ourselves together before my red-faced and furious father, stormed into my room, doors slamming. The boy had one leg out my bedroom window. He was trying to make a dash for it, Dawson's Creek style. Until that boy became a dear and platonic friend a decade later, he was never the type to enter or exit through the front door. I was grounded immediately and from that point on (until very recently) my parents had a very mean nickname for that guy.
I remember this bed when later that same year, I was recovering from a major back surgery. I had been diagnosed with stenosis and two herniated disks in my low spine. After eight months of major pain killers, physical therapy, and unrelenting numbness and pain – I was operated on at the University of Michigan. A couple weeks after the surgery, I had my preview night for my senior year of high school. I went to school a shadow of my former self. The once fun-loving, social, impressionable cheerleader could now barely put on a pair of pajama pants and had no desire to see any of her friends. It was that night when I realized the months of overly-prescribed medication had resulted in an opiate addiction. Wanting to reconnect with my true self, I went cold turkey that night. My mom had to sleep in my bed with me for days while I sweat, shook, and had visceral nightmares while I detoxed from the dosages the doctors had prescribed me. (To this day, spare a near-death motorcycle accident, I haven't gone near painkillers. That shit is poison.)
I remember this bed when I was twenty-five and got laid off of my job working with the Olympics and broke off a five-year relationship all in the same week. I moved out of the condo I had shared with my partner and came home. I stayed home that summer trying to piece back together who I was. Or maybe I was trying to figure it out for the first time. That summer, 2009, I had no plan. No man. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing. That summer, it felt like freedom. It felt like anything was possible.
The canvas has drawn a blank again for me in a way now. But this time, it doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like a noose has been tightened around my neck. It feels like the floor has been ripped out from beneath me. It feels like I can't breath. It feels like emptiness.
You and I slept in this bed together just two times. You were a part of this anchor too. The first time was about eighteen months ago. We came home for a wedding. We stayed half of the time at my parent's house and the other half at your parent's house. We liked that. We thought it would always be like that when we would return home for holidays and trips over the course of our life together. The second time was less than a year ago. My grandmother had died and I flew home immediately. You had a gig that night, but joined me in Toledo just a day later after her memorial service. Your flight came in very late and I was exhausted and worn out by the time we made it home from the airport. I was beyond emotional at the loss of my grandmother who had served as a beacon of class and generosity for me as a young woman. You cradled me as I cried myself to sleep. Of all the times I slept in this bed, that was the most comforted I had ever been. You held me tight, just like my mother had when I had sweat out painkillers a dozen years before. But that night last year, there were no nightmares. There were beautiful dreams of the beautiful life we would share. It was just the dawn.
This morning, I got out of the shower and walked into my bedroom. I dropped the towel that I'd had wrapped around my torso and I stared at my naked body in the mirror on the back of my door. 'The mirror is an anchor too,' I thought. That mirror has seen my body morph more than any person. It has seen my reflection grow over decades with many backdrops. It has seen an adolescent swimmer of ten with creamy pink walls behind her, jumping on one foot, head cocked to the side, trying to get water out of her ear. It has seen a nervous thirteen-year-old ballerina trying to pin up her bun perfectly with bobby pins while popping a zit; behind her the walls are now wallpapered with pages of fashion magazines and a collage of sixty-nine photos of Leonardo DiCaprio is taped on the mirror's glass surface. It has seen a naive young woman of sixteen trying on the outfit she'd wear to school the next day, grey pinstriped polyester pants her crush said made her butt look 'hot' – the walls are now neon green and orange. It has seen a high school senior, in her cheerleading uniform practicing herkies while lip synching to Britney Spears's remix of "I Love Rock and Roll", the walls now a more mature palette of brown and tan. It has seen a woman leaving her hometown for the second time for Austin to find herself and a new career, dressed in Banana Republic slacks because now she's grown up – the walls have finally been taken over by her parents after a remodel, they are off-white.
The mirror in my childhood bedroom has seen me more over the past month then it has in years. I looked at my thirty-year-old body. I noticed how it's changed over the decades. I noticed places that were softer, larger, firmer, or smaller. I moved my face up-close and ran my finger across the thin wrinkles on my forehead. I searched for a grey hair amongst the blonde, surely one has sprouted over the past two months. I turned the edges of my mouth into a fake smile and looked at the laugh lines that had been starting to form because of all the smiling I did with you. I started to cry, a woeful sob. I watched the tears drip down my cheeks in the mirror's reflection. I saw the tracks that the tears took, my face now recognizing the path of salty sorrow. I saw an ugly woman staring back at me. She had my eyes, but they were sadder now. She was so much older than I remembered her. In a way she looked like a stranger.
That mirror has witnessed a lot of tears over the years. But of the decades of tears it's seen, lately, they've been the most sad. There is no comparison to tears of grief. They even look different than other tears when studied under a microscope. They are sharp fractals without any order or pattern. They look painful to touch. In fact, they look an awful lot like they feel. These are not tears from a boy who didn't call a fifteen year-old girl. These aren't tears because I'm pissed at my parents for grounding me for sneaking out. These are not tears from belly laughing at a funny punchline so hard that my eyes water. These aren't tears because I was cast as the ugly step-sister instead of Cinderella. These aren't tears because I got wait-listed at my first choice university. These aren't tears because of a breakup that is sad and hard, but instigated by me. These aren't the tears I cried when my grandmother died peacefully at ninety-plus years.
These are tears of deep, deep devastation. These are the tears of loosing the father of the babies I couldn't wait to have. These are the tears of not being able to call my best friend. These are the tears of shattered tradition. These are the tears of loosing the life I'd always dreamed of. These are the tears of a second family slipping away through my fingertips. These are tears of questioning the value of life without you. These are tears of confusion. These are tears of loosing faith. These are tears that really have no words to describe them.
