North Star

How do you sum up the value of someone's life in a page of text? 

How do you quantify their worth and decide which colours of their stained-glass soul are for sharing, and what's best kept for yourself?  All of their smiles and tears, their hopes and desires, their desperate fears, and their masks not retired? 

How do you untangle the threads of a joint life that bound them to you, without letting them fall completely away from you?

 I don't know that I've ever cried so much in my life. 

Granted, I am still young - there is time for more heartache and sorrow - but when I heard that she'd died... when I learned how it had happened...

Her name became a prayer, a plea, upon my lips, and a tattoo emblazoned on my soul, as I whispered it into the cacophony of my child-laden car, and screamed it into the silent hollow of my mind. Impossible, I argued. Improbable, I reasoned. 

But in the end, pleading is where I sat for hours- days- as I waited for someone, anyone, to tell me it was a mistake. Dear, sweet Lords in all their faces, dear sweet Ladies and all their graces, please no, not Stacey, not Oz, not Ozara... but I'd heard too late for my heartache to matter, and my selfish desire to keep her bound in her body found no purchase so many hours after her spirit let it go.  

It's been 12 days that I've been asking myself these questions, trying to distract from what's happened. It's been 5 days where I feel like I may finally be able to start writing my eulogy for her, but every time I begin, I start at square one- How do I fit all that Stacey was, and all that I loved, into so small a space? I could write forever about her, and what she means (meant?) to me, the impact she had on my life in the 7 years I got to know, and grew to love, her, and still I would have more to say. 

It amazes me, actually, just how thoroughly she managed to secure herself into this journey of mine.

I always thought that, if we defined the roles of such a complicated and beautiful relationship, I was the "teacher", as she frequently came asking for reassurances, or to double check information, or to run something by for a second opinion to make sure she wasn't horribly off base. She'd constantly ask questions, ever-searching for hidden truths and secrets, and if I had no answer for her, I'd prompt her towards a new path down which to chase the ever-elusive white rabbit.

As always seems to be the case, it's only now that I am without her that I realize just how much and how often I was not the one who was needed, but who was in need. Subtlety and gentleness, two of her greatest gifts, wove seamlessly in with her friendship, and my reliance on her as a check to any arrogance or impulsiveness I showed in my words and thoughts has gone unnoticed by me until I, suddenly, lost her forever.

So, back to the original question: How can I even hope to squeeze her into such small parameters, and expect to do her soul justice?

Honestly, I don't think I can. 

Not for a lack of effort- as it is, this promises to be a lengthy statement on who she'd become, but to fit all of her in? No. Not in one piece, at least. It will take several, maybe dozens, but then you might begin to fall in love with her as I did. 

Oh, no. 

Not like that... not really. 

So much more than just that.

Stacey understood Love better than anyone I've met so far. 

She saw the highs as well as the lows- The glorious selflessness of it, as well as the selfish demands it brings on within someone, obsession for happiness, and obsession for possession. She adored the Greek views on such things- multiple words, multiple concepts, many relevant to any given relationship at any given time. So when I say that I love her, understand that it is not a romantic kind, but the kind that comes from allowing another person to see you when you've shed your masks and bared your soul for them to judge, only to find they still want you in their life, and so they gift you with the most precious of vulnerabilities in return- The unmasked version of themselves that's been deemed unlovable without alteration, unacceptable without pieces removed. 

I remember the day she admitted to actual belief in Faeries, an admission which started with: "I know I'm probably really silly for saying this, but...” I laughed, and half-joked that she was a witch at heart, and that there was nothing foolish about a grown woman believing in such things. 

I suppose this is where empowerment begins - though I'm not so vain as to assume it was solely my doing - when you stop lying to yourself and embrace what you are. For her... this moment, where she found external validation in something otherwise seen as a curious quirk, was an earthquake of roiling emotion and cracking mental constructs, a storm of crisp, clean air sweeping through a delicate, ivory cage she kept herself in. The more we spoke, the more she opened up about her "less acceptable" personal beliefs; the more inquisitive she became, the more she craved to know. 

She branched out in her desire to integrate this validation of who she was with the masks she wore. Slowly, she found people who did more than humor her impulses and outlandish, heathen beliefs. She found people who danced with the falling leaves in the autumn and sang to the flowers in the spring, those who would make diamonds out of fresh-fallen snow and hooded cloaks from a starry, summer's night sky. Stacey found people who believed in the God she loved, but who simultaneously believed in the folklore from which she bled forgotten truths. 

The more I got to know her, the more I commented on her being a witch. She fervently denied, right up to her death, that she was one, though more than once admitted to believing she was no longer a Christian either- Not in the modern-traditional sense, anyway. Her path, it seems, was forged of love, herbs, the arts, and the sands of her inner dreamscape- not so rooted in this world, as she believed.

Then again, many of her beliefs were in constant flux- especially those which were beliefs about herself. Despite years of validation, years of love poured into her from so many different cups, her shadow stayed strong and stubborn. Humble, friendly, full of outpouring Love as she was, Stacey's darkness never left her alone for long. 

As a result, she often put the desires of others above her needs, catering to their whims instead of caring for and healing herself. She believed she was the replaceable one, the friend that was less important than the rest of the people in a group. She believed she'd be set aside when someone better came along, that she'd be easily forgotten- her impact minimal in the lives of those she loved and cared for. She couldn't have believed something farther from the truth. 

And so to her I speak now, through the eyes of those who reads this and love her. To her I speak now, so she knows that she will be remembered. She will be missed and grieved, her absence like the tremors of aftershock, the stormy winds now rushing through my life as they once did through hers.  

