May 23, 2023
Note, I did not expect this piece to be as long as it is, but like with most life-changing moments, to understand what happened that day, knowledge of what lied before has to be there....perhaps more for myself than you. It’s in reflective moments like these that I see the intimacy of the past, present, and future – bounded all-together in a timeless dance. How neat.
Also of note – I seek vulnerability as an invitation into my life, my story, the collective human experience. I believe that out of fear, society relays the limiting belief that vulnerability is a showing of weakness, fault, shame. But if the World was a little more vulnerable, more open, it would be a radically more vibrant place. To get to the good stuff – you have to go in – all in.
Since I was a young, I’ve always been a ‘seeker’. Someone who has little interest in the ‘what’ or ‘where’ or ‘when’ and a deep hunger for the ‘how’ and ‘why’. There’s nothing I love more than exploring – it’s when I venture into the unknown that I feel most alive; most vulnerable; most strong and vibrant. I’ve always loved this natural tendency of myself – it’s resulted in so many great stories and profound adventures. It gobbles up reason and fear in a beautiful, harmonious way. I love all of this, that is, until the hunger for understanding gets so intense that I can’t think about anything else; I can’t ‘be’ where I am because I’m trying to understand how “I am”.
Mormor (middle) sitting with her two sisters, Joanie and Diane. 2006.
This “seeking” quality has taken on other forms in my life, too. I started therapy after the passing of my Grandmother, ‘Mormor’. She was a bright, gentle light whose voice held you, whose words healed you, and whose presence protected you. I loved how much she loved us. I loved to see her in the front row of all my recitals and performances. I didn’t love how sick she got with cancer. Or how thin and pale and weak and sometimes grumpy she became. I didn’t love the feelings of abandonment and regret I experienced once she died. Tack on the fact that it was the ’08 financial crisis and my parent’s relationship was visibly pressed -- my 9-year old self really did not love any of that.
I was a highly-sensitive child – which meant others' joy became my joy; others' anxiety manifested into really bad stomach aches; and death, of someone I deeply loved, took a part of me with them. I was holding onto so much suffering– and had no idea how or why. There were countless times growing up where I simply could not go to school or dance class or sleepovers because my stomach aches and social anxiety were so intense. I’d lay in bed, watching TV, eating saltines, waiting for the really sharp pains or hyperventilating to stop. I accepted anxiety as you do a nagging companion – always pipping up in the spaces where stillness supposedly lies. I allowed limiting self-identifying labels to stick like “anxious” and “over-emotional”. I didn’t object to the nickname “Shorty Mc’ Farty”, given to me by the girls on my dance team....you know, reflecting on this, I feel less bad for incidentally farting in their faces. I accepted it all; but, knew I didn’t want to keep living life this way. It was just no way to live.
I was not keen on therapy at first – it took time to find someone I deeply trusted; someone who would create that safe space in which I could release. Once I found that person, I loved it. It’s like being Sherlock Holmes in your own mind – uncovering answers to questions you may or may not have even set out asking. How come I feel anxious? Why did those actions hurt me so much? Why did I run away when he was trying to ask me to the school dance? I loved understanding the sources of different emotions, and how to work with them. The anxiety didn’t disappear, but at least I knew what it was and how to hold it. Therapy became the highlight of the week. In that room, sitting on those big fluffy floor pillows, I discovered a steadfast curiosity and commitment to understanding ‘self’ – as I knew I could ‘meet’ others only as deeply as I’ve met myself.
In my young mind, it was that simple.
All of this explanation is to say this deep love of exploring the inner and outer landscapes was cultivated, perhaps unknowingly, at a young age. That, and a keen respect for my elders. With the loss of Mormor, and the regrets I had dismissing her and wishing she’d leave so the pain would be over, I signed a mental pack with myself to deeply cherish my grandparents that remained – to love them, care for them, understand them, sit with them and listen to their stories. I am them, after all.
I was really lucky, as I was born into a life with five grandparents. On my maternal side -- Mormor, Grandad, and Grandma Alice. And on my paternal side, Papa and Grammy.