The anchors remain. The ones here in my bedroom remind me nostalgically of childhood. But in my current state of grief, retreating to memories of the past, before these tears, is comforting. The anchors pull me in and ground me. They remind me that while you aren't here, there was something here before you and there are still things that remain here now. This is your hometown too. And in your absence I wish I'd had the time to learn more about what pulled you back to memories, what rooted you. I am not sure how it will be when I return to our house in Colorado next week. There, the anchors all bear the weight of memories of my life with you. I want it and I fear it at the same time. So for now, I will lay in this bed. I will curl up and try to remember what it was like to sleep peacefully like I did as a child.
I'm back in Toledo, Ohio – my hometown – for the holidays. I've been thinking about the anchors that draw me back to this place. For me, the smell of a Gino's pizza, extra crispy with pineapple and banana pepper makes me feel like a salivating seven-year-old. The Christmas Eve tradition of spaghetti dinner with our best family friends brings me back together. No matter what's happening in my life, on that night there will always be meat sauce, paper crowns, and lotto tickets on every seat. Even tomorrow night, despite all my pain and holiday cynicism, there will still be hot spaghetti and those dear friends.
Tonight, I'm in my bedroom, sitting in the same bed I've slept in since I was ten years old. My bed is an anchor.
I remember lying here when I was in the sixth grade listening to Love Phones on my alarm clock radio. It was a late-night hotline style radio show where callers rang in to ask about sex-related questions. I would listen to it for hours before falling asleep with the radio volume as low as possible, so my parents wouldn't hear. I was certainly not supposed to be listening to such content. I learned much more about sex than an eleven-year-old should have ever known.
I remember being in this bed when I was a junior in high school and my on-again/off-again boyfriend came over after school. He was just supposed to be dropping me off, but when we saw that my parents weren't home, he came in. Mid-session, my father came home. He saw my boyfriend's car in the driveway. We could barely pull ourselves together before my red-faced and furious father, stormed into my room, doors slamming. The boy had one leg out my bedroom window. He was trying to make a dash for it, Dawson's Creek style. Until that boy became a dear and platonic friend a decade later, he was never the type to enter or exit through the front door. I was grounded immediately and from that point on (until very recently) my parents had a very mean nickname for that guy.
I remember this bed when later that same year, I was recovering from a major back surgery. I had been diagnosed with stenosis and two herniated disks in my low spine. After eight months of major pain killers, physical therapy, and unrelenting numbness and pain – I was operated on at the University of Michigan. A couple weeks after the surgery, I had my preview night for my senior year of high school. I went to school a shadow of my former self. The once fun-loving, social, impressionable cheerleader could now barely put on a pair of pajama pants and had no desire to see any of her friends. It was that night when I realized the months of overly-prescribed medication had resulted in an opiate addiction. Wanting to reconnect with my true self, I went cold turkey that night. My mom had to sleep in my bed with me for days while I sweat, shook, and had visceral nightmares while I detoxed from the dosages the doctors had prescribed me. (To this day, spare a near-death motorcycle accident, I haven't gone near painkillers. That shit is poison.)
I remember this bed when I was twenty-five and got laid off of my job working with the Olympics and broke off a five-year relationship all in the same week. I moved out of the condo I had shared with my partner and came home. I stayed home that summer trying to piece back together who I was. Or maybe I was trying to figure it out for the first time. That summer, 2009, I had no plan. No man. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Nothing. That summer, it felt like freedom. It felt like anything was possible.
The canvas has drawn a blank again for me in a way now. But this time, it doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like a noose has been tightened around my neck. It feels like the floor has been ripped out from beneath me. It feels like I can't breath. It feels like emptiness.
You and I slept in this bed together just two times. You were a part of this anchor too. The first time was about eighteen months ago. We came home for a wedding. We stayed half of the time at my parent's house and the other half at your parent's house. We liked that. We thought it would always be like that when we would return home for holidays and trips over the course of our life together. The second time was less than a year ago. My grandmother had died and I flew home immediately. You had a gig that night, but joined me in Toledo just a day later after her memorial service. Your flight came in very late and I was exhausted and worn out by the time we made it home from the airport. I was beyond emotional at the loss of my grandmother who had served as a beacon of class and generosity for me as a young woman. You cradled me as I cried myself to sleep. Of all the times I slept in this bed, that was the most comforted I had ever been. You held me tight, just like my mother had when I had sweat out painkillers a dozen years before. But that night last year, there were no nightmares. There were beautiful dreams of the beautiful life we would share. It was just the dawn.
This morning, I got out of the shower and walked into my bedroom. I dropped the towel that I'd had wrapped around my torso and I stared at my naked body in the mirror on the back of my door. 'The mirror is an anchor too,' I thought. That mirror has seen my body morph more than any person. It has seen my reflection grow over decades with many backdrops. It has seen an adolescent swimmer of ten with creamy pink walls behind her, jumping on one foot, head cocked to the side, trying to get water out of her ear. It has seen a nervous thirteen-year-old ballerina trying to pin up her bun perfectly with bobby pins while popping a zit; behind her the walls are now wallpapered with pages of fashion magazines and a collage of sixty-nine photos of Leonardo DiCaprio is taped on the mirror's glass surface. It has seen a naive young woman of sixteen trying on the outfit she'd wear to school the next day, grey pinstriped polyester pants her crush said made her butt look 'hot' – the walls are now neon green and orange. It has seen a high school senior, in her cheerleading uniform practicing herkies while lip synching to Britney Spears's remix of "I Love Rock and Roll", the walls now a more mature palette of brown and tan. It has seen a woman leaving her hometown for the second time for Austin to find herself and a new career, dressed in Banana Republic slacks because now she's grown up – the walls have finally been taken over by her parents after a remodel, they are off-white.
