“To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it’ is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. The hole in my heart is the shape of you and no-one else can fit. Why would I want them to?”
—Jeanette Winterson
“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
—Anne Lamott
I am writing this on March 21, the eight-month anniversary of my soulmate, best friend, and beloved husband Michael’s instant death from cardiac arrest.
I intended to publish this on the date itself, but I’m honestly too tired. I could have foregone another night of sleep—having worked three nearly thirty-hour days over the past week alone—but Michael wouldn’t want me to do that. He would tell me this is another self-imposed, artificial deadline—one of thousands of sandbags weighing me down daily—and I have the power to change it, just like that.
I’m still going to work on it—because I don’t have Michael here to force me to take a break … and because working, writing, and confronting my grief like a head-on collision are the only ways I know to carry on.
Several days ago, Dr.Don Hall left this comment after listening to Michael’s composition “Forgotten Keys” (the score for Tess Lawrie’s reading of Mistakes Were NOT Made) in The Art of Losing:
“Like listening to natures soul floating downstream underneath an off and on sunlit canopy - the music lends that baroque magic”
He happened to catch me in the midst of a wailing session. I replied:
“Thank you so much, Don 😭🙏💔 Today has been a particularly tearful day, and I can’t seem to turn off the spigot, so I appreciate your beautiful words especially right now.
“It was actually triggered by music, appropriately. I was listening to Beirut on Spotify, and the song So Many Plans came on, and I couldn’t stop sobbing.”1
So Many Plans
by Beirut
And we had so many plans
Leap from the sill, see where we land
We had so many plans
Safe from the wind, head in the sand
And we had so many friends
This had to end, it had to end
And we had so many friends
Maybe we’ll see them again
We said so long, we sat alone
We sat along
We said it all, we said it low
We said it all
We had so many plans
This had to end, this had to end
We had so many friends
This had to end, this had to end
We said so long, we sat alone
We sat along
We said it all, we said it low
We said it all
As soon as I heard the line, “And we had so many plans,” the tears started gushing out.
Michael and I had never listened to this song together, nor was he familiar with Beirut, so it didn’t have personal significance for us like a lifetime’s worth of other songs do.
Nor is is apt to say “we had so many plans” because, as a Taoist, Michael did not believe in plans.
He simply did. Or didn’t.
I was the one with so many plans. And now I don’t have Michael to help me complete them, whether it be our own unfinished creative collaborations or his thousands of musical and artistic endeavors, the neglect of which cuts a little deeper into my soul with each passing day.
I’ll start by releasing another one of his compositions, “No Thought Left for Spring” (above), which seemed fitting for the vernal equinox that just marked the transition from winter to spring for those of us in the northern hemisphere.
While “The Tension of Purpose” was the last piece Michael exported, it was actually a 2017 composition he was using to test his newly acquired mixing and mastering skills. “No Thought Left for Spring” was the last piece he composed, this version having been exported June 11, 2024. I previously shared a video illustrated by this composition in his eulogy.
It also signals my own internal transition from winter to spring. The warm sunshine of kindness from so many around the world has slowly been melting my frozen heart. I now have days with more smiles and laughter than tears. The melancholy ache remains like an open, tender sore, but I am, as Anne Lamott says, learning to dance with the limp.
Below is an essay I started shortly after the twelve-week mark, followed by subsequent related experiences.
Wingèd Messengers
It’s 11:11 pm, October 16, 2024—twelve weeks and three days since I lost my precious Michael. Forty-one minutes ago, I was setting down a plate of cat food for the outdoor kitties.
I looked down at the doormat and noticed what appeared to be a piece of plastic. I picked it up so I could throw it in the garbage, only to discover it was attached to a brown dragonfly body!
Thankfully, the transparent wing was undamaged, but I wasn’t as certain about the dragonfly himself. At first, he was still, leading me to fear he was dead.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
He wiggled his legs.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I whispered.
I noticed his little feet were clasping onto a tiny strand of coir from the door mat. I thought maybe he was stuck on it, so I tried to gently remove it, but he wrapped his feet around it like he didn’t want to let go.
I placed my open palm beside him, and he climbed onto my right hand. Then he walked onto my left hand and perched over Michael’s ring on my ring finger.
He was still clinging to the strand of coir with one of his feet. I nudged it to make sure he wasn’t stuck. He released his grasp on it and let it fall to the ground.
He set about daintily washing his face.
