09/22/2025
I often share personal experiences here as offerings. This one is both a tribute to a dear friend and an honest reflection on the deeper questions and movements of grief that we all encounter.
My dear friend, Heather, left her body a few short weeks ago. Even as I write those words, I am drawn deeper into mystery. Do I say she “died,” “passed on,” “transitioned,” or “returned to the ocean of being, like a droplet merging back into the sea”? None of these words feel sufficient. What is this ending? What really happens at the close of a life?
For some, faith provides answers. For others, the absence of faith answers with certainty: “nothing happens; it just ends.” For all of us, being self-conscious creatures, the question remains. For me, in this moment of my story, I stay with: I don’t know.
Heather’s dying and death have touched me deeply. On one level, I grieve the loss of my friend and the countless ways we connected. On another, death itself now sits closer to home - my own death, the death of loved ones, the impermanence of all life.
Heather and I met twenty years ago at a training in Hakomi Body-Centered Psychotherapy, the foundation of our friendship. Hakomi, a contemplative, experiential, somatic healing practice, asks: How do I stand in relation to these many realms? Who am I?
As companions in this training, we lived that question together. Hakomi invites us to notice how we relate - to people, sensations, emotions, beliefs, patterns - and to bring unconscious habits into awareness. With awareness comes choice, and with choice, the possibility of new responses. This is my humble attempt to describe Hakomi; for a fuller understanding, I encourage you to read The Hakomi Method by its founder, Ron Kurtz.
Our friendship, born in that context, was always contemplative. We spoke often about how we related to life: to our emotions, relationships, families, political tensions, traumas, marriages, the births of our children - and, ultimately, Heather’s illness, dying, and death. Her passing has stirred the deepest parts of me.
In its wake, I find myself in mystery. Why do things unfold as they do? Why did Heather suffer and die at a relatively young age? What happens after life? Again, my answer remains: I don’t know. Yet within that not-knowing, something shines more clearly than ever: the way we live, and the way we die, matters. How we stand in relation to these many realms matters.
Life itself is a mystery. We enter this world from the unknown, and we return to the unknown when we die. These are not choices within our grasp - at least not from the vantage point of our limited human experience. Perhaps our souls did choose these bodies and these lives. Perhaps not. That is not ours to know - until, if ever, it is. What does seem true is that while we are here, we have agency. We have some measure of freedom in how we live. We can become aware of the ways we organize our consciousness around life’s circumstances, and we can change them. As Viktor Frankl wrote:
“Between stimulus and response there is a space.
In that space is our power to choose our response.
In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
A few weeks after her passing, a memorial service was held for Heather. It was beautiful. Family and friends shared the impact she had on their lives, telling both moving and humorous stories (she was wonderfully funny). In their sharing, Heather’s spirit filled the room. Her essence, her way of being, was palpable - she lived well.
What became clear to me that day is this: the way we live our lives ripples outward, touching others, echoing beyond our departure.
Heather’s life continues to ripple in me.
(Artwork by Heather)