The mirror in my childhood bedroom has seen me more over the past month then it has in years. I looked at my thirty-year-old body. I noticed how it's changed over the decades. I noticed places that were softer, larger, firmer, or smaller. I moved my face up-close and ran my finger across the thin wrinkles on my forehead. I searched for a grey hair amongst the blonde, surely one has sprouted over the past two months. I turned the edges of my mouth into a fake smile and looked at the laugh lines that had been starting to form because of all the smiling I did with you. I started to cry, a woeful sob. I watched the tears drip down my cheeks in the mirror's reflection. I saw the tracks that the tears took, my face now recognizing the path of salty sorrow. I saw an ugly woman staring back at me. She had my eyes, but they were sadder now. She was so much older than I remembered her. In a way she looked like a stranger.
That mirror has witnessed a lot of tears over the years. But of the decades of tears it's seen, lately, they've been the most sad. There is no comparison to tears of grief. They even look different than other tears when studied under a microscope. They are sharp fractals without any order or pattern. They look painful to touch. In fact, they look an awful lot like they feel. These are not tears from a boy who didn't call a fifteen year-old girl. These aren't tears because I'm pissed at my parents for grounding me for sneaking out. These are not tears from belly laughing at a funny punchline so hard that my eyes water. These aren't tears because I was cast as the ugly step-sister instead of Cinderella. These aren't tears because I got wait-listed at my first choice university. These aren't tears because of a breakup that is sad and hard, but instigated by me. These aren't the tears I cried when my grandmother died peacefully at ninety-plus years.
These are tears of deep, deep devastation. These are the tears of loosing the father of the babies I couldn't wait to have. These are the tears of not being able to call my best friend. These are the tears of shattered tradition. These are the tears of loosing the life I'd always dreamed of. These are the tears of a second family slipping away through my fingertips. These are tears of questioning the value of life without you. These are tears of confusion. These are tears of loosing faith. These are tears that really have no words to describe them.
The anchors remain. The ones here in my bedroom remind me nostalgically of childhood. But in my current state of grief, retreating to memories of the past, before these tears, is comforting. The anchors pull me in and ground me. They remind me that while you aren't here, there was something here before you and there are still things that remain here now. This is your hometown too. And in your absence I wish I'd had the time to learn more about what pulled you back to memories, what rooted you. I am not sure how it will be when I return to our house in Colorado next week. There, the anchors all bear the weight of memories of my life with you. I want it and I fear it at the same time. So for now, I will lay in this bed. I will curl up and try to remember what it was like to sleep peacefully like I did as a child.
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."
In Line
I'm sitting on the airplane flying over the Atlantic back to the USA. I think you are hanging around me on this flight. I was watching a movie. It was one we planned to see together because it stars one of my distant cousins and is his first Hollywood hit. While everyone else's TV worked flawlessly, mine had a complete mind of it's own. It kept stopping and starting and flipping to different movies and entertainment options. The mouse would appear on the screen and flail all around, even though I was not interacting with it. They restarted it twice and it kept doing the same thing, the flight attendant was quite puzzled. Then a bit later it worked just fine. Maybe it's just a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. But the thought that it was not made me happy. So I decided to choose happiness.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
But then, just moments after the movie stopped it's games and I settled into the plot, a woman who was walking down the aisle to the bathroom grabbed onto the attendant in front of her as her face turned white. In mere seconds, she passed out, falling backwards and slamming her head on an armrest beside me. This is seriously happening right now? I thought to myself as my blood pressure skyrocketed. The woman remained still on the floor as panic ensued through the cabin. The pilot got on the loudspeaker and requested the aid of a doctor. One arrived on the scene before I even had time to react. There are over forty rows on this flight and three sections of seats, and this happened next to my chair. This is the third time someone has passed out near me since you died. Prior to that it had happened once, and I was nine. I sobbed openly as the woman was revived and given orange juice to help her blood sugar. The young girl next to me stared at my reaction. "I think she's fine," she told me, calmly. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. I have some anxiety regarding this sort of thing," I said. "Oh yeah, I hate flying too!" she said. I nodded, but thought, 'That's not it. I don't mind flying... Come to think of it, I also don't mind crashing.'
One minute I choose to happy and believe you're beside me, the next minute fear and trauma erupt through my body. It's crazy how quickly things can go from high to low. Grief is more potent of a drug than anything I've ever experienced.
The lows are low… and so are the highs. But the fluctuation between the lowest of the lows and the highest of the lows are vast. I am a sticky sponge of emotion. What is around me sinks into my being. The way things land in my being is as impressionable as a fourteen-year-old girl craving popularity.
When I am involved in enlightened conversation or embodying my yoga, rooted in wisdom but open to higher consciousness, I feel connected, hopeful, and faithful. When I am around conflict, whether it's a lover's quarrel or a traffic jam, I am absorbent to that discord. I feel disconnected, nervous, and critical. When I listen to music, the mood and lyrics consume me. I can be uplifted or forlorn. When I stay in the moment, just this breath, I can make it to the next. When I open up the limits of my vision to encompass the greater future – the next inhale is a hiccup of fear.
Yesterday, I felt more lost than I have been yet. I couldn't see any light, anywhere. I recognize that feelings of futile despair are a part of this process. I did not volunteer for any of this. I did not imagine it in my worst nightmare. I don't know how to cope most of the time. The way I felt yesterday shows me that sometimes I will crawl under the dark blanket of depression, that bleak hiding place is now one of my homes. But it's not my only home. I will not let it be.