“Did Michael send you?” I asked, bursting into sobs. “Tell Michael I love him. Tell him how much I miss him. Tell him I love him so, so much,” I blubbered through my tears.
Then I noticed nearly invisible threads of spiderweb wrapped around his legs. That’s what he was cleaning off himself.
I delicately tugged at the strands, removing them from his legs and wingtips.
After five minutes, he tested out his wings and flitted away before circling back and landing beside me.
He resumed preening.
I went inside to grab my phone so I could capture pictures and a couple videos of him. As soon as I started recording the first video, he froze for over a minute. I stopped recording. He started cleaning himself again. That time, he let me film him.
I picked up a brown leaf and set it down beside him. He clambered up it and back onto my hand.
He stayed there for a bit before flitting off again and then circling back to the door, where he toppled into a new clump of cobwebs behind the autumn door wreath.
I got him to climb onto my hand again. His feet were covered in gossamer. I gently removed them as he busily cleaned his face.
Once he was tidied up, he flew off my hand and landed on the ground beside the doormat again.
He was easy prey for a cat there, so I wanted to move him somewhere safer.
I pulled a large green leaf off a nearby bush and set it down. He climbed onto it and balanced himself there as I carried him over to the dirt beneath the bush. I set him down.
He rested there, seemingly contented.
Then I went inside and retrieved the broom I had used to sweep away the cobwebs the morning Michael had his heart attack.
Those of you who read I’ve Lost Half of Me: Pitched Past Pitch of Grief may recall our last exchange involved his chiding me for destroying the spiders’ homes, while I defended my decision to sweep away the cobwebs as saving the lives of insects.
This time, I was sweeping the webs away in hopes of saving a specific insect—the brown dragonfly.
Feeling I’d done my best to improve his chances of survival, I returned the broom to the garage. I grabbed a couple of paper towels and wiped my wet cheeks, eyes, and nose.
I searched for “brown dragonfly” to see what kind of a dragonfly he was.
After hunting through dozens of photos, I finally found a match, described as the “Chalk-fronted corporal, immature male, Ladona julia, family Libellulidae.”
In the righthand sidebar of my search, the first recommended related search was “brown dragonfly spiritual meaning”:
I clicked on it and came across the following description under the heading Spiritual Significance:
“In spiritual practices, the brown dragonfly is believed to be a messenger from the spirit world. Its swift movements and ability to hover in one spot represent the fleeting nature of life and remind us to stay present in the moment.
“The shimmering wings symbolize higher consciousness and spiritual awakening. In some traditions, the brown dragonfly is seen as a guide through difficult times, providing us with the courage and strength to face our challenges.”
Under Cultural Symbolism, the article says:
“In many cultures, the brown dragonfly is associated with transformation, adaptability, and change.…
“This reflects our own journey of growth and change, reminding us to embrace transformation as a natural and necessary part of life.”
The brown dragonfly is tied to “creativity and imagination.” After listing the different meanings paired with other colors of dragonflies, the authors note:
“Amidst this colorful spectrum, the brown dragonfly stands out with its association with childlike innocence, nurturing, protection, and healing energies.…
“The presence of a brown dragonfly, in particular, can be interpreted as a reminder to embrace nurturing and protective energies in one’s life.
“These encounters encourage us to reflect on our personal growth and prepare for transformative phases.”
The spirit animal description of the brown dragonfly says that it:
“emphasizes the importance of nurturing and protective energies in one’s journey. It reminds individuals to be gentle and kind to themselves during times of change and growth.”
It also talks about how the brown dragonfly:
“could symbolize a connection to nature, innocence, and a protective spirit. In contemporary art and culture, dragonflies symbolize our deep connection with nature and the spiritual world.
“They remind us to embrace change and let go of our fears, just as the dragonfly sheds its old skin to reveal its true beauty.”
I’m aware of the Barnum effect and the brain’s tendency to read personal meaning into vague descriptions, but I also know there are mysteries beyond our ability to comprehend. This unique encounter—my first with a brown dragonfly and the only time I’ve ever held one in my hand—is freighted with meanings relevant to Michael (nature, childlike innocence, protection, the fleetingness of life, creativity) as well as my own situation (grieving, change, healing, growth).
Beyond that, the dragonfly has special significance to Michael because it is associated with his favorite programming language, which he designed a dragonfly logo for.
How appropriate that the Patron Saint of Insects would communicate with me through bugs and in particular dragonflies.
