On life as artwork-

She asked if I could watch her bag while she went to the restroom.

"Yes, of course." I replied.

"I'll do the same for you." She said.

When she returned and sat next to me at our gate, I thought, wow she seems talkative or have I just become more introverted?

I was curious of what would happen next, but didn't ruminate much on it.

This mindfulness practice works.

I board the plane and my seat is beside her.

"I guess we were meant to meet."

She smiled. "Hi, I'm Sarah."

I introduce myself and we start with small talk, as conversations do. I learned of her illness and shared my experience with the U.S. medical system. We started talking about holistic medicine like acupuncture, Chinese herbs, and grounding.

Her husband has spent the last 3 months in Cork, Ireland on a culinary farm. She said it's been a long dream of his and she was on her way to spend the last few weeks of his time there, with him. Some how she began sharing his mental health journey and how this trip was an inflection point. He really struggled during those first weeks. Can I really do this?

On route to Mykonos for my cousins 30th, then a reunion with M in Prague and another reunion with my international friends from that magical semester in my mountain town - I had this thought: life is the artwork. It is the sole canvas where we really get to give it all we've got.

Sarah's husband is living out a dream in his older age. It's never too late.

I think of Andrea Gibson's words that inspire me all the more deeply since their passing: "In the end I want my heart to be covered in stretch marks."

What a masterpiece of a life they lived. What a timely reminder this week has been for me. 

I feel my mom with me more now than when I could touch her.

LOVE LETTER FROM THE AFTERLIFE
by Andrea Gibson

My love, I was so wrong. Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away. That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here. I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined. So close you look past me when wondering where I am. It’s Ok. I know that to be human is to be farsighted. But feel me now, walking the chambers of your heart, pressing my palms to the soft walls of your living. Why did no one tell us that to die is to be reincarnated in those we love while they are still alive? Ask me the altitude of heaven, and I will answer, “How tall are you?” In my back pocket is a love note with every word you wish you’d said. At night I sit ecstatic at the loom weaving forgiveness into our worldly regrets. All day I listen to the radio of your memories. Yes, I know every secret you thought too dark to tell me, and love you more for everything you feared might make me love you less. When you cry I guide your tears toward the garden of kisses I once planted on your cheek, so you know they are all perennials. Forgive me, for not being able to weep with you. One day you will understand. One day you will know why I read the poetry of your grief to those waiting to be born, and they are all the more excited. There is nothing I want for now that we are so close I open the curtain of your eyelids with my own smile every morning. I wish you could see the beauty your spirit is right now making of your pain, your deep seated fears playing musical chairs, laughing about how real they are not. My love, I want to sing it through the rafters of your bones, Dying is the opposite of leaving. I want to echo it through the corridor of your temples, I am more with you than I ever was before. Do you understand? It was me who beckoned the stranger who caught you in her arms when you forgot not to order for two at the coffee shop. It was me who was up all night gathering sunflowers into your chest the last day you feared you would never again wake up feeling lighthearted. I know it’s hard to believe, but I promise it’s the truth. I promise one day you will say it too– I can’t believe I ever thought I could lose you.

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