I think of the woman you loved. Me. I remind myself of what you loved about me. You loved my ambition. When I set a goal, I'm committed to it. You loved my vulnerability. I dive in headfirst and with open arms. You loved my sensitivity. I cry at half of the commercials on TV. You loved my reliability. I call when I say I'll call, no games. Although, to be honest, you could generally always rely on me to be ten minutes late. You loved my passion. Nothing more needs to be said there. You loved my empathy. We always were on the same wavelength, but when we occasionally weren't, we would communicate in the same nurturing language. We never got in a single argument, not even once. You loved my kindness. I always wanted you to be happier than you could dream. You loved my mind. You once told me you thought I was smarter than you. I disagree, but thank you. You loved my spirit. Neither of us had ever been able to have so much fun with just one other person. From the moment we awoke to falling asleep in one another's arms, it was always, ALWAYS fun.
When I am struggling, I have to remind myself of the woman you loved. I have to allow myself to realize that I am still her. I have said that you are my other half – and I believe it. But you wouldn't have fallen in love with me unless you thought I was whole, on my own. I will have faith in your investment of love.
This past August, we went to Burning Man for our second year together. Our summer had been nonstop. We had been at six music festival in the two-or-so months prior to the Burn. To be honest, we were burnt out (pun intended) before even getting to the Playa. You had been in the studio recording an album the weekend before we were to drive to BRC. I had flown to Reno on Saturday morning alone to gear up. Unlike the previous year, when you had pretty much organized everything, this year I took the lead. I secured the RV. I playa-proofed it – covering all the floors in plastic, window seals in painter's tape, and vents in air filters. I did all the shopping for the week and packed the fridge full. I stocked the bar. I organized costumes, clothes, toiletries, and put fresh batteries in all the EL wire and lights. I had the RV ready to go when I picked you up from the airport on Sunday night.
On our way into Black Rock City I was at the wheel while you slept on the couch of the RV. We had passed through the gates and were on the dirt road. We were so close! It was about 2:30 am. We would be at camp by 4am. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the wind and dust kicked up. The crawl turned to a stop. We creeped forward over the next hour and a half, only making it about a half mile closer to the gate. Then it started to rain. Rain on the Playa is not good at all. The earth is made of a thick dust that turns to a cement-like clay when wet. If the cars were to continue driving, they would get stuck as if in hard concrete. They closed the gate. Anyone on the dirt road, like us, was told to put our vehicles in park and stay tuned for more information.
This sort of announcement does not go over well for an anxious Type-A personality, like me. Wide-eyed and revved-up behind the wheel, I listened to BRC Radio as they replayed the same announcement over and over for another hour. You remained peacefully asleep. I had awoken you to tell you the news, but you simply said, "We'll get in when we get in. This is what the Universe is delivering to us." "But like, whennnn will we get in?" I responded. "In time, babe," you muttered as you drifted back to sleep. You dreamt. I paced around the RV. I went for a walk in the clay and chatted with the other Type-As in neighboring vehicles. "When do you think they'll open the gates?" we all asked one another as it continued to rain. "I mean, they can't just like, make us sit here all night and into the day… can they?" we continued. It eventually stopped raining. I sat in the driver's seat of the RV and literally, impatiently watched the earth dry. You slept, peacefully. It started to rain again.
When you woke up eventually (OK so maybe I woke you up…) you continued to persuade me that this was simply how it was supposed to be. "The Universe is delivering this to us, babe. We have been going nonstop all summer. We are being forced to just stop, just be, and wait – without knowing what's next," you told me, poetically. If I knew we would be sitting in that same spot, 100 cars from the entrance to the city for sixteen total hours, maybe I would have relaxed. But instead, for sixteen hours, I nagged like a child on a road trip, "Whennnnnn?" But no matter how many people we asked, no one knew when! It was a matter of time. You could settle into time's uncertainty. But I fought it.
Looking back at our time on the Playa this past year, those sixteen hours in line were the most fun I had the whole time. That is, in retrospect. Maybe if I'd simply learned to unleash into the uncertainty, I could have seen the fun of the situation in the moment. Twenty-thousand anxious, amazing Burners were waiting to get into the biggest celebration in the world. Why did I feel the need to be through the gate and in the city when the whole population was surrounding me? The biggest party on the Playa was happening in line and I couldn't even see it. But you could. DJs unpacked their gear and set up on the roofs of neighboring RVs. The bass started to thump before the sun even came up. We popped open champagne before breakfast. I changed from normal Earth clothing into Burning Man clothing as soon as the sun warmed up the air. As I got drunk, I still focused on watching the puddles dry. "That puddle seems smaller now, don't you think?" I'd ask. I had chosen one puddle near our RV as a 'measuring device'. You kept laughing at me. You didn't care about the size of the puddle. You tried to share your perspective with me, but I couldn't get it. I couldn't accept what the Universe had offered.
We wandered the line. You carried a smile. I carried a bottle of champagne. We adventured. We did yoga on the hot roof of our RV. I almost fell off while handstanding drunk. We danced to the music that vibrated the clay floor. We ran into old friends in line. We made up our own card game. We made new friends. We spoke with a pair of young sisters who were nine and eleven years old. It was their forth Burn. They told us that they were the most authentic versions of themselves at Burning Man. They had feathers in their hair and paint on their faces. They said they were allowed to actually be kids on the Playa because it's where everyone comes to be a kid again. They shared their innocent souls and beautiful smiles with us. We all did cartwheels together on the wet earth. You lit up and connected. I tried, but the lingering question of when the gate would open haunted the back of my mind, preventing me from truly being in the experience of living in the moment.
The Playa dried and we got into the city at about 6:00 pm., fourteen hours later than our expected arrival. I didn't actually 'arrive' until days later. I was too stuck.
In some ways, I am always stuck. Stuck in the future. Stuck in the past. Stuck with uncertainty. Stuck with impatience. Stuck in the high. Stuck in the low. Stuck in love. Stuck in fear. Stuck in place. Stuck in no place.
