I struggle to precisely describe the relationship.  She's my best friend, sister, spiritual journeyer, soon-to-be aunt to my children, life partner. Her mother passed away last week, and it has been one of the hardest things to watch Jessica have to endure -  from the initial shock at the beginning to the disappointing lack of ritual at the end.  Our country deals with death in such a sterile, un-spiritual manner.  The body disappears and we are left floundering to find closure on our own.   She needed something more, and I had an idea.

Jessica has something ferocious and mystifying about her.  Her blood runs purple with royalty, pumping hard and fast.  Her body cannot contain her.  She deals with her pain honestly, without apology or self-consciousness.  As I watched her address the crowd of people present to honor the life of her mother, I marveled at the poise that comes only in the wake of mourning.  She has been cleansed by fire, brightened by torrents of tears, renewed by the support of others.  I nearly had to cover my eyes for her blinding presence. It feels too sacred, almost embarrassing, too private and pure a thing to witness someone genuinely just BE, especially when that particular state of being is shrouded in the black of mourning.

Her husband spoke words at the end that still send shivers through my bones.  He broke through the polite composure of memorial services, and instead lead each individual soul - one by one- through a battle cry, each of us into the wellspring of our own personal grief, not only at the passing of Denise, but also the confrontation of each human with the notion of death.  

I've said many times that there is no way to mourn death appropriately.  But somehow I feel that, if there were, it would look exactly like how Ben and Jessica do it.  Soulfully, honestly, fiercely, courageously embodying the pain and letting it wash through them instead of living in denial or allowing themselves to be comforted by trite phrases and empty promises of an afterlife no one really knows exists. 

During the personal sharing of Denise's family and friends, I composed a memorial of my own.  I am not one prone to public speaking, but I am one inclined toward the permanence of words.

Denise's passing seems particularly poignant to me as I anticipate becoming a mother.  I knew her as a mother, and have always revered and deeply analyzed how she managed this.  Jessica spoke highly of her, loved spending time with her, daily connected with her via phone calls, and aspired to be like her.   I wanted to see the formula she used to produce such a sustainable mother/daughter relationship.  I assumed they got along because she and Jess were like each other.  That was not the case - it was Denise and I that had more in common personality wise: Type-A, very organized, deeply mysterious and introspective.  That a woman like her could exist having created a woman like her daughter encouraged me so.  For instance, I genuinely thought that in order to be a good cook, I had to emulate Jessica's kitchen personality.  Denise taught me otherwise - and like so many people said this past weekend - she helped me realize the potential inside of myself.  Never doing it for me, only nudging gently and pouring me chardonnay, but still - I love to cook now because of Denise Green.  Specifically, she taught me to drink while I cook.  Four years ago, I cooked my first soup and all the while sipped a martini through the process, somehow trying to imbibe Denise's spirit itself.  Now, each meal begins with the glorious sound of a Chardonnay bottle popping open, a pouring of one glass, and the enjoyment of her presence standing right behind me, imbuing my spirit with cuisinal courage.  For the rest of my life, each time I open a bottle as I prepare to chop, dice, and julienne, I will commune with her spirit as I cook for my own family - the far-reaching effects of which no one can fathom.  Since food is essential for survival, it seems inconceivable to continue living without Denise, the one who feed us.  However shall we manage...

As she lived well, so shall she be remembered well.  Cheers to you, DMG.

* Abalone = Emotional protection/balance, Barn Owl = wisdom, seeing hidden things, associated with the underworld, Sage = used for restoring personal energy field, depression, and the expulsion of negativity.

More photos here. 

Joel and I recently completed a 7-week series of birth classes based upon the book "Birthing from Within."  The instructor said something that I've been musing upon.  She said that in labor, you will be tempted to just lose it...to forget your breathing, your pain-coping practice, your mental endurance required for full relaxation during rest periods.  She then said, "So just lose it."  Something about this notion of fully embracing the fall into the abyss resonates true in my being.

