It’s hard to sit at a computer, to think, to write in the summertime—maybe because the summer is for bodies, not for minds. Bodies in the sand and waves. Bodies sweating in fields, picking strawberries. Bodies scraping burnt bits off of barbecues. Bodies resting in the shade.
Dr. Russell Kennedy says the root of anxiety is alarm in our bodies, not thoughts in our brains. And yet, we try to think away our worries.
It’s not that our worries aren’t real. It’s just that thinking will not save us from unthinkable circumstances. Intuition comes from the soul, not from the work of our brains and the only way to access the soul is to quiet our minds.
And still, I worry. I worry that I’ll never quite figure it out, that I’ll waste my time or run out of it altogether. I worry about my parents getting older. I worry about my nephews and nieces growing up in this world. I worry about money and my health and the unpredictability of disease, especially after my best friend’s cancer diagnosis last year and the passing of my boyfriend’s mother earlier this year.
Max told me his mom was sick a few weeks after we started dating. It felt like a pivotal moment in our relationship. He was letting me in on something painful, something big. He told me how his perspective had changed since her diagnosis, how he had learned to be grateful for every moment. I thought maybe that was what made him so emotionally available and open to loving me, when in the past, I had not felt very lovable. But, it became clear, over time, that his capacity for love was a result of the way his mother lived and loved him and not her prognosis.
Brigid didn’t seem sick when I met her. She was vibrant and sweet, sarcastic and hilarious, offering me her squinty grin and a warm embrace upon meeting. I could have never guessed that she had less than a year and half left with us and in some ways, I’m glad I didn’t know because our relationship was never tainted by pity or fear.
It was after a full day of traveling and one too many drinks at a wedding in the woods somewhere north of Reno, six or seven months after we met, that I agreed to work at her vintage store.
Truthfully, I wanted to work at her store partly to escape the unsustainable life that was plating desserts until midnight in downtown LA for $17/hour, but also because I was so fascinated by her ability to find and collect the most obscure pieces of art, furniture and decor and then arrange them together in a room, making it feel at the same time brand new and rich with history.
I was mesmerized by all the objects, old velvet paintings dyed unintentionally by years of cigarette smoke, alabaster lamps carved in the shape of birds, hanging macrame tables from the 60s, vintage crystal glassware, swan lamps and mirrors, owl candles that had never been lit, textiles and antique side tables, a sheepskin and chrome chair, an oil lamp that dripped like rain all day in the corner of the store and an extensive collection of old dog portraits.
“Isn’t that cool!!?” she would ask as I admired each object.
The best mornings at the shop were when Brigid would come in with a new haul of items to be unwrapped and priced and placed around the store as Max and I chased her granddaughter around the maze of breakable items, the room alive and warm amongst all the abandoned objects.
I always felt a little sheepish around Brigid. I wanted her to like me, knowing that my relationship with Max was and is different than any I have had in the past and that she would be more like another mother to me and not just some boyfriend’s mom. I got the sense that she played an important role in my life or that somehow mine and Max’s and her paths were all destined to cross exactly as they had, though I didn’t know exactly where that feeling came from or what it meant at the time.
When I was eight or nine, I was invited to recite a poem I wrote in front of a crowded auditorium as part of a play ensemble. Dressed in all black, my voice wavered as I spoke.
“I feel like I’m afraid of everything and anything (possible or not), afraid of dying, always crying, when will it ever stop…”
It was a little heavy for an eight year old and maybe that’s why the director was inspired to have me share, to really wow the audience. I’m sure the poem ended in some kind of comforting resolution. Whatever it was, I can’t remember it now, but I can say that the existential dread from the first few lines followed me through adolescence and into adulthood.
It’s only recently, likely as a result of having no choice but to face it head on, that my fear of death has begun to loosen its grip on my subconscious.
Of course, I don’t actually know how Brigid felt about her own death. If she was scared, it certainly didn’t prevent her from being a beacon of light, from poking fun, from showering us with gifts, from being open and blunt or eating burritos and drinking beer as often as she wanted.
She talked about signs in the form of birds and animals, strange occurrences, meetings with mediums, about past lives and spiritual destinies. She also was the first to admit how flawed we are as humans, that we are not here to master unconditional love, but rather to return to it after all the messiness of being human. Though, as Max as evidence, I think she got a lot closer to unconditional love than maybe she even realized.
There’s a pink heart shaped note pinned to our refrigerator, “You are my sunshine every day! I love you with all my soul,” in her handwriting addressed to a third grade Max. But she might as well have written it yesterday for how certain I am that those words remain true, now as much as ever.
And yet, she wasn’t here yesterday or the day before and she won’t be here tomorrow or the day after that either. That is the relentlessness of grief. You expect it to go away, but death has no end to it in the way that life does. And that might be the greatest mystery of all for those of us who have come to believe that nothing lasts forever.
I was afraid to see her body when she passed. I was worried that it would be too much to handle, that I would not be able to stay strong for Max, that it was something so intimate that I really had no place being there at all. But it was her wish that we were all there that day, surrounded by flowers, listening to John Mayer, saying goodbye, not so much to her, but to her body and the way we knew how to love her up until that point.
She was a rebel and a pioneer in many ways, but especially in breaking any sort of stigma around death that makes people shy away from it or get caught up in formalities.
I’m grateful for her wishes, most of all so I could be there for Max that day. But also, maybe a little selfishly, because of what it taught me about bodies. As we placed flowers on her arms and legs, honoring her life and the body that carried her through it, it became clear that her spirit had transcended her earthly vessel, the one she used to hold her granddaughter, to walk on the beach collecting shells, to dance and laugh and cook orzo pasta salad, to cry and to be a messy human being.
It became clear that we are not our bodies and yet, our bodies are what allow us to experience the sublime and devastating nature of being human.
It’s a strange thing to be grieving in the summertime when the world feels so alive, with laughter and babies crying, long days and warm nights. But just like summer, grief is for bodies, for feeling, for knowing in the soul despite how incomprehensible our minds might find the truth to be.
And maybe if we stop trying so hard to control outcomes or timelines, to understand death or to escape it, maybe if we turn down the volume on our worry and on our brains, we will began to truly understand what it means to have a body, to feel sorrow deeply in our chests or excitement buzzing through our veins and for a short amount of time, to feel the heat of the sun flushing our cheeks in the warmth of Summer.
Thank you for reading and for allowing me to be vulnerable. Extra Honey comes out every Thursday. In the meantime, you can find me on instagram and tiktok. See you soon <3
What a lovely, touching homage to Brigid. She sounded like a fine woman. And of course grief stays with one. You need to give yourself grace and time to feel it. PS: you deserve all the love. You're just the sweetest person.
I’m sitting in the sun reading this, glass of wine in hand, and crying just a little (or a lot) at how beautiful this is (and how talented you are)