“I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.” Virginia Woolf
dinner
A few weeks ago, I met a friend I see a couple of times a year.
“So, how are you?” he asked, after we’d exchanged hugs and hellos and settled into our chairs. The restaurant was cozy and warm, lit by candles and strings of tiny white lights.
I paused before answering. “It won’t last,” I said. “But at the moment, apart from all the sadness and craziness in the world, everything in my own life is fine. The kids are doing well. All my friends are ok. And my husband and parents are healthy. Right now, there’s no one I love who I have to worry about.” I felt uneasy as soon as I said it, despite the verbal knock on wood. “Tell me about you,” I said to my friend, taking a sip of wine.
Valentines Day
My friend Maude and I went out for a walk. I’d spent the morning in the kitchen baking heart-shaped cookies, basking in silence rather than listening to a book or a podcast, as I often do while cooking. In a couple of hours, I’d make shrimp scampi for dinner, my husband would come home, we’d pour Prosecco, sit in front of the fire, exchange funny cards. And in between, on a February day that held a promise of spring in the air, there was an hour to spend catching up with a friend.
As we turned and headed back to our cars that afternoon, Maude’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out to check the text and saw the headline first. “There’s been another school shooting,” she said quietly. “In Florida.” We stood there in the woods for a moment, uncertain. Should we stop in our tracks, phones in hand, and seek out the details of this latest tragedy, or should we continue our walk, our plans for the day, our own ordinary lives?
We walked on, subdued by the knowledge that somewhere far from our quiet country trail, a horrifying, all too familiar drama was once again unfolding. Back at home, fixing dinner, I left the TV off. And later that night, curled up on the sofa next to my husband as the fire died down, I found myself conflicted again.
How are we to live in these times?
words
As a person who writes in order to figure out what I think, I’ve always found order and comfort in the slow, halting explorations that bring words to the page. Writing is my way of making some sense of things. But not lately.
I have been trying to write my way through the wake of seventeen more innocent people dead, of the NRA digging in, of our government in shambles, a president who seems unhinged, human beings slaughtered in senseless wars, our planet under assault, the unfathomable threat of nuclear annihilation.
I have been trying to write about the shock and sadness of losing a friend who was larger than life and dearer to me than I can begin to express. But I can’t do it. The very noun “friend” – so generic and flat, so casually assigned — is inadequate. She was more than that.
Writing, like reading, brings me to a pathway upon which my heart and mind can meet and come into alignment. Writing deepens my awareness, creates intimacy, clarifies my intentions. Writing, I knit myself back together. At the moment, my faith in words is shaken.
Each time I turn on the evening news I’m reminded: words are a double-edged sword. They have the power to inflame as well as to inform, to separate as well as to connect. Words destroy alliances, fuel anger, and spread propaganda, fear, and falsehood. Used cruelly, words shame and alienate and bully.
And in the midst of grief, words fail.
There is something to be said for silence.
note
“Pretend I can spell, pretend I know how to punctuate, and anything that really doesn’t make sense, let me know and I’ll sort it out.”
She’d been sick, she said, and dictating took less energy than typing. But the autocorrect on her phone had a mind if its own and had stopped responding. Hence the random, nonsensical words sprinkled through her previous email, which she was attempting, with only moderate success, to fix in the second.
I could figure out what she meant pretty easily. But, despite forty-two years of ongoing conversation, I completely missed the message.
Here’s what doesn’t make sense: These were her last words to me. Two weeks later, she was gone.
coffee
I’d never had a taste for coffee before I arrived at college in the fall of 1976. Tory, who had lived in Paris and gone to high school in Munich, was a connoisseur at eighteen. We drank hundreds of cups of coffee, sitting across from each other at tables all over campus, all over town. These were pre-Starbucks days, back when a cup of coffee in a small New England restaurant was just a cup of coffee. Even so, we had our ritual. Tory would fill her mug to within half an inch of the rim. She would add cream, slowly, deliberately, till it formed a trembling, frangible skin just slightly higher than the top of the cup itself. And then, waving her arm as she launched into some story or other, she would bump her mug, sloshing a wave of hot coffee across the table. She did it every time. Even on the refill. Tory always believed there was just a little more room in the cup. I learned early on to take extra napkins.
timing
When I turned fifty-nine last October, I began thinking about things I wish to do before my sixtieth birthday. My goal was to arrive at that milestone without regret. There were no bucket-list adventures on the list I started keeping in a black notebook. But I had ideas: to spend more time with my parents, with my husband, with our kids. To say “yes” more often. To have more fun. To stay in closer touch with my friends. I wrote down the names of people I most wanted to see.