Despite the harrowing darkness that this time brings, the impending bouts of depression and loneliness, I commit to not staying stuck. The woman you loved would not stay stuck. She would rally. She would learn. She would grow. She would fight. She would love in whatever way she could muster love. When life deals me a shitty hand, I commit to working through it. When my permeable spirit takes a nose dive, I commit to getting unstuck – to removing myself from the place of darkness and stepping into something that gives me an ounce of peace. I will do this for you. And I will do this for me.
Lost wanderer
I came on this trip to search for beauty. I came to dull the sharp pain that digs into my heart. I came hoping to find peace on the other side of the globe, as far as possible from where you died. I came in search of hope that true joy exists outside of our love.
Unfortunately, my search was not a success.
I have a cold from the constant change in temperature here in Spain. My nose is raw from running and my head is congested. My head is already full of confusion, which leaves no room for foggy sickness. I have an upset stomach from the food at our five-star hotel in Morocco. My skin is a mess from stress. I haven't done yoga in days. I haven't felt your presence in weeks and I haven't seen you in seven. Essentially, I'm falling apart.
I thought I was lost when you left that night, when I shook your body and you did not respond, when I put my cheek to your chest and your heart did not answer my cry. I thought I was lost when your death actually landed in my mind, when your family held me in their quivering arms and we all sobbed. I thought I was lost when my body finally caught up to my mind's understanding and realized that what she craved, she could no longer have. I thought I was lost when I drove into our garage, realized you weren't inside the house and would never be, and then understood it was actually no longer really my home. I thought I was lost when I tried to be grateful on Thanksgiving, even though in my heart I knew I was just reaching. I thought I was lost when I scattered your ashes in the Mediterranean Sea, and watched the dust of your beautiful bones mix with sand, shells, and seaglass.
But then today I packed my bags to leave for the States. I squeezed in dirty clothes, Moroccan rugs, Spanish pâté, and too many accumulated Christmas gifts. I saw all the stuff that meant absolutely nothing to me get zipped up in a suitcase that is probably overweight. And the one thing that meant the most to me of anything, anywhere was more absent then ever, weightless – yet so heavy on my heart. I sobbed, snotted, and sneezed as I smelled a hat of yours I carry with me through my stuffed nose. As I looked inside and touched your stray hairs that still cling to the fabric, I felt more lost then ever.
I met with a wonderful woman yesterday who lost her true love suddenly at twenty five. She shared her story and her gentle words of advice. She is now in her sixties and an inspirational soul: beautiful, wise, and deeply conscious. She has love in her life but it hasn't always been a constant. She told me that after her young love's death, she was left with a fairy tale script but without the lead actor. She wasn't willing to rewrite the story she had mapped out. She went on to find a replacement for the role in the same script. She married the father of her three children five years later. She never loved him in the way that he loved her. She wasn't willing. The marriage eventually ended. She told me that someday, I have to let go of what we had and be willing to rewrite my story.
I sat on the beach today and meditated. I thought of my story without you. It made me want to run into in the freezing water and try to swim to Africa with the clear knowledge that I would not make it. I told myself, 'Be gentle on yourself. It's too soon. You don't need to think about this.' But I kept thinking and my sobs worsened. I do not want my story without you in it. I want our fairy tale!
I am being suffocated by emotion. I feel a noose around my neck that grips me with one hand of sorrow and the other hand of fear. I pity myself. I pity those who have to be around me. Everyone is trying to help. But they can't. They can only stand guard and consider taking out stock in Kleenex while witnessing my bewildered wandering, slow self-sabotage, and vain attempts to appear OK.
I came in search of beauty. I learned that I am not open to its possibility. I came to witness love in others. But I only see love so different than what we had that it's painful to observe. I came to treat myself gently. I learned that tenderness is impossible when you're self destructive. I came to pass time. But saw that time is infinite, desolate, and a trickster: always too fast or too slow. I came to convince myself that everything will be OK. But everything is not OK. I came to heal some of my suffering. But I saw suffering magnified to the point where the whole world seems like a raw wound. I came to try to let go, just a little. But now I grip to your memory more than ever.
Unfortunately, my search was not a success.
I have a cold from the constant change in temperature here in Spain. My nose is raw from running and my head is congested. My head is already full of confusion, which leaves no room for foggy sickness. I have an upset stomach from the food at our five-star hotel in Morocco. My skin is a mess from stress. I haven't done yoga in days. I haven't felt your presence in weeks and I haven't seen you in seven. Essentially, I'm falling apart.
I thought I was lost when you left that night, when I shook your body and you did not respond, when I put my cheek to your chest and your heart did not answer my cry. I thought I was lost when your death actually landed in my mind, when your family held me in their quivering arms and we all sobbed. I thought I was lost when my body finally caught up to my mind's understanding and realized that what she craved, she could no longer have. I thought I was lost when I drove into our garage, realized you weren't inside the house and would never be, and then understood it was actually no longer really my home. I thought I was lost when I tried to be grateful on Thanksgiving, even though in my heart I knew I was just reaching. I thought I was lost when I scattered your ashes in the Mediterranean Sea, and watched the dust of your beautiful bones mix with sand, shells, and seaglass.
But then today I packed my bags to leave for the States. I squeezed in dirty clothes, Moroccan rugs, Spanish pâté, and too many accumulated Christmas gifts. I saw all the stuff that meant absolutely nothing to me get zipped up in a suitcase that is probably overweight. And the one thing that meant the most to me of anything, anywhere was more absent then ever, weightless – yet so heavy on my heart. I sobbed, snotted, and sneezed as I smelled a hat of yours I carry with me through my stuffed nose. As I looked inside and touched your stray hairs that still cling to the fabric, I felt more lost then ever.
I met with a wonderful woman yesterday who lost her true love suddenly at twenty five. She shared her story and her gentle words of advice. She is now in her sixties and an inspirational soul: beautiful, wise, and deeply conscious. She has love in her life but it hasn't always been a constant. She told me that after her young love's death, she was left with a fairy tale script but without the lead actor. She wasn't willing to rewrite the story she had mapped out. She went on to find a replacement for the role in the same script. She married the father of her three children five years later. She never loved him in the way that he loved her. She wasn't willing. The marriage eventually ended. She told me that someday, I have to let go of what we had and be willing to rewrite my story.
