Light & Shadow
My brother Evan died last week. It was sudden, horrific, and utterly devastating to his wife, our family, and all those who loved him.
For days I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Grief is like that. It snatches all that is easy and familiar and makes it feel impossible: breathing, eating, sleeping, connecting, laughing. But every day, somehow, I wake up and do those impossible things.
I try to link arms with grief, letting it have my attention whenever it demands it, catching my breath in the moments it releases its death grip on my heart. I see grief as my reminder that I have given and known love. If I hadn’t, grief wouldn’t be here.
I talk to Evan a lot. When I feed the animals and water the gardens; when I’m making dinner or can’t sleep at night. I tell him how much I love him, how much I miss him, and how angry I am at him for leaving us and breaking our hearts. I remind him of funny stories from our childhood, forgive him for the times he hurt me, and thank him for the ways he inspired and strengthened me.
I have two pieces of paper that I write on: Evan – Good Memories, Evan – Bad Memories.
Sometimes death drives us to elevate people to sainthood or heroism and I don’t think that’s honest or fair. We are all made of light and shadow, and to deny that is to deny the humanity that connects us.
So, as I remember Evan – Light Evan and Shadow Evan – I write those things down. Sometimes they’re things that make me cry so hard I feel like I will break in two, other times they make me laugh until I’m doubled over, tears of hilarity streaming down my face. Mostly they’re just little nothings, the simple, quiet things that made him, him. I’ve got light and shadow too. And I hope that when it’s my turn to go, my people will remember them both and love me still.
I recently read something Evan wrote about a particularly difficult time in his life:
“You know what though… I’m glad we went through that. The most unbreakable bonds are those forged in the fires of hardship and difficulty…Not being able to do all the things we wanted to do and dreamed of doing was exactly what we needed to evolve… it took away the external distractions of material things and activities and forced us to look inwards. It forced us to face the inner demons we avoided and address our weaknesses. We resisted at first, but then it became necessary for survival. We had to change our minds, we had to change the way we perceive things happening. Life is a never-ending succession of lessons to be learned…The inner work we put in will allow us to move on to the next lesson… let’s become life lesson experts together, let’s see every problem as an opportunity to create a solution… our own little life game we’ll play.”
These words make me smile because they are so Evan. In many ways, he was a hermit. He only had so much energy for people and then he was DONE and would have to skedaddle into silence until he was ready to connect again. Then he’d swoop in out of nowhere like a hurricane of love and encouragement and support, the best cheerleader you could ever hope for, brimming over with all the wisdom and affection he could lavish on you until he disappeared again. Like a burly Viking fairy godmother. For a long time that hurt me. It felt like rejection and abandonment every time he’d disappear. But then I realised it was just him, his light and shadow, and with understanding, came peace. I could be my own cheerleader, my own rock of support and love and encouragement. I could take those Viking fairy godmother moments from my brother and speak them to myself every day. I could take the pain I felt from his disappearances and make sure I don’t do that to my people. Just because I understand his shadow side, doesn’t mean I need to repeat it.
I love that Evan never stopped learning and growing. Ever. I loved our Viking fairy godmother chats because they were chockablock full of all the things he’d been pondering and wondering and thinking through in his hermit time. His last message to me was brimming with love and affection. He told me how proud he was of me for facing the traumas of my past and making a new, beautiful life out of the ashes of the old one. He was so happy I had found Bear and that I was safe and loved and had an amazing tribe of people who truly have my back. He never called me Krista, only Girl. “Girl,” he’d say, “You’ve got this. You’re amazing and strong and smart and creative. I love you and I’m proud of you.”
I can’t travel to the States for Evan’s funeral, so Bear and I are having a ceremony here too. Evan always wanted a Viking funeral, so we’re building a Viking longboat to honour him. I think he’d smile at that.
“Girl,” he’d say. “That’s awesome.”