It would be just like Michael to allude to our last conversation about insects and spiderwebs, an inside joke from beyond the grave.
The day Michael died, I was sitting at the dining room table in a catatonic state, staring into the backyard. I noticed a red dragonfly alighting on a spearmint leaf for a strikingly long time, so long I finally looked away even as I wondered if its presence carried some significance.
I later wrote my mom, “I was surprised because I didn’t remember seeing red dragonflies in our backyard before.”
The night before I told her that, I’d experienced another startling visitation.
I had just read Tess Lawrie’s response to my email informing her about Michael. She wrote:
“I am so sorry for your loss and pain. My sense is that if you listen quietly you will find he is still there with you, just not in his material form. These bodies of ours may have their use-by date but our spirits are eternal.
“Keep yourself nourished and trust that everything is as it should be. No regrets, just gratitude for your life together. We are simply having an experience here and you will be reunited with Michael in the blink of a cosmic eye.”
I went outside to feed our feral kitty Ragamuffin, and something extraordinary happened. I shared it with Tess in my reply:
“I just had the strangest experience. I was putting food down for one of our feral kitties, Ragamuffin, at our front door, and a small gray bird flew down the walkway toward me, let out an exuberant cheep, and then flew around the corner of our garage. Ragamuffin was as startled as I was! As far as I know, a bird has never flown down our front walkway like that, let alone up to a person with a feral kitty beside her—and at 2:18 in the morning when birds are normally sleeping!
“I am a logical, evidence-based person and understand the human proclivity to read personal meaning into coincidences, but my heart is also open to mystery, and I’ve experienced enough synchronicity in my life to recognize there is more to surface events than meets the eye.
“Birds are particularly dear to Michael and me as we rescued two fledgling starlings, Franny and Zooey, and raised them for the rest of their lives. Franny made it to nearly sixteen last year (the longest known lifespan of indoor starlings). I have an unfinished book about the parenting and life lessons of raising Franny and Zooey that I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to return to—at least until we vanquish tyranny (ha). The first chapter actually starts with Michael becoming orphaned as an infant and segues into our life of rescuing vulnerable creatures.
“Whatever lies behind the strange encounter, I am thankful for it.”
Tess immediately replied:
“Most certainly a message from Michael to say he is okay and not to worry - he’s with you.
“Birds carry messages to us from the world of spirit.
“99% of the human experience is accounted for by synchronicity (chance) not reason. We’ve been duped in more ways than one.”
When I told my mom about it the next day, she shared a similar experience with me:
“That’s beautiful! I’ve read many stories of that nature, and I tend to believe them because I want to believe them. On the morning that Grandma passed away, I was walking in her garden feeling so sad. Sherry (the lady who pulled her weeds) arrived, and I told her that she had passed. She gave me a hug, and then a butterfly came and fluttered around us for the longest time. Sherry thought the butterfly was a messenger from my mom telling me she was happy. I always tended to believe that. I think we do get little communications from the other side sometimes.”
A few days ago, I was having dinner with my dear real-life friend Cynthia Rae Bauman, who had attended Michael’s service.
She confided in me about some goosebump-inducing, deeply comforting experiences following the deaths of several loved ones.
I told her about the gray bird. She echoed Tess’s sentiment that birds are messengers. After we ate, she pulled out her laptop. She was showing me how she’d been using Midjourney to generate images for a children’s story she was working on, and she asked me for a prompt. I said, “gray bird and cat.”
Below are some of the images it produced:
Cynthia2 was especially struck by the heavenly light behind the first two images, writing:
“I still marvel at the beautiful ‘heavenly light’ in the background of some of these images, especially after I had just shared with you the story about how my dad urged me to check out the filters on my phone’s camera that up until that moment I had never even known were there, and I had had that phone for years. When I saw the filter with the sunlight bursting through the clouds, and it was only shining behind my dad in the photo, I knew it was him. I can’t help but wonder if Michael did the same just now because he was joining us for dinner and totally heard our conversation.”
When Meredith Miller drove out to attend Michael’s service, she asked Michael if he would like her to deliver a message to me.
Meredith3 described what happened as follows:
“The day of the memorial service, I was driving out your way through the pine forest in Central Oregon somewhere near Crater Lake. I reached out to Michael energetically and put out the intention that if he has a message he’d like me to deliver to you, I’m open. I didn’t see any signs on the way to the hotel.