There is no appropriate way to birth a child.  There is no appropriate way to mourn the death of your mother or mitigate a divorce or face terminal cancer.  All there is is the bottom dropping out, our own personal dark cavern of fear that we all must face, and face alone.  No one can bring this child into the world for me.  No one can mourn Denise for Jessica.  Maybe we should stop trying so hard to grasp at the sides of the cave, to stop desperately reaching for that hand of help.  Maybe we should stop looking all around us to see ourselves in other's eyes.  Maybe in this dank space, there is no welcome mat for the ego.  We are all degraded to our primordial selves through pain and grief.  Why is it when we feel like screaming that we instead gently weep?  Why is it when we feel like scratching out the eyes of our soul, instead we make to-do lists?  Why, in god's name, when we feel like dying, do we politely sip our hot tea by the fire?  We keep ourselves so tightly wrapped up in all these civil emotions and try to sell others on our facade of health and inner peace - even in the hopes that we will believe ourselves to be evolved beyond primitive despair.  Perhaps, in the imagination of our souls, what we really need is just to fucking lose it.  To scream bloody murder, to scratch and scratch until we bleed, to die - bit by bit as we fall into the well of our worst fear coming true.

Wouldn't it be a relief to hit that bottom and feel solid ground again, despite our nursing broken bones from the fall?  It is only in being at ones lowest that we can, in any possible way, forage a way out.  There are beautiful organisms that can only thrive in wet, dark conditions.  There are things we will never discover about ourselves and others if we spend our lives avoiding and repressing the realities of pain.  Once we stop being so damn afraid of the engulfing blackness, then, and only then, can we realize that our eye-sight has keenly adjusted and we can see more clearly than ever before.  That sight will no doubt reveal that you are indeed strong, that you are humbled to being a collection of particles, and that there is great comfort in ultimate release.  That sight will be the very thing we need in order to climb out of the abyss.

Additionally, when we see our loved ones bordering on their own soul-drop, we must let them.  I will keep watch at the entrance to ward off predators.  I will yell down often to encourage your return, for of course the abyss is no place to stay - there is more life to live once you emerge.  But I refuse to advise you to avoid your fears.  I will let you go and trust in your strong soul to give you what you need.  Once we stop trying to save others, keeping them from doing what they need to do because we ourselves have the greater need of being helpful in crisis, then will we know our true substance as friend, wife, mother, daughter, teacher, human.

That substance, fellow humans, is a gorgeous, miraculous mix of hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon atoms.  That this amalgamation can have the awareness of self, much less the evolved ability to endure and grow from personal suffering, blows my mind.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well 

That, for all they care, I can go to hell, 

But on earth indifference is the least 

We have to dread from man or beast. 

How should we like it were stars to burn 

With a passion for us we could not return? 

If equal affection cannot be, 

Let the more loving one be me. 

Admirer as I think I am 

Of stars that do not give a damn, 

I cannot, now I see them, say 

I missed one terribly all day. 

Were all stars to disappear or die, 

I should learn to look at an empty sky 

And feel its total dark sublime, 

Though this might take me a little time.” 

― W.H. Auden

To whom or what do you turn for comfort when there is no way to accept what is happening?  For me, comfort lies in the words of those long dead.  For some reason, Rilke in particular always seems to capture the impossibilities of how I feel, what I mean to say, and how I attempt to go on.  I want to write just like him.  He's less elusive than Plath, more subtlety spiritual than Arnold and Eliot, more reverent than Pound, more literal than Neruda, more humble than Whitman or Thoreau, and deeply more sorry than Hughes.

Last night, I had to say fare-thee-well to one of my heart's chambers, my Red.  My burden of loss is nothing compared to the mortal fear she faces, but a significant loss nonetheless.  Nothing is ever final as we wander this earth, pursuing our dreams and uncovering our paths, and in this I know the friendship will always remain integral to my being - even if she isn't here physically.  She is moving home to San Francisco to help her mother fight the sudden onslaught of stage 4 pancreatic cancer.   On the way home, after a few cleansing tears, I found myself pleading with the cosmos for an exception, for something to change so we don't have to endure this suffering, this impossible loss.  There is nothing like tragedy to test your convictions, as I spoke with something I don't even believe interacts with daily human activity.  But sometimes, whether or not it's real or provable science, the biology of the human soul cries out to the universe - nothing could be more natural than for a created being to plead with that which is responsible for its existence, call it god, science, or as I do - both.

She's in the arms of her mother today and soon we will also say goodbye to her husband, who owns another chamber of my heart - it's really rather sectioned-out, this beating beast in my chest.  It seems to keep getting bigger and bigger.  One who is well loved is one who loves well.  Until we are all loved-well, we must extend relentless patience and compassion to others.

And so we are grasped by what we cannot grasp,

p.s. If you want to follow the progress of Jessica's mother's battle, Jess is writing about it here: El Tiempo Para Gustar.