Grammy, Papa, and their grandchildren.
Living in the same town as Papa and Grammy, we’d see them quite often. Sunday dinners, beach days, art shows. When we lived in the same neighborhood, I’d bike over to their home and cook with Grammy for hours on end.
Grandma and Grandad.
We usually saw Grandad and Grandma twice a year, once in the winter, and then in the summers in Maine, where they lived. Maine summers were my absolute favorite – I grew up picking wild blueberries under the tall white pines and sailing ‘Traci’, a tiny wooden boat in Casco Bay. Grandma was a reserved, quick-witted, well-read woman who’d happily chat with you in-between her reading of the newspaper and her daily sudokus. She was slow, thoughtful, deliberate.
Grandad, on the other hand, was a powerhouse – a petite, unstoppable man whose mission was to craft as much joy for himself and others as possible. He loved gardening, woodworking, boating, playing music – just about everything you could think of, that man did. Every year there would be a new adventure for us children – a hand-built jungle gym, a massive tube for the ocean, a new part of ‘alien way’ in the yard. He strictly enforced untraditional traditions – there was no getting out of the nightly “twinkle-twinkle” ice cream walks around the neighborhood or group tractor rides.
As one may assume, 86 Dipper Cove was a haven, a magical place to play hard and to lose track of time.
We all knew something had changed when he started forgetting things. The route home from his favorite beach spot, the conversation we had an hour ago, what grades each of us were in. He became short and angry with us children when he didn’t understand. But in actuality, none of us did. It made sense then, we found out it was Alzheimer’s. Looking back, I can actually pinpoint the year he was diagnosed based on aerial photos of the yard. As he declined, so too did the magic of 86 Dipper Cove. The pool room was boarded up, the attic movie theater became an extra bedroom for caretakers, the tube had disintegrated, and there were no new aliens in the yard. By the time Grandma passed away in 2017, I felt like I had lost both of them. For about a year after her death, we had to explain “she’s resting in the recovery hospital” when he asked where she was, as every time we told him the truth, he relived the shocking loss over again. I’d never heard a person wail before that. It was just heartbreaking to watch.
With death, comes birth.
Vibrant. Raw. Pure.
The loss of Grandma and Grandad, resulted in a new best friend in my life, ‘RayRay’.
A somehow more unclouded version of my Grandfather, RayRay was a silly old man you had to stop from peeing in people’s rosemary bushes and eating four pints of Ben and Jerry’s a night. He did not care one bit what others thought and loved to sing and rhyme. A perfect day for him was waking up to a bowl of fruit and a cup of coffee, taking a rest in his recliner overlooking Casco Bay, and then hopping in a car and going for a drive. Note: these ‘drives’ were not a quick one-two around the neighborhood, but rather a 3-8 hour adventure in the backroads of Maine. The Frank Sinatra radio station had to be playing at just the right volume, and almost always, a stop for a lobster roll or ice cream was required. I know all of this because I lived it.
The summer after freshman year of college, I decided to stay with RayRay and the caretakers rather than move back down to Florida. I held a few part-time jobs, attempted to restore the yard to what it had been all those years before, and, on my days off, would take RayRay for his outings to give the caretakers a break. I discovered so many relics of Grandad that summer – both in the yard and his actions. The way he organized his toolshed; the specific songs he’d start singing while driving– what lay in the unspoken was fascinating to me.
Us, 2018.
If that had been the extent of our time together, our story would be different.
It’d be sweet, admirable, simple.
I would be different.
Thank God it was not.
In 2020 this little bug called COVID-19 kind of set the world on fire. All plans, totally out the window. We were all on some type of path, and mine was studying at college in Vermont, getting ready to go to South Asia to learn about coastal livelihoods and resilience. Yet in a matter of days, all of that had vanished. I packed up, drove straight to Maine to dump off my stuff, and was making plans to fly back to Florida. But when I got to Maine, I heard clearly my inner voice reciting that agreement I made so long ago. What about RayRay? If everything shuts down, who is going to take care of him? I called my mom. She flew up, and for the next 8 months, us and two of those caregivers took on tending to that lovable, crazy 92 year-old who, in his own way, took care of us.