“After I got checked in, I headed back out toward the memorial service. On the way there, I saw a Mercedes pass by. The license plate read LV BRD, which I understood as ‘love bird.’ I immediately knew the message was for you. I had to get a quick photo to show you because it was so unbelievable!
“I remembered you had written in one of your recent Substack posts that Michael was the bird and you were the fox. At the moment I had forgotten about the story you told me the week before about the little gray bird who visited you in the middle of the night, which was surely a sign from Michael as well.”
Perhaps the dragonflies and birds are messengers carrying loving reassurances from Michael, or perhaps I believe that because I want to believe it, as my mom said. Either way, they have aided me in my journey toward healing, transformation, and finding light in the pitch darkness.
When I got up the day after the brown dragonfly appearance, I checked the spot where I had left him. He was still there.
My heart dipped. Fearing he had died, I touched the leaf he was resting on, and he rubbed his little forelegs together to let me know he was still alive.
He was still there—and alive—the next day.
I thought I was protecting him, but perhaps it’s the other way around.
As I walked to the mailbox that evening, a giant V of Canada geese soared over my head, blasting out a chorus of exuberant honks as I melted into tears.
I couldn’t help but think of Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese.
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
Postscript
I am so very sad to share that, two days after the report above, the brown dragonfly guarding our house has joined Michael 💔
His thorax is detached from his wings, and his head is missing. I don’t know if he was pelted to death by rainfall and feasted on by predators or the other way around.
I’m sorry to end on a down note, but this is reality, and it would be dishonest to pretend otherwise.
The dragonfly’s sacrifice perpetuates the lives of those who prey on him. The death of one means the survival of another.
It’s brutal and bewildering and mysterious, but such is the cycle of Nature.
Yet More Synchronicities
After I wrote the above essay, I discovered my fellow Apocaloptimist Club members Mary Poindexter McLaughlin and Tereza Coraggio had each written a post about dragonflies, Mary’s a couple of weeks before mine and Tereza’s on October 16—the very date of my brown dragonfly encounter.
I saved both posts for later reading in conjunction with completing this essay, and it took me over five months to return to them. I only got a few paragraphs into Mary’s because her beautiful sentence “Images from Lubomir Arsov’s grim, grotesque, perfectly prescient In-Shadow dance a sombre adagio in my head” sent me on a jaw-dropping journey through Lubomir’s exhilarating, Apocaloptimistic short films; enthralling interview by Unbekoming; and inspiring 2020 reflections on transition and his artistic manifesto:
There it was again—transition. And Lubomir closes with this galvanizing credo:
“When a person has inner perceptual clarity, a grounded strength, a discerning intellect, an unshakable will, and a warm resilient heart – no deception can stick. Deception can only enter us through the blind-spots of our unconscious – that which we have not brought the light of our awareness to. That which we don’t see and know, rules us. Hence, to live ‘In-Shadow’.
“It’s against immense odds, that the brilliance of our soul spark ignites, and it’s through the unison of our sparks, that the purifying inferno of truth blazes.”
Facing your grief on a daily, visceral basis is not unlike doing shadow work. The purifying inferno of rage and tears cauterizes the gash. Those who repress their grief, who bandage over it sloppily, live with recurring infections until they finally lance the abscess and clean the wound, after which they can begin to heal.
At last, I am returning to Mary’s essay, and I discover she, too, experienced a striking encounter with a dragonfly that prompted her to search for “spiritual meaning of dragonfly,” which led her to this passage:
“In Native American traditions, the dragonfly is regarded as a symbol of transformation and spiritual growth. Its life cycle, transitioning from a water-dwelling nymph to a graceful airborne adult, serves as a powerful metaphor for change and adaptability.”
Mary shares the photo she took of the dragonfly, who looks to be brown, on her laptop:
Just above the dragonfly is the date. September 6.
Tears well up in my eyes. Goosebumps ripple down my arms.
That’s Michael’s birthday. That particular September 6 was also the day of his funeral.
Mary writes, “My heart pounds at her proximity, and at the clarity of her message.”
That’s exactly how I feel right now. Only for me, it’s “the clarity of his message.”
Tereza’s post includes a response to Mary’s in which she writes, in part:
“A crucible is a vessel that can withstand high heat to hold the alchemy of transformation. You are the crucible keeping the fire out, keeping in the meltdown, holding together the elements, swirling a new concoction.
