This is what we come here for
On September 1st, I lost my friend, Melissa, to a long-term illness. She was only 59. Once again, Michael and I have been placed into the familiar crucible of grief, mourning the end of our twenty-year friendship. Some of you may have met Melissa when she traveled with me to Miraval retreats in Tucson, AZ, to Omega in Rhinebeck, NY, and on a few Hay House cruises long ago. She was the woman with a camera at the ready, always searching for something beautiful to photograph.
Today, while walking in the backyard, I thought of Melissa when I found a kaleidoscope of Monarchs feasting on the tiny cone-shaped flowers of a butterfly bush. She would have loved this, I thought as I stood watching their wings open and close to an invisible rhythm.

Melissa and I shared a deep love of nature. Whenever I see wild animals – deer, foxes, or soaring red-tailed hawks – I think of her. The sightings spark an urge to text her photos to share my “find of the day,” something we both loved to do. This morning, when I saw the flowers flush with Monarchs, my chest tightened. I’ll miss swapping our latest discoveries and the audio messages of birdsong she often sent from her yard – hooting owls, the loud tea-kettle yell of a Carolina Wren, and her favorite: the wood thrush with its bright, multi-pitched trill. Melissa called it her xylophone bird.
Grief is a constant reminder of how we orient our lives around the people we love. When I think of the holidays, I think of my friend Ileen whose excitement for Christmas and Hanukkah began building in September (she was Jewish and celebrated Christmas, too). When I close down the garden, I think of my father-in-law, Curt, who shared my sadness at saying goodbye to the planting season and who reminded me to take heart because the seed catalogs would be coming soon. These associations are like invitations to let the pain in, to welcome the memories, sadness and all, and to honor the love we shared while we were here together.
Losing so many loved ones in a short amount of time is teaching me to make friends with grief. I’m less afraid of pain. I yield to unexpected tears. And I’m learning to welcome sorrow, knowing that it will pass through me if I receive it with respect and open arms.
As I stood staring at the Monarchs, thinking of Melissa, I let myself be overwhelmed by the reality that she’s gone, a reality I know I’ll face again and again as I grieve. When several butterflies lifted off at once and circled overhead, I swear I heard Melissa say: “This is what we come here for: to witness the beauty of the earth. Please don’t miss it.”
In her honor, I won’t. But I will certainly miss her every single day.
Love,
Cheryl