When you spend any extended amount of time with someone, you begin to understand them — all of them. Their preferences, opinions, desires, sources of joy, frustrations. You have the gift of time to deeply listen and to unravel immensely profound insights hidden in the mundane. During those eight months, I not only learned how to listen to RayRay but I gleaned wisdom from what I observed. RayRay did not offer life lessons with words, but with actions – his way of “being”. I remember on one ride, I was getting so irritable at the thought of being stuck in a car aimlessly driving for several hours, so I asked him what our destination should be – I needed something to feel accomplished. He looked at me in-between licks of ice cream and said “It doesn’t matter, you can choose. I just love being along for the ride”. I paused. Here I was, grumpy, waiting to get to this un-demarcated destination and there he was, enjoying an ice cream, singing to himself, purely cherishing the experience of driving. Both of us were going to be in this car for the same amount of time and end up at the same place, the only difference was our perspective on the ride itself. How do I want to navigate life? Well, shit. I turned around and got myself an ice cream too.
Sound warning! RayRay practicing fasetto during “Over The Rainbow”.
He had already been in hospice three times before May 2023. It started with him breaking his hip in October, getting C DIFF in December, and then COVID in January. I really thought January was it. I got a call from my mom saying the priest offered last rites and that she was booking a flight to go say goodbye. In two hours, I was on that flight too. It wasn’t that I felt like there were words unspoken, or peace to be made. I know he knew how much I loved him. It was something deeper – a nagging yearning to be present with him, and with my mother during those last moments. When we got there – he was curled up under a quilt – his breathing, slow and steady. I held his hand, spoon-fed him some yogurt and water, told him how much he was loved. And then somehow, two days later his vitals miraculously recovered and he was released back home – already demanding Cherry Garcia ice cream upon arrival. But just like with Mormor, I noticed anger, frustration, and exhaustion starting to build up inside myself. I kept having selfish thoughts like “Please die. I just want to start living for myself”. The whiplash of his living and dying was getting to me – I just wanted to be able to focus on my work or be free to travel or anything else and not have this impending death looming over me. Why was my life being consumed by his dying?
Even up until the end, in his final resting place, RayRay never stopped singing. May, 2023.
I’ve started to perceive my great sensitivity not as something to be ashamed of, but instead as my superpower. I don’t know how, but I can sense things. When I got the call in May, I knew it was it. I had been really struggling for months up to that point too – feeling unsettled, stuck, off-course. There were nights I could not sleep, and even more days I could not sit still. My long-time companion, Anxiety, and their pal, Depression, had been following me for months. Meditation, exercise, medication, therapy– nothing was working. Again, I watched as my thoughts battled themselves – one side wanting to keep living my life, the other yearning to drop everything and be by his side. Yet in the glimpse periods of a quiet mind, the decision was clear. In fact, there really was no decision. When I arrived, RayRay's eyes no longer opened; he was relentlessly trying to stand up. He was so uncomfortable in his own body, moaning – he just wanted to move, he just wanted to be free. He rose, unclothed, and I hugged him upright– allowing his nearly skeletal feet to touch the earth one more time. I felt him release into me, and we both stopped moving. Listening to our breaths, I felt peaceful, whole. Maybe we just needed to be stuck together.
The hospice nurse on-call obviously did not know RayRay, as she was astounded by how long he was hanging on – she said she’d seen nothing like it. But I knew. I knew he was prevailing, resisting, grasping – an impressive yet unsurprising embodiment of the grit and strength he always exuded. It wasn’t until I spent a day listening to the wind and reflecting on his life, that I could pinpoint ‘why’. He feared leaving us behind; feared that “letting-go” was “giving-up”. Giving was something he never did.
