A few notes on loss, healing, and feeling the earth move

I’ve had a hard time writing about anything since Jonathan died. I haven’t even really been able to talk about it. Truth be told, I’m not sure I know how. In the past few months since he passed away, I’ve traveled to four different countries and had countless adventures, but even those are difficult to share without addressing what has occupied my mind through all of them.

There was a shock to his system, and it rippled into mine. In the midst of grappling with the loss of such a wonderful friend, I’ve felt conflicted. I want so badly to learn from him and honor his spirit by sharing the same joy and playfulness he shared with so many others, and yet that joy often serves as a reminder of the pain of losing him. To let him go is to admit that our lives together no longer exist; that a time in my life I so greatly cherish is now over. Part of the discomfort of acknowledging his absence is in being forced to recognize my continued presence.

My oldest brother, Chris, passed away when he was 26. I’m quite a bit younger than him and always looked up to him, so when he died it became reasonable to think that maybe my life, too, would be cut short. This didn’t make me afraid of death so much as it made me fear that I might fail to experience life fully or make the most of the time I was given. While this was a positive lesson in not taking things for granted at times, in the past few years I began to put more and more pressure on myself to do and be “more” without knowing exactly what “more” was.

Instead of inspiration, often what resulted was an unkind relationship with myself in which I set high yet unclear expectations for myself, got disappointed when those expectations weren’t met, and began to convince myself that these apparent failures must mean that I am undeserving of the life I have. Jonathan’s death was a sudden reminder that I’m still here, despite the unlikeliness that I would still be alive – and despite my self-perceived shortcomings.

In all honesty, it still doesn’t quite make sense that I should be here and Jonathan isn’t. I don’t know why I continue to receive moment after moment after both he and Chris were denied. It shows me my own lack of understanding for life itself and how easy it is to fear what we don’t understand. But in the slow process of transition and acceptance, I think I’m learning how to be brave.

Brian and I had planned a trip abroad for the winter, and I was determined to go through with it even though it was very shortly after losing Jonathan. We traveled to Greece, Turkey, and Spain and had one adventure after another as we climbed and explored many different places. On Christmas, we parted ways and I journeyed solo to Nepal. Since then, I’ve found myself growing further in love with Sindhupalchok, where I am working with Conscious Impact on a project to help rebuild schools in the village of Takure after it was largely effected by the series of large earthquakes last April.

Last night I felt my first earthquake here as several of us were sitting in our common space watching a movie. The epicenter was close by and the magnitude was rated at 5.2, but using a number to measure the rumble that moves from the earth and up through your body is like using someone's age to describe the impact they have had on another person's life. Feeling the earth shake was scary, exhilarating, and humbling all at once, yet I can only imagine the emotions that might arise for the people who were so greatly effected by the earthquake last spring and have its memory still fresh in their minds. There was a shock in the earth, and it rippled through the lives of many.

Just as I see the spirit and energy of Jonathan and Chris in myself and my friends and family, many people here are surrounded by the materials that represent the rubble of their previous lives and the building blocks of their future. We all constantly receive reminders of the beautiful and painful experiences that make up our individual histories – memories that test our strength and willingness to be open to others.

For every person we see struggling, there are countless others whose troubles we will never know. But we feel heartache and pain for the strife of others just as we feel thankful for our own lives and blessings because these prove that we are not alone. As part of each other’s experiences and memories we are connected, and through this, we have the power to help each other heal and continue to grow.