Life, Death, Love, Et Cetera

This year, this so-called 2008, has not been an easy one. Life shows no sign of easing up, slowing down, taking it easy. So it goes.

I lost a friend in February—Jordan Taggart was one of my first friends at Harvey Mudd and lived solidly at the core of me, Matty, Mike, Yip and others throughout our time there. Jordan’s death was shocking, troubling, tragic. I struggled to support my friends and process my own emotions. I tried to move forward without losing the meaning of the loss.

Spring continued, and I did my best to lend love and strength to other friends as they each dealt with the death of a parent. What good but to be thankful for love, and for whatever time together we receive?

We moved out of our house, the Hedge, in Wallingford and Claire left for New York. Sarah and I found a nearly perfect new place in Capitol Hill after three months of excruciating search. I was happy to have such a loving and compatible friend with whom to live but still uncertain, panicked at the start of my third year in Seattle. I am surrounded by friends but still lonely. I am “successful” but not necessarily happy. What am I doing here?

My grandmother, Adela, died on Monday. She died less than two days ago. I talk to my parents and to my sister every day and I spend every moment preoccupied. No matter how gradual and expected her decline was, I am still confused, stricken. But, more than anything, I am incredulous of my family’s unity and strength, and excited to see them all soon, no matter the circumstance. And I look forward to celebrating Adela’s life and to healing and moving on as a family.

I opened Whit’s blog this morning to see his notes on the beginning of summer, and followed through to the photographs of his mother Bear’s wedding to her longtime partner and now wife, Susan. I cried—is it clear that I’m emotionally fragile right now?—overjoyed and comforted to find love growing and blooming, to know that life does improve.

I spent last Friday working at Brooke and Sarah’s house, and was delighted by the moments I spent playing with their son, Micah, who is nearly a year and a half old. He runs around and throws balls and spins in circles and is obsessed with brooms. He is expressive and joyful and demanded that I read him books, anticipating the funny bits pages before and chortling uncontrollably when the snow finally plopped onto the character’s head. Micah is learning facial expressions but laughs indiscriminately at happiness, anger, frustration, sadness and surprise, especially if I’m jumping and spinning while I sport these faces.

He is alive and happy and loving and he is life and happiness and love. And life will continue and death will come and I will never figure it all out.