These are a few of my favorite things #1 - what they've said

Sometimes, especially in periods of flux and apparent downturn, its important to acknowledge how far we've come, the close connections we've made, and the wonderful way we're each blossoming as people. (I know that grammar is all wrong, any English teachers out there, I'm taking poetic license).

I thought I'd support myself in this by listing here, my favorite things that people have ever said to me, about me. Not to brag or toot my horn, but just to summon up a reminder in myself that of how incredibly much love pours my way every day. I invite any of you to sit down and try this out too, it'll really pick you up on a bad day.

In gratitude...

*"You're like a juvenile Maude" (as in Hardold and...)

*"Well, it's not always easy to be a pioneer. But its in your blood."

*"Tonight, your voice sounded like the universe vibrating."

*"Just practicing the old 'Neilson eat-sh*t, huh?" (lovingly, when snowboarding)

*"I've been secretly hoping I could pass on the business to you someday"

*"All this might just amount to a hill of beans, but I don't care. This is our hill, and these are our beans!" (Yeah, I still count it)

*"You know out-of-body experiences? Well that was an in-to body experience. Wow."

*"Stop trying to make everyone else proud, Heidi. You've done that already. It's time to live for you, now"

*"You try to fight it, but you can't help it. You ARE a yoga teacher."


*"I've loved every part of you for the past 2 1/2 years. And I always will."



mmm...

The Nature of Sanctity, or, Because We Say So

My half-brother died last week. Actually, it was 2 weeks ago, of an apparent accidental drug overdose. We, the Southern California contingency of the family, found out 2 days ago that his memorial service would be hapenning yesterday morning. Sometimes communication takes a little while in Utah.

Now, I've missed 2 funerals for members of that side of my family in the past. At the time, it was clear that going just didn't make sense... first, when my cousin's suicide came in the middle of ferocious high school preparations for AP tests and the SAT, and years later, with the overdose of another cousin I'd only known decades earlier. At the time, these decisions were clear. Over time, though, I started to see myself as the kind of person who always prioritizes work over friends and family, and started to use these two examples as evidence against myself.

When Aaron's time came, and I was so moved and grateful to be able to be so present, and sharing in the grief of all of us who loved him coming together in tribute, (RIP, you hairy, level-463 wizard cookie chef, farting machine), I decided I'd never miss another friend or family funeral.

So Monday, I was stuck. My dad was actually awaiting calls from the doctors as to whether his heart was about to give out if he got on a plane (physically... dealing with a lot there), we were struggling to find flights, we're all struggling to make rent and hard a hard time conceiving of hundreds of dollars to fly away and back for one day, we didn't even know most of the small group that was planning to gather, and we were all judging ourselves as crappy family members, for noticing the facts that going just wasn't going to work out smoothly.

Then, in a bizarre coincidence, my dad and I were hit at the exact same time, with the idea to have our own memorial here. I like to think we both received the same spiritual broadcast from God, because I enjoy looking at the world that way. We juggled schedules, me and my brother fought over rearranging appointments, some of the biting effects grief can have came out, but it came together - in a lovely family lunch, and subsequent releasing processes at sunset.

Our lunch wasn't much different than any other lunch my dad, brother and I have had together. Most of our time was even spent talking business and the stock market. But sometimes a little avoidance is something people need in grieving too, and just in holding the intnetion to celebrate and release Vincent's life, our gathering had special signifcance, and subtle psychological effects, I think, for each of us.

We didn't have to fly anywhere, we didn't have to listen to some so-called religious official recite the words he's been taught about death, we didn't have to be in the presence of a no-longer-soul-containing body. We just mourned together. And our service was sacred. Because we said so.