i write to you

early this week i took my turn leading my local women’s new moon circle. a few days ahead of our gathering, i sent a note inviting the women to consider some of their ancestors (i defined ancestors broadly as any blood relation, energetic lineage, or loved one who is no longer living) and determine who they wanted to honor and welcome into the space with us. i asked them to bring an ancestral totem along for the altar as well. we began with a brief opening ceremony where i guided the women into their bodies and into connection with the great mother, and welcomed the spirits to circle around with their profound love and support to guide and hold us. after that we did our monthly check-in, each woman taking some time to answer “how are you really? how is your heart?” when that was complete, instead of closing the circle we decided to stay open for some extra ancestral magic. each woman took a turn calling in the spirit of an ancestor and i helped to channel their loving messages. it was a beautiful, gorgeous, heart filled evening. such an honor to hold space for.

just a few days earlier, i had found myself writing a note to one of my favorite ancestors, my friend kelly, umberdove, who crossed over in july of 2017. of course, i wrote over my morning coffee:

i am using your mug today, for the first time in what feels like a very long time. i had tucked it away months ago, pulling my other mugs out and pushing yours all the way to the back of the shelf. this was after watching a friend of mine grab it and use it one evening when i had people over. my stomach clenched when i looked over and saw her filling it. i didn’t want to ask her not to, and i didn’t want anything to happen to it. the next morning i washed it slowly by hand, dried it, and tucked it to the back. where it would be safe.

this morning i saw my usual mug sitting in the sink, unwashed, from yesterdays coffee. i thought about washing it and then i thought of yours - at the back of the shelf. i dug back for it and pulled it out. as i wrapped my hand around the ceramic a wave of emotion washed over me. and i watched this wave, almost surprised.

just the other day i was looking at your ring sitting on my table top. the same ring i wear almost every day, it was resting in my ring dish for the evening. i was just looking at it thinking, “you were here. then you died.” this same thinking used to crumple me up, used to have me sit down on the floor, or break into tears, or feel a thick weight settle on me. but i noticed the thinking and i noticed i felt something else. something lighter. “you will always have been here. you will always have died. i will always have that you were here and you died,” is what it felt like. where it used to feel like “you will never be here again. you are forever dead.” the dead itself being a problem i could never overcome.

several weeks before you died, on a night when you were going to the hospital because you were having trouble breathing, you told brad you wanted your friends to have your mugs and your jewelry. the jewelry had happened organically a little while later, your women circled around you on july 4th and sang and played drums and issued prayer from whispers and screams and each one donned a piece of yours, a piece of your work.

its the mugs i am remembering. two weeks after you die i am back in north bend for a dinner - because in your absence i will fly across the country for a dinner. i help brad pack your mugs up into a box and we put them in the back of the subaru to drive into seattle for the gathering. part way into the drive we go over a bump in the road and hear the mugs clink against each other.

“did you wrap them in anything?” brad asks me.

“no,” i answer “i thought they would be ok.”

he laughs, “maybe,” he says. “or maybe we will show up for kelly’s dinner with a bunch of shattered mugs for people. sorry about that last wish kelly! we tried, but but they all broke on the drive.”

this is standard death humor between me and brad, usually i’d be laughing along with him - but sitting there in your car i start to cry instead. we listen to the mugs dance and clang against each other on the bumpier roads. we are mostly quiet. when we park i jump out and check right away. the mugs are all ok. we will bring them in to dinner and your friends will each chose one to be their own.

i will fly home with this one, and drink out of it every day for some time, and then tuck it away for safety. i will pull it out one morning in mid-october, two years after your death, and feel a wave of emotion pass over me. you were here. now you are dead. i have those forever.

all love,

robin