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Category: Death

Life’s Temporary Reminders

Published on November 13, 2024

A buddy of mine messed his ankle up today while sparring.

Shortly after that, I found out my grandmother fell on the weekend and got a pelvic fracture with some displacement.

And before both of these events, one of my employees told me she was going to have to take her great aunt off life support today.

Reminders like this—which is exactly how I try to receive them—should be given space where their true weight can be felt.

…Because what they could serve so powerfully as are reminders of our impermanence… of life’s temporary nature… of our vulnerability.

…Of precisely what makes this life so very precious in the first place.

When you come across an injury in your life—remember to give thanks to what’s uninjured.

When you come across a serious injury—remember to give not just that person a more serious space where they can feel the full weight of your support… but to give the same to yourself… maybe not to feel support, but to feel gratitude for what’s seriously still going right.

When you come across death—don’t hide from it. Don’t just leave others to deal with it. Don’t suppress your feelings about it. Let it give rise to that potent feeling of delicacy… that terrifying feeling of the ticking clock… the thoughts of consciousness fading to black.

And let it serve as just as potent of a reminder… to live.

RIP Aunt Mary

Published on September 25, 2024

My great aunt Mary passed away a few weeks ago.

And the other day, a friend and I helped move furniture around and out of her stripped down apartment.

It was weird to see how, within a matter of a few short weeks, everything she owned was either given away, sold, or trashed.

Everything.

From her apartment and car to her furniture and TVs to her clothes and jewelry.

It was a reminder for me that we don’t really own anything in this life.

Everything is merely being borrowed—even the things we pay for in full.

And when it’s all said and done, what gets remembered and tallied isn’t the physical objects or dollar signs we leave behind… but, as my aunt so eloquently said at her funeral, it’s “Loving well that’s the best legacy of them all.”

Today, let’s remember to love well.

Absolutely Devastating

Published on May 28, 2024

Today a student of mine came to the school with watery eyes and a quivering lip.

He stood in my office for a few moments gathering himself before he told me that a 6 year old girl died after being hit by a car as she was crossing the street. He said that she crossed from behind a parked car and couldn’t have been seen until it was too late… And that he saw the aftermath of it all as it was just down the street from his home.

I simply can’t fathom what must be going on in the minds of the family, friends, and driver.

…Is this our fault? Should we have taught her to cross the street more safely?!

…If only I had been driving slower and more cautiously.

…Why did this have to happen?!?!?

It’s absolutely devastating all around.

And the reason for passing this devastation forward is to offer you the opportunity that the people mentioned above would do anything to have… the opportunity to have that careful conversation with your kids/loved ones… to drive more slowly and cautiously (and to never forget the potential cost of rushing)… to hug your little ones/ big ones a little extra tight while they’re still here…

Life is so damn fragile, y’all.

One Week Later

Published on May 22, 2024

Welp, at the one week mark, I’m slowly starting to adjust to and accept my new normal.

I’m slowly starting to expect her less when I open the door. I’m slowly starting to leave gates open and no longer blocking rooms off that I want to keep her out of. I’m slowly remembering I don’t need to open the back door when I get out of the shower each morning and that I don’t need to stop by the cupboard before I leave to work and that I don’t need to rush home after work to let her out.

Sometimes it happens automatically—as a programmed response from years of repetition.

And I know that before long, new programmed responses will take their place and these old habits will fade alongside her memory. And I’m learning to be okay with that.

What I’m choosing to deliberately keep, however, are the evening walks. This is the one habit that she helped me adopt that I feel would properly honor her memory if I kept. And each night, after I get home from work, I follow the same route we used to follow and try to carry her legacy with me. One that doesn’t rush. One that stops and smells the roses (or the pee in her case). One that is always grateful to be out… walking… experiencing… being.

P.s. I tagged all of the 1-minute pieces I’ve written that were inspired by Stella over the years. You can read the collection here.

How To Honor Lost Loved Ones

Published on May 20, 2024

One of the best things I think we can do to honor the ones we have lost is create a space where we can regularly bring them to mind and then carry with us the best of their life’s legacy—acting as a vehicle of sorts—so as to continue their and elevate our influence in the world.

It’s almost as though we’re opening the doors to our car each morning and letting them in… the best versions of all of our lost loved ones… so that we can carry them with us throughout our day(s)—rather than rushing from our homes late, flustered, and absent-minded.

…From some we might carry with us their legacy of patience, from others we might bring their legacy of love and kindness, and from others maybe we bring their legacy of strength or humor or resilience—but from each… we bring something.

…Leaving us filled with their memory rather than void from their absence and allowing them (and us) to continue interacting positively and constructively with the world.

Inner work prompt: Bring to mind a lost loved one. Meditate on their life and condense their legacy into a word or lesson you can carry with you today… and maybe every day after as well.

The Heaviest It’ll Be

Published on May 16, 2024

I’m still heavy in my feels about Stella.

I don’t want to write about something else. I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to accept this new reality.

Whenever I do something distractionary, I feel fogged and heavy.

Whenever I rise from my chair or open the living room gate, I feel a nagging absence.

And whenever I think I’ve cried all I could cry—something arbitrary will make me cry some more.

This is the nature of grief.

No sense to be made. No lessons to be applied. No explanation that’ll do.

Just the weight of it all.

…And the understanding that this weight, now and in every bit of its crushing form, is the heaviest it’ll be.

RIP Stella

Published on May 15, 2024

I could tell you about her gorgeous fur, kind eyes, and how her butt shaked when she greeted you.

I could tell you about the rituals she loved most—from morning poops, to house sprints when the mailman (finally) arrived, to evening walks… the ones we took religiously and only ever missed one handful of times.

I could tell you about how much she hated other dogs, but how much she loved other people—and how much I could relate to that, but only flipped in reverse.

I could tell you about the time she busted through the front window and aggressively chased a little dog named Rupert and in the same breath tell you about how god damn good she was—an absolute angel who spent most of her days alone, while I worked, and patiently kept herself preoccupied, radiating with love, keeping the house warm for my return.

I could tell you about how it was just her and I… how it was we who made our house into a home… and how proud I was to have her as a dog and companion… how proud I was to introduce her and show her off to everyone I knew.

…But I know that, to those of you who never met her, she’ll only ever be just another dog.

Which is okay. I wouldn’t wish grief on any of you.

…But do me a favor and remember: the difference between Stella and you, and Stella and me, is the time we spent together—something that can’t be explained or substituted—something that’ll be just as true for you and yours, and them and me.