I sat on the beach today and meditated. I thought of my story without you. It made me want to run into in the freezing water and try to swim to Africa with the clear knowledge that I would not make it. I told myself, 'Be gentle on yourself. It's too soon. You don't need to think about this.' But I kept thinking and my sobs worsened. I do not want my story without you in it. I want our fairy tale!
I am being suffocated by emotion. I feel a noose around my neck that grips me with one hand of sorrow and the other hand of fear. I pity myself. I pity those who have to be around me. Everyone is trying to help. But they can't. They can only stand guard and consider taking out stock in Kleenex while witnessing my bewildered wandering, slow self-sabotage, and vain attempts to appear OK.
I came in search of beauty. I learned that I am not open to its possibility. I came to witness love in others. But I only see love so different than what we had that it's painful to observe. I came to treat myself gently. I learned that tenderness is impossible when you're self destructive. I came to pass time. But saw that time is infinite, desolate, and a trickster: always too fast or too slow. I came to convince myself that everything will be OK. But everything is not OK. I came to heal some of my suffering. But I saw suffering magnified to the point where the whole world seems like a raw wound. I came to try to let go, just a little. But now I grip to your memory more than ever.
Fast Forward
You taught me what it was like to be still.
Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.
I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.
When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"
Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.
You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.
I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.
I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.
I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.
I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.
I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.
I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.
Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.
I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.
When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"
Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.
You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.
I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.
I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.
I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.
I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.
I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.
I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.
Thin Skin
I woke up this morning at 5:45 am to the sounds of the call-to-prayer here in Marrakech, Morocco. As my mind awoke from sad and longing dreams, I realize I'd drifted off to sleep last night without doing my own prayers and gratitude. It was almost as if the alarm had awoken me as a reminder of my own need for prayer and meditation. So as the Muslims around the city kneeled on their prayer rugs and bowed to their Allah, I prayed to my God too. While there any many different names: Allah, God, Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Mother Earth, the Universe... in my opinion, it is the exact same essence.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
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.
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?
Static and Soundtracks
Five weeks ago, life was rich with color and bright with sound – high resolution. Then, that Friday night, my screen turned to static. All of the pixels are still there – but the picture, the color, the sound was lost. Life is static now.
In painful but clear moments, I will have flashbacks to our time together. However in general, it's been very hard for me to remember much. It's as if the trauma of that night caused amnesia, and now I'm left only with bewilderingly hazy memories. I want to remember all of you. I want to remember every breath, every word we said, every time we held hands, and every kiss we shared – but I can't. Like the static screen of an old television that needs its antennas fiddled with, I only get blips and blurry images that pop in for a second or two.
My flashes of memories come and go, and are often onset by my surroundings – sights, sounds, songs, smells, signs. Here's some breaks from the static:
Today as I drove between Desmoine and Chicago I witnessed hoards of mediocre-at-best drivers making their cross-country trips to spend the holiday with family. As I judged and cringed, I remembered my first time driving to your house in Vail. I was at the wheel with you seated shotgun. You lived in Vail for many years so you were very comfortable with the roads, unlike myself. I exited Interstate 70, turned left to cross the highway, and made my way into West Vail. I noticed something strange ahead of me – a... roundabout. Hmmm. What ever do I do here? You, always patient and never curse, said nothing just motioned 'onward'. I did not yield, despite signs. I pulled all the way into the inner lane immediately. The car behind me laid on his horn. I slammed on the breaks, horrified, then swerved into the right lane to make my exit, without a turn signal. My heart slamming, I looked at you in panic. You gave me a funny look – wide-eyed, slight fear, kind of embarrassed to be seen with me, and humor. You said warmly, "Well sweetheart, the good news is, you made every possible roundabout mistake all at once right there, so you can only get better!" I have gotten better. But every time I drive into one for the rest of my life, I will remember that incident.
After moving to Colorado a year ago this week, I got a new car. I'd sold my house in Austin for a good profit and had recently gotten my dream job as the Creative Director of my favorite magazine. I'd had my 2000 Honda CRV since I was in college and had bought it from my parents for $1. So when I was car shopping in Boulder last year, it was essentially the first time for me to choose a car – and I was pysched. I chose a luxury car with more bells and whistles than I knew how to contend with. On one of our first drives together in my new car, you sat down and started fiddling with the moonroof. "Wow, this is so big! Open it," you requested. I started pushing buttons and turning dials – a sunglass case ejected from the ceiling and the overhead lights came on – no moonroof action. You laughed at my tactic and gracefully pushed one button and it opened. Later in that drive, you asked if I knew how to set the clock – it was a few minutes fast. I did not and started pushing buttons all over the console – no clock action. You laughed again and then quickly figured it. We sat in silence for a few minutes as I drove, feeling slightly incompetent. "Do you want to know what I have figured out though?" I asked. "What's that?" you responded. I turned up the music to show you. "I learned how to turn the bass ALL THE WAY UP," I answered, bass pounding. You cracked up and with only a hint of an eye roll answered, "Priorities."
You always thought I'd be interested in how cars work. I am not. I know I like a nice and comfortable one, but I couldn't be less interested in how they move. "There are so many more interesting things I'd rather learn," I'd tell you when you started talking about pistons. "Let's talk about another kind of piston..." I'd joke as you tried to explain. I can add gas and oil. I recently learned how to add windshield wiper fluid. I now know how to open the moonroof. The bass and treble are fantastically unbalanced. And I can read the manual when my bossy car tells me it needs something. So, I am basically a mechanic. I know everything I need to know. Although you continued to try to sneak car talk into conversation every so often, "It's really interesting! There's explosions!" you'd insist, tempting me with fire. It got to the point where we had a running joke about it. You would start to explain something about an intake valve and a cylinder and I'd plug my ears and look at you and say, "MAGIC! Cars go cause of MAGIC!" And that was it. Every time we decided we didn't need to know how something operated, we would blame it on magic.