It was early, around 7am. My mother and aunt were still sleeping, and the caretaker who watched him overnight had just stepped out. I had been in the room, reading, waiting. He breathing was down to 1 breath every 12 seconds. Again, I don’t know how, but I knew. I walked over to where he laid, gently putting my fingers to his temples and forehead to his. Quietly, I whispered my case --
“You crushed living in this physical world, Grandad. Whatever your purpose was, you covered it and then some. Look at the beautiful daughters you raised, all the joy you produced. You left us a beautiful legacy. I promise we are all going to be okay, more than okay. But you need to know where true strength lies; not in the act of perseverance itself, but the active choice in knowing when to persevere and when to let go...
I let that sit. I let that touch RayRay, Grandad, Raymond. His whole self.
“Now I’ve never experienced what you are going through, but I can sense it takes an immense amount of energy and rooted strength. I want to give you a little extra to make it through. What you choose to do with that energy is up to you.”
I had never done something like this before, but I figured I had the divine feminine and youth on my side. I’ve listened to healers and they always talk about grounding themselves into the earth – allowing energy to flow through them. I don’t know why, but I started to envision white light flowing through my body into his – I thought of all the love and moments of joy shared between us. It was like I was running a marathon – my legs, shaking, and heart beating so rapidly. I’ve been told that I only breathe with 60% of my lungs so at that moment, I focused and took two full breaths, harmonizing with his own.
It was with that second breath that he released.
I felt a tingling in my hands. I heard his stomach relax, heart stop, light dim.
But most incredibly, I experienced this white space, and saw us not in human-form, but as these timeless, bright lights. We were just energy. His, a little more yellow than my own. Everything made sense. I saw this world for what it is – form that was gifted to us while we tend to the formlessness. All of the anxiety and depressive thoughts had vanished. I did not feel light and peaceful, I was light and peaceful. All I felt was love. Deep love. Pure oneness. It was the most power I’ve ever held. And it was in this space-in-between that I made him a promise – to embrace my light and use my voice to help others through.
How exactly? That’s a good question.
It's been two months since that day. And though the clear headedness I experienced in that moment has faded, the intense truthfulness of what happened has not. Soon after that moment, I too let go. I let go of orchestrating a clear path for myself. I let go of trying to suppress my hunger for the ‘how’ and ‘why’. I let go and allowed myself to sit in the intensity of it all.
I thought the greatest gift he offered me was the opportunity to experience deep love.
But then, that happened.
All that time I thought I was sacrificing my own life to be present for his decline, was in fact sowing the seeds for that moment of awakening.
He gifted me life. Twice.
A Dipper Cove Sunset, 2023.
I’m writing these words while sitting alone at 86 Dipper Cove, overlooking the ocean tides he watched every day. The house feels different. Empty. Though rather hard, I’m trying to sit in this emptiness. Because perhaps it’s not “emptiness” but instead “spaciousness”, “boundlessness”, “expansiveness” – offering room for new life, of all forms, to seed and flourish. What that might be, I suppose, is the beauty of the unknown.
It is here after all, in this space of not-knowing, I find the words to process and discover the ‘how’ and ‘why’ of May 23rd. Yes. I do have a wild ride ahead ... discovering the form I’d wish to use to share my light, my truth. It’s an exciting, intimidating task. One we are all gifted with discovering. One that I feel immensely fortunate to have. But at this point I have more questions than I do answers. All I know is to not write this, to not start sharing the profound intricacies of my human experience would be selfish.
In one way or another -- this is what the World needs. Not a finalized product, but an earnest, messy showing of the process of becoming. The processes of withering, dying, rebirthing, healing, transforming. It’s in this process where true power, true resiliency, true freedom lies. In the wild world we live in - no matter our mission, the sources of pain and keys to unlocking peace are one and the same, they just lie in different forms. Form is our way to understand the formlessness. How can we aid in healing the world? We must know how to heal ourselves. How may we increase environmental resiliency in the face of disasters? By knowing how to tend to our own resiliency.
And it’s always with us. We just have to be willing to dive within. All in.