In search of warmth in the cold

Shipwreck Beach, Kauai July 17, 2021

It is the middle of January. In spite of all my best hopes, the new year hasn’t brought any magical seismic shift in the circumstances of our world. On the contrary, my world took a dive, truly rocking me with previously unknown levels of internal fear and chaos. Luckily I find myself now back on two feet, finding firm ground once again in the daily rituals of writing, moving, loving with my whole heart—or at least as much of my heart as I can spare. Admittedly, that doesn’t feel like a whole lot right now.

As I look around, I witness the heaviness of the season everywhere I turn. I ask myself what it takes to recall the sun and our sense of light and purpose in the depths of such a dark season. A few days ago, I found it in words I had written exactly six months ago, on July 16, 2021.

The words were an email to a friend I’d met only once, for a few hours at a David Whyte retreat in 2016. Out of mutual respect for each other’s writing, we struck up a correspondence that spanned the years. When I lost my brother to an avalanche in February, I shared the news with him. His response met me right at the heart of where I needed to be seen. He described his own brush with an avalanche and I felt him so close to my brother, as if he were a living example of the love my brother had so freely given. So, I wrote this to him:

Good morning,

I write from the second-floor balcony, heat pushing through my skin while the warm wind whips palm trees around me and the big, bright clouds drift through the clear blue sky. I'm in Kauai with my family. We're here to be together, celebrate my brother, and allow the island to sweep away the pain we've felt since losing him. I'm leaning every day into love and compassion and forgiveness and joy and simply being with them—in spite of, and also because of how hard it can be.

This island thousands of miles from what I know as home holds me in its thrall; it is majestic, beautiful, wild, and free. Every morning I rise before the rest of the house and walk the manicured paths to Shipwreck Beach, where I watch light play with the waves and the clouds lift themselves from slumber over the deep green mountains. I climb the sharp crags to stand on the cliff's edge, my feet planted firmly on the hard, rocky ground, and lift my arms to the wind. I follow the Qi Gong practice my brother left for me, and feel his spirit swirl around me when the sun breaks through. I feel my own strength, rising through the earth, descending into me from the sky, surging through my arms and legs as I sway and imagine myself a great tree, connected and also independent. I am entirely my own being. The waves hiss and steam below me. I am alive and connected. Sometimes tears burst through, as I imagine my brother flowing into me and know I'll never hug him the way I once did. Sometimes I just feel the energy of my own path surging.

And then I return to the house where coffee is brewing, cereal is on the table, Zeba is angling for more TV time and plans are being made for the day. It takes a lot of work to maintain the peace and equanimity I feel every morning on those cliffs. It's hard to stay connected and grounded and true when the pressures of everyone's expectations or fears or anxieties crowd the space. I'm facing my family with love choices that they don't approve of. Doing this puts me at odds with them. There are moments I feel cast out. And then, I realize, perhaps it's me. Perhaps I'm not driven by and rarely have been driven by the same sources that power them. I don't feel the autonomy I crave in those moments. I don't feel the depth of connection I crave in those moments. I find myself sometimes wanting to shout— “what are you feeling? What makes you come alive right here, right now? What do you do when you miss Brook? How do you feel him in you? Why aren't we talking about all of this?” When these questions begin to crowd out that feeling of peace from the cliffs, I imagine Brook reminding me to simply go with the flow, and am able to let lightness and playfulness loosen me. I listen and respond. Help when I can. I recognize that the depth of connection I seek lives inside of me, that it's my choice to lay myself bare on this island and allow its power and magic to soak into me. That I have the choice to go and dance by the ocean's edge rather than have another drink or stay and watch TV. That I have the choice to speak my truth with kindness and compassion, but that I'm not responsible for their actions or reactions.

The day is beginning to stretch on and we're finding our way together. Sitting to write eases the tension I feel and I'm grateful to be able to share it with you. I wonder how you're settling into your new home in Austin. Hoping this email finds you fulfilled and in joy.

Mahalo and Peace from Kauai,

Shey

I re-read these words with tears in my eyes. Because when I wrote them, I didn’t know that my friend, Cody had already found his place beside my brother on the other side of the veil. I didn’t know that just a few short days after his last email to me in April, the one where he described the ceremonial candle he’d lit before journeying to Hawaii, he would be lost to this world. I didn’t know that when I wrote to him, I was actually writing to his mother who would never again get to hold her son in her arms. Cody died in a tragic accident on the cliffs of Oahu, just one island over from the one I was on thousands of miles into the wild Pacific ocean.

When I heard back from Cody’s mom that same day, I was alone on a beach. The news ripped through me with a powerful surge. I raged and cried and shook with the ocean. I couldn’t contain the pain or the hurt or the frank unfairness of it all. But I shared my pain with the sea, the wind, the sand, my family. I let the tears flow. And I kept going to the cliffs. Every morning I rose and stepped forward through the light. I let the wind shift and shake me. Every moment of loss that I felt for Brook and for Cody made me all the more intent on living and leaning into the strength and heat of this one wild, rolling, painful and beautiful life I have. It’s the only way I know.

In parting, here are some words of Cody’s that stood out to me in the single email thread we’ve shared. May they help carry you through these cold days.

I choose to Love Human Kind.

We are, all of us, in this together.