I’ve been focusing on my brother’s death a lot here recently. Of course, a shaman did just tell me my brother was…I’m still not sure how to say it. With me? Following me? Fucking with me?

I never really understood the role that his death played in my family, and going over my mother’s letters and notes—even talking to my aunt— taught me it was much bigger than I understood or imagined. I’ve also realized I’m bizarrely steeled against grief, so I’m not great at understanding other people’s experience with it. A few years ago, when I heard the news that my best friend’s schizophrenic sister committed suicide, the first thing I thought was that it was probably for the best. Her sister’s illness had put her entire family (and particularly her) through so much. But when I actually said that out loud to someone, they looked at me like I was crazy. My friend and her family probably weren’t taking such a practical approach to their loss, but the fact that I couldn’t understand why they weren’t a little relieved said a lot about me. 

I’ve recently realized that I’m really angry. I don’t always consciously feel angry, but my anger, stuffed in thick and deep, is always there. Even though I’m not always aware of it, I’m pretty certain I’m always communicating it.

In December, I went to see a shaman, and while he was looking into the flame of a white candle that I’d rolled all over my body (yup), he casually said something like, “You’re very angry,” or “There’s a lot of anger there.”  I was surprised to hear it. I came to discuss and purge lots of things, but I wouldn’t have named any of them anger. Sadness, confusion, jealously, longing…all of those seemed like a better fit.

Later in the session, after we did a guided meditation and talked a bunch, he had me stand in the middle of the room clutching a black stone in each hand. He asked me to send my anger into those stone while he performed a ritual that involved, among other things, spitting alcohol into my face and hitting me with feathers.

This is the eulogy I wrote for my mother’s funeral. I wrote it late the night before, having put off the task with the hope and expectation that there would be some last-minute divine intervention. And there was! I think my mother was watching and decided she could not let me fuck this one up. It’s not perfect, but it is what I actually read. As you can see, the ideas that I’m sorting out in this blog have been with me the whole time.

“On behalf of my family, I want to thank everyone for coming. It means so much to us to have you here to honor my mother’s life.

As her daughter, and probably as anyone who knew her well, it’s hard to know what person and life to honor. In a lot of ways I think my mother led two distinct lives. The first part, which thankfully was the largest, was filled with passion, adventure and achievement. She was a very sensitive person, and she put love into everything. She traveled the world, dedicated years of her life to environmental protection, she was a devoted teacher, and of course, a mother.  One of the nicest, and most difficult, things for me to hear over the past few weeks is how much she adored my sister and me. How, though she had a million interests, we were really her life. She gave us a lot of love, but she also raised us to be strong and independent.  And on top of all this, she was also a lot of fun.  She loved laughing and telling jokes, she could talk (and talk) to anyone, and she was a great hostess.