Hello. Hi.

A little letter to you, dear reader.

Hi.

It’s almost the end of January and I’m not sleeping all that much.

Last night I dreamt of beautiful white and pink marble buildings half submerged in the bluest of seas. I swam in those waters and felt that I was both home, and late for something incredibly important. I woke to the quiet of the almost-morning, alone in my house. It was 4:45 a.m., far too early to begin the day, but I decided to anyway.

I made toast from a heel of challah, drank two cups of coffee, then spent the better part of an hour watching videos of people being brutally beaten, murdered, and torn from the arms of their loved ones. I put the phone down to meditate.

I got dressed, packed a lunch of leftover soup and a box of stale crackers, scraped the ice from my windshield, and began the 40-minute drive to one of the preschools where I work. Along the way, I called my oldest friend, Ryan, who lives in Puerto Rico and therefore doesn’t mind my early morning phone calls. We talked about “One Battle After Another” which I’d finally watched the previous weekend. I was so distracted by the shimmering silvery light on the river, and discussing—and laughing about—the way Sean Penn’s character walked, that I missed my exit and had to drive around the city to course correct. Ten minutes later, I was en route again, passing by a seemingly endless procession of used car lots, gun and ammunition stores, Dollar Trees and pawn shops.

I spent the next 6 hours attempting to create a little creative oasis amidst the swirling chaos of 3, 4, and 5 year-olds. There were moments of brilliance and frustration. I was bitten and punched, snotted on, hugged, and snuggled. We sang and we chatted.

At one point in the morning, I helped one of my favorite 4-year-olds, who has been dealt about as tough a hand as you can imagine, make TNT explosive devices out of wire, modeling clay, corks, and clothespins. He was the one driving the science. The bomb making had him focused for over 30 minutes until he unexpectedly started bouncing up and down in his seat. The bouncing led to knocking over his chair, then running around the classroom clearing tables with dramatic swoops of his arms, and tossing bowls of small plastic beads in cascades across the room.

I followed him around the room, trying to lessen the impact of his destruction. But mostly I was just thinking, “Me too, buddy.”

At lunch I ate my lukewarm soup, wrote emails about complicated tax issues, and had a long chat with the principal about our protocols for dealing with ICE, and navigating the grief of losing her parents.

At the end of my day there, I focused on listening as carefully as I could despite my waning energy—giving my full attention when it was possible, and trying to remain calm and grounded, even when I felt my patience wearing thin. I put on jackets, passed out snacks, and crawled around on the floor picking up all of those beads and tiny bits of modeling clay smashed flat by little shoes.

At three I left the preschool and got back in my car and drove to see a client who is dying.

This person is very sick, and they know that death is imminent. Of course, we are all dying, but they know exactly how, and roughly when it will happen. That knowing is both an incredible gift and a source of immense distress for someone who is still very young and only wants to live.

Sometimes we deal with the practical: planning a funeral, questions to ask the doctor who will be assisting with medical aid in dying, and tying up the logistical aspects of an exit. But most of the time we sit facing one another and we talk about what is left when almost everything is pared away.

The more that I work with questions of grief and death, the more I realize that what we are actually talking about is what it means to be alive. The grief this client is experiencing about their death—big and wild—is a true reflection of how they’ve lived their life, and how they’ve given and received love.

So we talk about love.

But mostly I just listen.

And I watch as their heart continues to open wider and wider as their world contracts.

Then I climbed back into my moldy station wagon and drove back home.

It was dark by the time I got there, but I needed to walk. I laced up my hideously ugly hiking boots and my warm winter jacket, cued the Studio One playlist I’ve been listening to, and headed off towards Peninsula Park. The roses have all been deadheaded, and the paths are muddy, but it’s still one of my favorite places in the city. I said hello to a few dogs and smiled at their owners, and noted the ache of the cold and wind on my face.

Heading back to the house I thought about open-heartedness.

In December, my dear friend Droo, and my sister Isadora took me on a trip to Thailand and Laos. Or, as I told Droo, he scooped me out of the swamp of my deep sadness and gave me the gift of a total shift in perspective. A perfect escape for a brief moment in time. For two weeks they encircled me in love and care. We ate beautiful food and went beautiful places, and met kind and generous people along the way. We walked, talked, swam, and fed elephants. I knelt and prayed in temples and asked for compassion: for others and for myself.

Because I am always forgetting.

I need the recalibration. The reminders. The re-orientation, over and over and over again.

And I need to know how to do it without escaping.

When I got home from the park my fingers had turned white from the cold. I ran them under warm water and listened to the silence in the house. A little wave of grief washed over me, an awareness of the missing sounds of Cleo’s feet stomping up and down the stairs and the reverberations of her music carrying through the floors.

I checked the fridge and found its contents lacking. I pulled two frozen tamales out of the freezer and put them in a steamer to cook. At the last moment I guiltily threw in some broccoli as well. I peeled off the layers of my clothing and changed into my pajamas, the ones with galloping horses on them.

I ate my tamales at the table with my phone as my companion. I responded to a few texts, and half-heartedly searched around on the internet for something that felt like an answer to the question I keep asking myself: How am I supposed to continue to become more human in spite of it all? Or, because of it all.

None were forthcoming.

These days I vacillate between crystalline clarity and the quaking uncertainty of the unknown. I can hear myself better now. Or, I am learning to listen to what was always there. I am still afraid, but less than I used to be. And that’s not nothing.

I put my dishes in the sink, turned off all the lights in the house, and climbed into bed. It was 7:14 pm. I wondered if it was too early to simply go to bed. I decided it probably was. So, I picked up my laptop and started a new episode of the Norwegian TV show I’ve been using as a coping tool. The stakes are low, the language makes me laugh, and the state of their world feels deeply humane. It’s not a terrible way to end a day. I fell asleep watching.

And that’s where I leave you, dear reader. Sending you love across this digital abyss.

xoxo,

Belle