the veil is thin
A journey to the depths of friendship.
Placing our attention on the smallest details is often the balm we seek.
First, it’s the Airbnb hosts, a wonderful young couple, who welcome me like family. Then the checkout gal at the natural food store, who patiently waits while I bag my things. The Uber driver, a delicious Iranian version of my Dad, initiating our pre-dawn chat about the state of the world, playing the best eighties music I've heard in too long. Young gal at the airport desk with the brightest smile i've ever seen. My close friend who picks me up for sushi. Seems like everyone in my path knows the mission I'm on; I'm here to serve, and am served in every regard.
Our friend is dying, way too young. And there are teachings here for us.
The sky as I fly away at dawn.
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For context: Our friend has had three decades of sacrifice and misplaced trust in a narcissist (facts she's never shared previously), warping her cells.
(Tangent: How he can live with himself without offering some apology remains unclear—my personal practice right now is resisting reaching out to this stupefying liar, thereby holding myself back from offering him a piece of my most acerbic Long Island mind.)
Then there's the intuitive mention she makes of the toxic scent she sprayed every day on the back of her neck, exactly where new tumors have emerged and are now prevalent.
The surrender our friend is beginning to experience, elusive at times, that giving way to the bliss of a three-hour rest. The depths of friendship in the presence of death.
Notable tiny details of these days here with her include the wonder I feel at the presence of her best friends; both of whom are actual angels, their own lives placed on hold for hours, weeks, months at a time to just TEND.
How we all find ourselves holding her, touching her, gazing at her, at each other, wordlessly asking with our eyes, What is this.
The pharmacy lady who takes our friend's hands after giving her the prescription, looks her in the eyes and wishes her very well, all of us with unspoken tears falling down as we try smiling down the toilet paper aisle.
The glorious moments thumbing through the magazines, so thin now, still luxurious.
The hooting and hollering after her final radiation treatment near the gong.
The sign that says to tap gently.
The way she hammers it three times loudly, then we jump and pose like Charlie's Angels.
We will never be back here.
The picnic lunch on the bed, then the face I make when I find a crumb from our dessert and promptly place it in my mouth a half hour later, perfect.
The random rainbow appearing outside her window after our tea, even though it hadn't rained.
The way her mother tries to integrate the inanity of her task, holding her daughter's feet, the backwardness of this.
The diaphanous clouds as I fly in the sky this morning, knowing I'll be back.
The veil is thin.
And we’re all going to die.
And I don't care to ask why anymore, I just want to be there to offer my presence if I can when it's happening. And to keep writing.
the veil is thin
She’s almost forty-five
She’s dying
She’s beautiful,
otherworldly vibrant,
yet alive
She needs her friends, her mother,
her Self
but mostly herself,
as lessons pierce through this tender, thin veil:
Stay close to yourself.
Don’t forsake yourself thinking
you’ve got to complete the mission,
or be a certain person
because
they’re expecting you to be
or stay in that thing because you
said you'd do it.
Leave if you need to.
Don’t be perfect because you think
that’s the standard you’ve set.
Change fearlessly.
Follow your own energy.
Be your own best friend
and rest every day so your cells can calibrate.
Don’t do it for THEM, do it for YOU.
Remember that you are the one who
creates pockets of safety within your own being,
then choose a handful of friends
and devote yourself to them
and let them take care of you
when you cannot take care of yourself.
And to B and S, you are angels on earth.
Thank you for reminding me that we are all we need.
And in the name of all that is good and true, please throw away any toxic perfumes.
Always keen to read you if you wish, comments are open to all this week:
Share with us where you’ve forsaken yourself, and how you got—or are getting—through it.
Share with us the friends who shown up for you.
Share with us how it feels when you show up for them.
Thank you truly for your presence here.
In my darkest hours it’s usually been the strangers, the ones with names I do not know and they eyes I looked into seeing love/kindness that I’ll likely never see again. It’s the Airbnb host and the checkout gal you mention who saved me without knowing. On the hardest days, I’d tell myself “go out into the world and give it kindness. It will show up for you too.” It always did. Friends have honestly more so dropped the ball, perhaps I expected too much or didn’t ask in the right way. But strangers seemed to always show up at the perfect moment and with the perfect gesture to give salve to a breaking heart. Sometimes it’s easier to give love to those we don’t know well, maybe sometimes we can remember humanity easier with distance. I hope today and in the coming weeks strangers will be kind. I hope to be that stranger in the world. 💚
She is strong and sage.
Also, a hurting human.
Time to grieve, receive.
...
Grief, grace, found good friends
posing as Charlie's Angels.
Take it easy, friend.