I think Sunday was the first time I went to a memorial service and cried not because other people were crying but because I understood why they were crying.
I spent the afternoon sitting with the memory of one of the most creative people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. The specifics of the loss felt both palpable and yet unfathomable, only because I didn’t know her as closely as those who spoke at the lectern. But everyone who spoke illustrated the same details, ones that I knew. These tiny pieces of her character were so vibrant that it felt like she was in the other room, waiting to be welcomed onto the stage.
The time I got to spend with her was in 2019, most of it revolving around art shows. I spent 10 consecutive hours with her editing an art video, it was a last minute favor that ended up giving me a glimpse into a light that left us far too soon. She passed away in December of 2020 and only now were we able to gather en masse—it was strange to be amongst people I mostly didn’t know, all drawn together into the same space, circling around the absence of the same dynamic person.
Selfishly, her death seems to signify an end of an era in my own life. One where I was perhaps more uncertain, but that uncertainty was infused with youth. The precarity felt full of energy. The pitfalls felt less tangible, I moved fast, I even glided. Maybe it’s just the circumstance of the past few years but who knows if I’ll find myself scrambling to put together an art show or twirling on a dance floor at the end of a night I helped organize. No matter what happens in the future, I’m so glad I got to experience a bit of my youth alongside this friend, if only for a brief moment.
Right before my friend passed away, I saw her walking in a neighborhood not far from my house. I was so, so tired that day, slumped in a chair waiting for a falafel plate, feeling very drained. She passed by me in white jeans and a white t-shirt, smiling at dogs as she stepped briskly through the crowded sidewalk. I had a mask and sunglasses on and knew I was invisible to her. The pandemic isolation really did a number on my already stilted social tendencies and as much as I wanted to, I felt incapable of calling her name and saying hello.
I thought, if I say hi I might not be the best version of myself.
So I should just let her walk by. I’ll catch her later.
It feels funny to return to this newsletter with a story about a memorial. A lot has happened during the break that feels writing worthy and a lot of nothing has happened that feels writing worthy, too. But above all this memorial stands out, this reminder of our effect on those in this life.
I’ve always understood the phenomenon of death to be hardest for the living.
For the spirit, this life is but a single act in an eternal play. The play is multidimensional, it embarks on paths into realms we cannot see, but surely exist here now. The layers of existence overlap like a watercolor painting, for the spirit every color and every in between is visible. All of it is an expression of energy, drawn into various formats, each of which is temporary: for energy is too powerful and too fluid to be contained in one place for long.
For the spirit, death is just another transformation of energy.
But for those of us still on stage, the physical realm is so concrete that we feel the absence of a fellow player like a hole in our heart. This is especially true when the mind enforces a narrative of our life experience that is finite, inextricably tied to our presence on earth.
As performers, we can’t see what’s behind the curtain, can’t know the machinations of ropes and pulleys that will fly in another set piece. The lights shine so brightly, we can hardly see an audience in the distance. We speak our lines towards orbs of white and shadows in darkness. Not knowing who is really listening, not knowing if our delivery will bring applause or deafening silence. Often all we hear is the reverberation of our own voice, beating like waves against the theatre walls.
A stage manager waits in the wings, but we can’t see them when we are performing. The acts come and go without an intermission. This performance seems to be constant, but perhaps there is a way to transport ourselves into the audience for just a scene or two?
So often we lose sight of the stage’s limited scope. Every player would be better if they could step back and see the show from a distance. Enjoy the choreography and understand the position of the unseen director.
Without careful perspective checks, we forget the impermanence of both the play and our fellow players. When a character is allowed to take their bow before the rest of us, it feels jarring. Not only because of their absence, but suddenly our temporary nature is revealed. We behold the truth that usually conceals itself with scenic paint. All at once we must adjust the script in real time to account for the latest character’s exit stage right.
After their exit—if we’re lucky—we have the chance to gather for a specific scene. One that has echoed across cultures, through centuries, even other species that have yet to develop language.
We come together to collectively grieve.
In the scene on Sunday, we sat in chairs and looked to someone who became the vessel for the words we all wished to say. The memories we hold, even those of our futile attempts at rerouting fate. In that rare moment of mourning, we break the fourth wall. We admit that this play is not forever, we don’t know when, but someday we will deliver our final line and take our own bow.
And then we walk back to our cars, resume our normal scenes, projecting our voices into seats of the mysterious audience. Perhaps the memories and the grief serves as a reminder that one day the curtain will fall on our current character. One day we will assume our next role, in a cycle of plays that we can’t even fathom.
Back in 2019, I was playing the part of art department girl and crochet rug maker. It was my first foray into freelancing and I went to this friend’s apartment to gather a prop for a set I was helping design. What I thought would be a drive-by errand ended up being a consultation session with my friend about my path to becoming a full time creative. She was generous with her time and entirely present with me during our conversation, giving practical pieces of advice and asking questions that delved into my past. Finally I got up to leave, feeling bad for taking so much of her day. She said in the most matter of fact way: just go for it. And that meant the world coming from her, someone who went for it and made it in many ways.
Just go for it: seemingly simply advice that proves to be ever-evolving in its complexity.
In my future scenes, I hope to embody the best parts of that sentiment.
To just go for it and keep going. By doing so, I hope to carry her vibrant energy with me—until the day my own curtain falls.
xx
James
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