“Perhaps I should visit you and your studio in Santa Fe before it’s too late?” I wrote to Tory in January.
I did not know then that the flu she’d had all fall was not the flu. Or that the parasite she thought she’d picked up in Australia was not a parasite. I did not know she would not be moving to a new home this summer as planned.
I did not know that it was already too late.
news
The morning after having dinner with my friend, I awoke early and reached for my laptop. The first thing I saw was an email from someone whose name I didn’t recognize, with a subject whose name I did.
You must not come to Santa Fe, Cynde insisted a few hours later, when we finally spoke by phone and I told her I’d get on the next plane. Her voice was kind, but firm. Tory was no longer speaking much, but she had made her final wishes known – for solitude, for privacy.
“She says she’s not scared,” Cynde said. “And she doesn’t want anyone to see her this way. Not even you.”
bowl
On my dresser sits a small, translucent celadon bowl of indeterminate, indestructible material. You might pick it up, run your fingers over its smooth surface, feel its airy lightness and wonder what it’s made of. In the hands of my friend, polymer clay could be magically, mysteriously transformed to resemble almost anything else – glass, gold, ivory, bone. I don’t remember when Tory created this delicate vessel for me, only that she did. For as long as I can recall, it’s simply been there, surviving various moves and purges, decades of change. At night, I take my earrings off and drop them into its shallow curve. In the morning, thoughtlessly, I reach for my hoops, slip the wires through my ears, and go.
I was away the weekend she died, visiting a friend in New York. I tried to remember our last phone conversation, but couldn’t. I checked our last exchange on Instagram – a picture of daffodils on my dining room table, the caption “We made it through January,” her “like” below. I pulled up her emails from two weeks ago and read them again and again, wishing I could also roll back the days, read between the lines this time, and reach through space to tell her I was on my way.
Far from home, with no place to put my remorse or sorrow, I panicked. Where was the bowl? Was it on my bureau? I could picture it perfectly in my mind’s eye, but I had no idea when I’d last seen it. Arriving home two days later, I went straight upstairs, heart pounding. The bowl was where it has always been. Things last. It’s people who disappear when you’re not looking.
quotes
“Write out of love or anger.” ~ Patty Dann
“There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” ~ James Salter
“All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story or tell a story about them.” ~ Isak Dinesen
intention
I will try.
As always, I treasure your beautiful reflections and words. While I’m saddened for you over the loss of your dear friend, I also feel grateful that you inspire and teach me by your example during these sad and tough times (both personally and in our country). xoxo
I hear you Katrina, and I feel you. You and I have both witnessed what those hours look like as we held the hand of a loved one losing their battle to live. Your friendship of a lifetime, and memories, emails, etc were the important moments of your friendship. Your level of commitment, and devotion to your chosen dear friends is not one most find in their lifetime. Precious. Priceless. It is what gives our lives meaning. During these very difficult times I do have hope that the world will change for the better. This brave young adults are demanding it! They are being heard. They will be heard in the voting booths. Xo My eteheral friend. I am holding your hand back, and squeezing it gently.😘
Word came this very morning of a loss of my own old friend. She’s the first friend in my life to leave. I saw that you’d blogged and I came here, relieved to read whatever you needed to say. It was beautiful. I still hurt. But I feel less lost. Thank you.
Your words comfort me as I try to make sense of what the world as I learned this morning about how Korea, Malasia, The Soviet Union and others are all tied up to the arms that kill so many in Syria… there are facts out there, there must be a way for all of us not to be complices of so much pain and death. I just finished reading the trilogy of Deborah Ellis’s novel on Parvana… I can’t stop crying as I realized so many Parvanas are there in the world, millions… we must keep the words going, we must find ways to heal, to convey, to reach out to others, to build.
I am so very sorry on the loss of your friend. Thinking of you, and praying for peace, for the hope that sooner rather than later thoughts of her with bring only joy.
So much of what you’ve written is true for my life right now: losing friends, writing as a way to process, preparing for 60 without regrets but hoping to continuing growing, feeling anchored by family and friends. Thanks for you eloquence. And I’m sorry not to have known Tory, presumably a classmate of mine too.
As we are all suffering in this world being exposed to such extreme abuse in wars, in nature and in hope, the loss of a dear friend is close to our cells and hearts. As the choice to find every day beautiful, in spite of it all does mean not to allow for the space inside my psyche to deeply feel the universe shift for me when loss happens. My first husbands has recently passed and my dreams are so complex and intense in joy and sorrow. Knowing as we shared Dark Nights of the Soul, the darkness is always present and feeling the sharpness of someone’s soul as they move on, is in some way, such a gift. We are the lucky ones, to have loved as we have. Love to you
Intention. That’s my word this past week from healthy eating fb group I’m in. Wow- serendipitous that you post it, too. Or not. Blessings to you and to Tory’s memory. I lost a newer friend, too. But trying to use her spirit to make a difference, as she did for me.
