2/21/16

I’m curious about filters this morning.

For the last week, I’ve been deeply at peace, happy, and, for the most part, empowered. I’ve tapped into some treasured creativity, curiosity, and love and moved through my days in service to my most authentic self, my loved ones, and my communities. My filter for life has been brilliant, crisp, and clear.

Then, last night, I learned that my friend and mentor, Kathryn Cheever, passed away. To put it more bluntly, she died. She’s gone. No longer with us. Never to be seen in human body again.

This morning I woke up at 4am. Even before the light of the sun could grace my room, I knew the world was grey.

My heart is heavy.

My dreams last night were laced with painful emotion.

The news is filled with nothing but bad.

And Facebook, yesterday filled with great posts from amazing friends, is today a site for meaningless bullshit.

I know that I can choose to be happy about Kathryn’s life and to mourn her death without letting it turn my perspective of the world dark.

I know it’s ok to mourn and that it’s healthy.

I know Kathryn would want me to be happy.

I know so many now-dead people that I am crystal clear about all of the rules, norms, expectations, and graces.

I know, I know, I know.

And yet my eyes and my heart see the world today through shades of grey.

My heart is heavy, and I hurt.

Rest in deep peace, dear Kathryn.

Thank you for helping me through that one impossibly hard time.

Thank you for reading my thesis so many times despite the six others on your plate.

Thank you for seeing me for who I truly am.

Thank you for standing for my success.

Thank you for living your life in service to others.

You are missed. I already miss you.

Today I shall play with the liminal space by removing my filters—the ones of grey and of color—to see the world as it is. I know that part of that practice means allowing the filters to slide into place when they do, but to notice them as filters and not as truth.

As Landmark Education would say, today I will live my life as lived, in the moment, out of my head and out here in the world.

With love and liminality,

Annie Rose