“Inside the blue-green chrysalis, etched with gold, the caterpillar turns to mush. The chrysalis is a crucible, keeping out the sunlight, keeping in the meltdown, holding together the elements, swirling a new concoction.”
There’s the imagery of fire again, the theme of transformation, the chrysalis of darkness into light.
On March 19, at 5:19 pm, I recorded this note:
“I was talking with a friend in the driveway and noticed a bee struggling on his back. I gently turned him over with a twig, and his back end was throbbing, so we feared he was dying. But then he stretched out his wet wings and started walking a little. I got him to climb onto the stick and put him on a leaf underneath a bush. When I came back out to check on him around fifteen minutes later, he had flown away.”
The next day—the vernal equinox—at 3:05 pm, I encountered another wingèd messenger, writing:
“I noticed a ladybug floating on the kitties’ water outside. I was afraid she had drowned. I gently lifted her up and watched her for a few seconds. She shook off the water and started stretching her little legs. With her still on my hand, I grabbed my phone and took a few pictures of her. While I was doing that, she climbed onto Michael’s ring, which I wear above my own.
“Message received, my Love.”
A Cacophony of Synchronicities
I finished drafting this post the morning of March 26, after which I sent a draft link to the friends I quoted to secure their approval before publishing. Meredith replied:
“Wow that’s so crazy because I was just thinking of the lovebird license plate last night. I drove home from a seminar in Austin and saw a license plate for another friend. It reminded me of that one for you.”
Okay, that’s a bit of a coincidence, but people notice license plates all the time, so it could be written off. Then Meredith read my draft, and she shared more synchronicities related to ladybugs, chrysalis, and her own wingèd messenger:
“That’s really beautiful! As soon as I saw the dragonfly I was about to tell you they’re always spirit messengers. But then I read on and you had in fact discovered that. Also some synchronicities reading this and lately everything feels so energetically potent because it’s a time of massive transformation.
“On my windshield as I started the journey back up to Oklahoma yesterday morning a ladybug landed. The photo is super blurry. I have a long history of these. About 8 weeks before I got Venus in 2013 I was painting my apartment. It took multiple days. I had to move furniture around to make space so I could only paint one wall area at a time. Every day as I was about to paint a particular wall there was a ladybug on that wall. I later found out that was when Venus was being born.
“You mentioned the chrysalis too. That was the metaphor I’d been telling myself about why I was going to that seminar. To fully make the shift from my old self pre-2020 to my new self. I decided that the 4 years in Texas were the part where the caterpillar’s enzymes are dissolving its body into a primordial soup. A rough and scary time. Then this last year in Oklahoma was the final stage of the cocoon when the imaginal cells begin creating an entirely new being that is getting ready to emerge. In April I’m emerging. This seminar was absolutely incredible and exactly what I needed even though my brain tried to talk me out of driving down there for 6 days when I need to be finishing revising the book and packing for the move. But my spirit knew I HAD to go to get that perspective shift before I finished the chrysalis phase. Indeed it sparked my imaginal cells to make some final adjustments.
“Also yesterday I had a hawk messenger. They always show up when I need protection. As I was heading back up a highway entrance ramp something malfunctioned with the RPMs. I was barely touching the accelerator but it was revving between 4-5 RPMs. When I let my foot entirely off the accelerator it was revving by itself between 3-4 RPMs. Cars were coming and there was construction with barriers and I almost panicked when a hawk dove in front of my car low to the ground and went into the trees. He showed me where to pull off the road. I put the car in park. Counted to 10 and put it in drive again. It was okay and I’m gonna get it checked out ASAP because I’m driving across country soon.
“I love you so much, sister!”
That text was at 7:08 am. Then, at 8:08 am, I received the following photo out of the blue from my dear friend, collaborator, and Badass firebrand Heather Hudson:
She followed this with the texts:
“I’m bringing Michael with me today for strength.”
“About to speak here at the capitol!!”
Heather had no idea I was working on this article much less that I had written about dragonflies. I hadn’t even recalled discussing dragonflies with her before that reminder, it was so many months ago.
I told her about this essay and the astonishing synchronicity, and she added:
“I have to call you when you are up! I wanted to take Michael with me today and I hear Cody listening to his music daily, over and over in his room or outside as he reads. He connected instantly to Michael via ‘their’ language of music. Dragonflies hover in large ‘families’ and ‘dance’ to the music in the front yard.”