It’s so hard to stay away when you feel the need to be close; even harder when requested to do so. May you find blessings in this hard time, peppered with good memories of happier days together. 🙏🏻
Katrina,
I am so sorry for the death of your friend, Tory, and that you have such grief in your life. My heart goes out to you and I pray that the presence of love will continue to make itself known amid the deep sorrow.
What a beautiful thing to share ♡
Thank you for opening your heart and letting this pour out. Bless her. And you.
I am so very deeply sorry for your sudden, enormous loss. Your words are exquisite. It feels as though I have no words, so I will say that I SEE you, I HEAR you, I am holding space for you. And I am praying that you will find some comfort in the Everlasting arms. xoxo Trece
I am so sorry for your loss. You have not had an easy time of it, like lot of us. Please know you are not alone, .
I appreciate your ability to put into words the “emotional gut-punch” feelings we experience when we lose close friends/family members, or when we are assaulted by senseless violence, random cruelty, etc. Thank you for sharing your journalistic talent and laid bare soul. You are correct in stating our words are powerful; they have the ability to hurt or heal. So, I point out your choice to use the term “unhinged” in describing our Democratically elected President, Donald Trump, as unnecessarily divisive. Certainly if that is your opinion, you are entitled to it. Is it warranted in this work of yours “on the death of a friend”? My condolences on the loss of your friend. May the happy memories you made together give you comfort in the days ahead.
Your intimate words reflect the beauty of your heart and devotion to your friend…..she was a gift to you and you were a gift to her. Thank you for sharing with us…..I am touched deeply. I just lost my dear father on Christmas Day and the ache of pain is deep and agonizing. I find peace and comfort in reflection of warm, beautiful, cherished memories……….what a treasured gift to carry in my heart always and I wish the same for you.
I am so sorry Katrina that you have lost yet another close friend.
Fondly,
Polly
Deep gratitude to you and your power to use words to illuminate the darkness within and without.
I lost a lifelong friend last year at the age of 61 to a ten year battle with breast cancer. I miss her and think of her daily and all the joy and tears we shared through her journey. She is alive in my heart and I look forward to seeing her again. Thank you for your insight and sharing your feelings. You will see Tory again and carry her with you every day. Peace to you.
Hello Katrina,
I am so sorry for your loss of your dear friend. I hope you recall the emails you and I exchanged 2 years ago, when I shared with you about having lost three of my dear friends within 8 months to various forms of cancer. They were all 46:(( One had 4 sons, one had 3 sons, and one had 2 sons. Per your notes today, it is very true that now I have even more real feelings about the past than I did in 2015 and 2016 when they passed. The biggest learn that I want to share with you, is about Gratitude. Gratitude that these special people were and continue to be, a part of my life. That I got the chance to ever know them, their sons, and their families at all. Gratitude that their husbands continue to feel comfortable keeping their wives alive through connection with me and our other friends. Gratitude that their sons know how much I and all of our friends loved their mother, and that we will cherish her, honor her, and be there for them always. Gratitude empowers me every day and is the best cure for fear and sadness.
Yes, these are scary times in our world. I am grateful to you for letting all of us, your readers and fans, have a platform for supportive conversation and community. I am grateful for your honesty, as well as your support of all mothers. And I am grateful that the next generation is rising up and taking action to protect themselves, their schools and our communities.
With gratitude and warmest regards, Jacqueline
Dear Katrina – it is a sunny day in Colorado but a cloudy day in your heart, I know. I believe that it is our female friendships who hold us steady through the inevitable challenges of life. When my sweet Mom was in her 80s, she told me that the deaths of friends were some of the hardest things about getting older. I’m so sorry about the loss of your dear friend. I can bet that she loved your writing as much as I do.
Having just entered my 70s, your Moments of Seeing has resonated in my heart. Time for reflection and yes time for more Intentional living. I plan to give this book to about 20 of my best girlfriends around the country.
Since thoughts and prayers don’t make any difference in the chaos going on in Washington DC, I applaud your honesty in addressing that unfortunate reality. The common denominator of the soap opera called As The World Turns in the White House shall go unnamed.
Katrina, Write On!! You are touching the lives of so many in a very special way.
you will try, Katrina, every day you will try.
And today, you most definitely have. Thank you for telling us about Tory.