As I drove my magically propelled Audi across the midwest today, I listened to your iPod – or T-Pod as you have it named. I shuffled through your ten-thousand plus songs. At one point, Patrick Lee came on. It took me back to the first time we both heard Patrick Lee. We were on our way home from Red Rocks in the back of a limo. It was my first Red Rocks show and we hadn't been dating very long – so you were still trying to impress me. (Which you didn't need to do, because you impressed me more and more every day of our time together.) But, in order to transport a good group of friends conveniently to and from the Umphrey's McGee show and avoid drunk hippies from being on the road – we all climbed into the back of the limo. About halfway home, the limo got quiet. Everyone was getting tired and coming down from the thrill of the show. As the conversation died down, we noticed the music. It was the absolute perfect melody for the moment – down-tempo electronica that still sounded man-made and had layered peaks and valleys. "Who IS this," you asked. Nate, who was manning the music, responded, "Patrick Lee."
Patrick Lee's Pacific Soul album became a staple for us from that point forward. At the end of the night, we would cuddle up downstairs on a Love Sac in the puddle room, let Kira out, and groove to Patrick Lee. You would explain certain dynamics in the music. I knew I liked it a lot, but you would help explain why. Some days we would listen to that album while driving through the mountains or maybe when we drove up to get the mail. I played it in my yoga classes a lot – the perfect groove for a flow through a vinyasa. It's the kind of music that made me feel as though I was lying on my back in a grassy meadow, with sunlight on my face, wind in my hair, your hand in mine, and warm love filling my being.
So when I was in the car today and Patrick Lee's 'Southern Cars' came on, I took a deep nostalgic breath. I let it play. As the cheerful rhythm played, I noticed how ugly it was outside. I noticed how the slushy snow looked dirty and haphazard. I noticed how the only trees that had leaves were sharp needles on conifers. I realized everything on the horizon was some shade of grey – even the dead grass along the side of the highway seemed monochromatic. The song continued to play the same melody that I'd heard so many times before during joyful moments – but this time it was different. It was as though the music was now a cruel joke, a parody. "Remember how happy this used to make you?" The music seemed to whisper taunts through a sleazy Cheshire-Cat grin and pointed eyes. I changed the song as I let my tears fall.
My soundtrack is changing. I used to tell you that I thought that The XX song 'Intro' would be my soundtrack. I'd describe how I wanted that song to automatically play from the heavens as I walked into a room. I thought it was the perfect balance of mystery, intelligence, and cool. The song no longer fits. Now, it's Pink Martini's version of 'Que Sera Sera' – haunting, sad, and full of minor chord progressions. Ominously, you always liked the song. I thought it was chilling. I still do.
Our soundtrack was more funky.
We had come back to our tent a bit early after a String Cheese show at Horning's Hideout. We were laying on our blowup mattress relaxing. We could hear people slowly making their way back into Land's End camp - but we stayed quiet, snuggled, and closed our eyes. We needed a breather. We could hear Nate setting up his DJ gear near our tent. When he turned on the speakers, the most ridiculous trumpet melody we ever had heard began to play. We both busted out laughing, breaking the silence in unison. "Yes! I love that someone actually makes this kind of music," you said. "Yes! It's awesome! And that N8tron actually mixes with it," I said. And that was how a silly remix of Bert Kaempfert's 'Africaan Beat' came the closest thing we had to a song. We would play it at the house and dance the most dorky dance around the house together. If one of us were ever in a bad mood, we could snap out of it by playing that song. We always requested Nate to play it, even when it was totally inappropriate for the setting. It made us laugh. It made us dance.
It's hard to imagine hearing playful music without a visceral rawness consuming my chest. Its hard to remember our time clearly, without my own take or exaggeration. For now I have to settle for static - and look forward to the bursts of colorful and clear memories that peek through from time to time.
In painful but clear moments, I will have flashbacks to our time together. However in general, it's been very hard for me to remember much. It's as if the trauma of that night caused amnesia, and now I'm left only with bewilderingly hazy memories. I want to remember all of you. I want to remember every breath, every word we said, every time we held hands, and every kiss we shared – but I can't. Like the static screen of an old television that needs its antennas fiddled with, I only get blips and blurry images that pop in for a second or two.
My flashes of memories come and go, and are often onset by my surroundings – sights, sounds, songs, smells, signs. Here's some breaks from the static:
Today as I drove between Desmoine and Chicago I witnessed hoards of mediocre-at-best drivers making their cross-country trips to spend the holiday with family. As I judged and cringed, I remembered my first time driving to your house in Vail. I was at the wheel with you seated shotgun. You lived in Vail for many years so you were very comfortable with the roads, unlike myself. I exited Interstate 70, turned left to cross the highway, and made my way into West Vail. I noticed something strange ahead of me – a... roundabout. Hmmm. What ever do I do here? You, always patient and never curse, said nothing just motioned 'onward'. I did not yield, despite signs. I pulled all the way into the inner lane immediately. The car behind me laid on his horn. I slammed on the breaks, horrified, then swerved into the right lane to make my exit, without a turn signal. My heart slamming, I looked at you in panic. You gave me a funny look – wide-eyed, slight fear, kind of embarrassed to be seen with me, and humor. You said warmly, "Well sweetheart, the good news is, you made every possible roundabout mistake all at once right there, so you can only get better!" I have gotten better. But every time I drive into one for the rest of my life, I will remember that incident.