She suggested I look up dancing dragonflies videos, and this is the first one that came up:
After telling me about the dancing dragonflies, she texted the picture below, writing:
“Two days ago, I asked Gary to get me a bag at the store for the trip and this is what he brought back.”
I replied:
“This is all so incredible. I told Meredith this morning that the synchronicities are off the chart, but your additions bring this to a whole ’nother dimension!”
When we spoke on the phone the next morning, I talked to Gary, her husband, for a bit, too. About the dragonfly bag, he said:
“I’m just a leaf in a hurricane.… I go where I’m sent.”
Heather also told me about Cody:
“One of these things keeping this child alive who does not want to live anymore is books and music. And the music he is choosing to listen to was written personally [by Michael].”
I only wish Michael could have heard those heartrending words. Or perhaps he did … or a dragonfly will whisper it to him in the Tao.
One Last Exclamation Point
As if the above synchronicities weren’t enough to drive the message home, Meredith happened to resume playing an interview she had been watching with Richard Rudd yesterday, March 27, and the segment that played (starting at 28:25), is about dragonflies:
“I love the dragonfly because it’s the water element that allows it to transcend and change from being an underwater creature to being a creature of the air, wonderful creature of the air, iridescent, beautiful creature.… It’s exactly the symbol, the right symbol, for this time, this change.”
Whoever or whatever is orchestrating these wingèd messages—I like to think Michael, but he would say the Tao, others might say God, the Universe—I am grateful. My heart remains open to Mystery, and I am content to trust without knowing, feel without understanding, love without certainty.
© Margaret Anna Alice, LLC
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When I looked up the website for Beirut, I encountered the album title “A Study of Losses,” along with the video for Guericke’s Unicorn.
Guericke’s Unicorn
by Beirut
Where did you go? Where have you been?
How could this thing make any sense?
Where did you go? Where have you been?
How could this thing make any sense?
Life will find a way
It cannot be something you hide away
Lies will find a way
There’s gotta be something you hide away
My hand’s aflame
It’s gotta be something you hide away
Where did you go? Where have you been?
Tell me how this thing could make any sense
Where did you go? Where have you been?
Tell me how this thing could make any sense
Life will find a way
It cannot be something you hide away
Lies will find a way
There’s gotta be something you hide away
My hand’s aflame
It’s gotta be something you hide away
Zach Condon wrote of the album’s songs in April 2024:
“I titled them with the lunar seas inspired by the chilling tale of a man obsessed with archiving all of humanity’s lost thoughts and creations where they collect on the moon, who realizes all too late the life he has lost in the process.”
Clearly, the theme of loss is appropriate for this essay, but so is the hapless pursuit to document every moment. Michael was always telling me (a.k.a. “The Recorder”) that in recording life, I am not living it.
I just opened up my file of quotes by us (mostly Michael, owl to my fox in our dialogues) to find an example of one of these warnings, and the following conversation snippet from May 13, 2010, happened to be highlighted in the sidebar:
owl: You’re a chronic accomplisher.
fox: I have to write that down.
owl: I was gonna say, You probably have to write that down. ’Cuz one, it’s about you.
fox: WHAT?
owl: Oh, okay, I need to be more specific. It’s a positive thing about you.
fox: Hahaha.
owl: Did I say “chronic”? “Fatal,” it’s fatal. You can’t help trying to accomplish things.
If I hadn’t written it down, though, I never would have remembered that exchange, nor would I be able to treasure and share it now—along with thousands of other fragments I caught like parachuting dandelion seeds and sandwiched between journal pages for later rediscovery.
After reading the draft of this post this morning, March 28, Cynthia reminded me:
“And remember the Jacquie Lawson bday card that I sent you as well, after I asked Michael to help me pick one for you? I was specifically looking for one with birds, and this website has many cards with birds so that part was easy. But as I watched the first one I thought it was sweet but I didn’t feel a particular pull to it. Then I was drawn to another card that I had not seen there before and when I clicked on it it was the composer, with birds flying around him.… just wanted to fill your heart with a reminder of another message from Michael.”
As I was proofreading this essay, I realized I should link to Meredith’s Substack, and in the process of testing links, I noticed a recent essay I had missed. Synchronistically (yes, again!), she was writing about her own wingèd messengers—in this case a praying mantis perched on her back porch door “show[ing] the way” and several circling vultures she understood to be “the funeral of the old world, the pre-2020 world.”
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