Oh I am shattered thinking of your pain. I have experienced many losses (Mom, brother-in-law, cousin/sister, aunt – x2) in the past year or two, but have been able to spend some time at least with each of them. I hold fast to Einstein’s thoughts – that there is no time and we are living in an illusion of separation. It seems that my loves speak to me with a breath of air currents or sense of being hugged – this reinforces my sense of deep connection. I pray that you too will feel this healing love connection with your dear friend.
As I left the hospital on Monday, after spending a day with my dying friend, my first thought was, “how did Katrina do this.” You’ve lost so many. This is my first non-relative friend & It Is Gut Wrenching & Awful. He is at home now & barely conscious…doesn’t want to anyone to see him this way…Your post was all too timely. Nothing is about ME/US but, rather, about EVERYONE. Our “unique” experiences are shared by many. Thank YOU for sharing. Be well.
A dear friend in our Tuesday morning watercolor group was heart-broken after the Florida school shooting. Her dear grandchildren are in Florida. We paint and we share our deepest feelings, and she gave us figs and apricots and told us of her heart-healthy diet. Two days later, she died of a heart attack. You can imagine how the tears flowed at the next Tuesday painting/therapy session. Her funeral was overflowing with flowers, paintings, grandchildren and hugs. I don’t know if there’s really a heaven, but I feel so grateful for the sweetest times on earth together. Thank you for sharing your heart with us all.
As usual, Katrina, I save your posts for last (after all the FB posts, emails, etc) as I know they will touch honestly & deeply. I trust your beautiful thoughts of today will bring solace to many who are experiencing similar feelings on their journey; however, this note is to let you know that I just happened to begin to read (at 1am today) a library book I picked up yesterday.. would you believe it’s “Tell Me More”. Thank you!
Katrina,
You cannot imagine the parallels in our lives. I started following you after I gobbled up Mitten Strings from God . Smitten with you, as I was going through the pains of empty nest and letting my birdie fly and just last week I lost one of my best friends to cancer and I am on the edge of a same birthday .
I too write because it helps me make sense of what I am feeling .
I am so sorry for your loss and I completely get you 🙂
Sweet friend, my heart breaks for you. Sending oceans of love… Wishing you peace. xoxo
I’m so sorry for your loss, Katrina. Sending love to you as you grieve. Thank you for sharing your gifts with all of us.
Your words convey the pain in a way more clear and raw than I’ve ever read anywhere. I believe your readers, all of us, feel it and are with you in it. Sending thoughts of peace
Thank you for sharing your thoughts. I read Mitten Strings for God when my sons were at the Waldorf School in Long Island,16 years ago, and continue to appreciate your writing so much. What struck me about your post was that you were unable to see your friend before she passed. I just experienced that, and it haunts me because I could have, and should have made an effort to see my friend before she felt she couldn’t handle seeing others. It is a reminder to me to to reach out and remain connected with friends often, because none of us is promised tomorrow.
Words do fail now, Katrina. In my own losses, I have found that it is only knowing that someone else is there that brings small comfort. You are surrounded by those whose words don’t matter, but their presence in kind matters greatly.
Painful and ever so truthful~your words touch the very core of my heart…
Thank you – for all this. For your calm presence, For your thoughtfulness, for your ability to know guess what I’m thinking always. I just gave your book, The Gift of an Ordinary Day, to my dear friend who is recovering from breast cancer. I told her she needed to read this, and to read your blog, as she struggles to bring a calming presence into her life. I cannot imagine my world without her. 💕
I am so sorry for the loss of Tory, Katrina. I wish there was more I could say, but I know there isn’t. I’m sending love. xox
Oh Katrina, my heart aches for you. I am so sorry to hear about your friend, Tory. So very sorry. Know that we are all sending you love at this difficult time.
“How are we to live in these times?” Your question – those exact WORDS – have been bouncing around my brain like a pinball machine since Nov. 9, 2016. Rarely do they slow down and never do they stop. How, indeed? My heart is heavy for your loss of a friend you didn’t get to say goodbye to. “How are we to live in these times?” How, indeed. With WORDS. That’s how. People with words need people with words. Stay the course, indeed, keep sharing your words. And thank you for sharing your soul with us. We, collectively, need your words.
You have spoken the words I’ve been grappling with, and unable to express them, a sword remained lodged in my heart. Perhaps now I can begin drawing it out. Thank you.
This is so very beautiful, Katrina.
I am so very sorry for your loss. Hugs and prayers for you for peace and acceptance.
I don’t even know where to begin except to tell you how deeply sorry am for the loss of your friend and with those words, send you wishes for peace and healing. This is something so many of us — including me — have dealt with (and will again) and it is never easier. You say it so beautifully, it touches my heart to its core.