After moving to Colorado a year ago this week, I got a new car. I'd sold my house in Austin for a good profit and had recently gotten my dream job as the Creative Director of my favorite magazine. I'd had my 2000 Honda CRV since I was in college and had bought it from my parents for $1. So when I was car shopping in Boulder last year, it was essentially the first time for me to choose a car – and I was pysched. I chose a luxury car with more bells and whistles than I knew how to contend with. On one of our first drives together in my new car, you sat down and started fiddling with the moonroof. "Wow, this is so big! Open it," you requested. I started pushing buttons and turning dials – a sunglass case ejected from the ceiling and the overhead lights came on – no moonroof action. You laughed at my tactic and gracefully pushed one button and it opened. Later in that drive, you asked if I knew how to set the clock – it was a few minutes fast. I did not and started pushing buttons all over the console – no clock action. You laughed again and then quickly figured it. We sat in silence for a few minutes as I drove, feeling slightly incompetent. "Do you want to know what I have figured out though?" I asked. "What's that?" you responded. I turned up the music to show you. "I learned how to turn the bass ALL THE WAY UP," I answered, bass pounding. You cracked up and with only a hint of an eye roll answered, "Priorities."
You always thought I'd be interested in how cars work. I am not. I know I like a nice and comfortable one, but I couldn't be less interested in how they move. "There are so many more interesting things I'd rather learn," I'd tell you when you started talking about pistons. "Let's talk about another kind of piston..." I'd joke as you tried to explain. I can add gas and oil. I recently learned how to add windshield wiper fluid. I now know how to open the moonroof. The bass and treble are fantastically unbalanced. And I can read the manual when my bossy car tells me it needs something. So, I am basically a mechanic. I know everything I need to know. Although you continued to try to sneak car talk into conversation every so often, "It's really interesting! There's explosions!" you'd insist, tempting me with fire. It got to the point where we had a running joke about it. You would start to explain something about an intake valve and a cylinder and I'd plug my ears and look at you and say, "MAGIC! Cars go cause of MAGIC!" And that was it. Every time we decided we didn't need to know how something operated, we would blame it on magic.
As I drove my magically propelled Audi across the midwest today, I listened to your iPod – or T-Pod as you have it named. I shuffled through your ten-thousand plus songs. At one point, Patrick Lee came on. It took me back to the first time we both heard Patrick Lee. We were on our way home from Red Rocks in the back of a limo. It was my first Red Rocks show and we hadn't been dating very long – so you were still trying to impress me. (Which you didn't need to do, because you impressed me more and more every day of our time together.) But, in order to transport a good group of friends conveniently to and from the Umphrey's McGee show and avoid drunk hippies from being on the road – we all climbed into the back of the limo. About halfway home, the limo got quiet. Everyone was getting tired and coming down from the thrill of the show. As the conversation died down, we noticed the music. It was the absolute perfect melody for the moment – down-tempo electronica that still sounded man-made and had layered peaks and valleys. "Who IS this," you asked. Nate, who was manning the music, responded, "Patrick Lee."
Patrick Lee's Pacific Soul album became a staple for us from that point forward. At the end of the night, we would cuddle up downstairs on a Love Sac in the puddle room, let Kira out, and groove to Patrick Lee. You would explain certain dynamics in the music. I knew I liked it a lot, but you would help explain why. Some days we would listen to that album while driving through the mountains or maybe when we drove up to get the mail. I played it in my yoga classes a lot – the perfect groove for a flow through a vinyasa. It's the kind of music that made me feel as though I was lying on my back in a grassy meadow, with sunlight on my face, wind in my hair, your hand in mine, and warm love filling my being.
So when I was in the car today and Patrick Lee's 'Southern Cars' came on, I took a deep nostalgic breath. I let it play. As the cheerful rhythm played, I noticed how ugly it was outside. I noticed how the slushy snow looked dirty and haphazard. I noticed how the only trees that had leaves were sharp needles on conifers. I realized everything on the horizon was some shade of grey – even the dead grass along the side of the highway seemed monochromatic. The song continued to play the same melody that I'd heard so many times before during joyful moments – but this time it was different. It was as though the music was now a cruel joke, a parody. "Remember how happy this used to make you?" The music seemed to whisper taunts through a sleazy Cheshire-Cat grin and pointed eyes. I changed the song as I let my tears fall.
My soundtrack is changing. I used to tell you that I thought that The XX song 'Intro' would be my soundtrack. I'd describe how I wanted that song to automatically play from the heavens as I walked into a room. I thought it was the perfect balance of mystery, intelligence, and cool. The song no longer fits. Now, it's Pink Martini's version of 'Que Sera Sera' – haunting, sad, and full of minor chord progressions. Ominously, you always liked the song. I thought it was chilling. I still do.
Our soundtrack was more funky.
We had come back to our tent a bit early after a String Cheese show at Horning's Hideout. We were laying on our blowup mattress relaxing. We could hear people slowly making their way back into Land's End camp - but we stayed quiet, snuggled, and closed our eyes. We needed a breather. We could hear Nate setting up his DJ gear near our tent. When he turned on the speakers, the most ridiculous trumpet melody we ever had heard began to play. We both busted out laughing, breaking the silence in unison. "Yes! I love that someone actually makes this kind of music," you said. "Yes! It's awesome! And that N8tron actually mixes with it," I said. And that was how a silly remix of Bert Kaempfert's 'Africaan Beat' came the closest thing we had to a song. We would play it at the house and dance the most dorky dance around the house together. If one of us were ever in a bad mood, we could snap out of it by playing that song. We always requested Nate to play it, even when it was totally inappropriate for the setting. It made us laugh. It made us dance.
It's hard to imagine hearing playful music without a visceral rawness consuming my chest. Its hard to remember our time clearly, without my own take or exaggeration. For now I have to settle for static - and look forward to the bursts of colorful and clear memories that peek through from time to time.
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