The "Ceremony in the West" honors a person who has died by unloading all the things left unsaid in life, and allowing peace and resolution to flow between a living soul, and the soul of one who's body has returned to the ground. I performed this ceremony the night of her funeral, and transcribed it here to (hopefully) bring comfort and peace to those who read it and love her.

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Ceremony in the West.

The West, where the Sun sets, is said by many cultures to be the direction to travel if you seek the gates of the Otherworld. So, I sit in the West to offer what peace I can. 

Stacey Marie Haggard Brewer

Named Resurrection at birth,

Ozara, 

Star Dancer.

She, born of dreams and angels,

Child of the apple and the poppy.

Mother of mandrake and mugwort and magic.

Stacey Marie Haggard Brewer

Named Resurrection at birth,

Ozara,

Star Dancer,

Named Sister and Heart by Willow and Ivy.

Beloved of ink and lens,

Earthly source of hope and love.

Come, darling, and sit with me. Bear witness to the love you seeded, grew, and inspired as you wove your way inextricably into my life. 

Come, dearest, sit with me, and let me take you through the smoke and splintered moonlight of my broken heart, through the love I've held, always, for you, even when we drifted apart.

You were my North, steady and constant.

My one fixed point, no matter where I wandered- and I did wander, a lot. Far and deep, into myself and into my imagination, into dark woods and deep waters. Always, though, you were the brilliance that led me out, just a keystroke or a heartbeat away. You helped me believe, by boldly stating so yourself, that writing could be more than a pass-time hobby. Your bravery in declaring yourself a writer and author before me, a stranger at the time, inspired me to take it seriously, and now without you, that belief is wavering- to be fair, I didn't realize you were ingrained in the foundation of that dream until my world folded in on itself, and that foundation crumbled away. I'm finding this to be true in so many places, Ozara. Rebuilding will take years while I figure out how to orient myself without my North, without your magnetic pull keeping me on the path ahead. You probably see it clearly, and I look forward to discussing it with you in dreams when my nightmares subside. 

Your words of inspiration, encouragement, and admiration are so incredibly precious to me, I wouldn't want to let you down by keeping them hidden forever. I still need you, though. I've never not needed you. Your perspective on the world, your ability to see magic in the mundane, is something I've always admired and envied, and something I'm not sure I can see on my own. 

You are my Morning Star- Venus, and Agape, Philia and Pragma.

Ozara, you brought me from a place of skepticism into a galaxy of possibilities. You expanded my horizon on what to expect in a friend, and were the first one who didn't give me cause to wonder and worry if I was good enough, if I had to be better. Of course, that doesn't mean you didn't change me. You led me to understand how to be a better on my own, without expectation for results or conditioned loyalty. Love, in all its many and varied forms, ran through your heart constantly. I don't know how many of those veins I tapped into along the way, I don't know how many variations I absorbed from you, but I feel their absence as surely as if the stars abandoned the sky, with only moonlight left, dim and growing farther away, to guide me on. 

Your capacity for agape, and your trust in humanity was refreshing and needed. When you spoke of Faith, when you questioned yours, it was never with certainty and absolutes. Instead, you saw it as ever-evolving, ever growing. You believed that humanity ought to strive to understand agape and philautia to better understand the image of the Christian God you knew- not the one commercialized and clothed in hate. You provoked me into examining my own biases where your God was concerned, provoked me into confronting the prejudices and stereotypes I'd built up of what his followers are. 

Ozara, it is because of you that I stopped resenting aspects of my heritage and upbringing. It's because of you that I found flaws in my chosen practices, and still strive to smooth over the edges of old and broken bridges to re-establish those pathways- not as opposing forces and ideals, but as ones that can walk side by side and make each other stronger. In the end, darling, it is because of you that I stopped hating your God, and for that I owe you a debt of gratitude.

You are the void between the stars, deep and endless, distant but full of promise. 

I will never be able to explain how incredibly sorry I am for the miscommunication we had that led to a wasted year.  Darling, please know that I meant what I said when I approached to apologize- I never meant for the distance to be so deep, and I never wanted to lose or to hurt you- especially not when I knew your history. Please believe that I never wanted you to feel like a burden, and I never intended to cut open the wounds that I did with careless wording and withdrawal. You'd simply needed so much of me, and I gave everything I had to the point where I had nothing left at all. I needed to recharge, I needed to replenish. I did enjoy my time of rest, but the cost was too high. I should have known such tranquility comes with a high price.

While we drifted in that limbo, I thought of you often, and wanted to reach out long before I did. I assumed you'd found a new normal, much like I will have to do now, and I didn't want to disturb your veneer of happiness. Of course, I didn't know it was veneer at the time. I wish I had, so badly. But, for all that unintended pain, and for all your (arguably deserved) swearing at me, I am glad we found each other again. I am glad to have had time to repair some of the damage done. All of your light cast a heavy shadow, and I know the burden of walking that shadow alone. I never wanted that for you either, and I'm glad that now, at least, your shadow and light are finally in balance. 

My only real regret for you, Ozara, is that you never got to finish casting off the masks you wore in your mundane, physical life. I know you tried, and I feel somewhat responsible for that not working out. I know, I know- it was your decision, your choice- but where you were the heart of the Triumvirate, I was the sword. Instead of using it to cut away your fears, I cut into your joy and gave your darkness a foothold. Forgive me, anamcara, for the carelessness. Forgive me for not being there when you still needed me; a promise early made and late broken. 

You are the melody sung between leaves, and the rippling voices of trickling streams. 

My dearest, I see you in everything. Music and movies, dance and art... all ruined for me, at least for a while. Hell, I can't even garden without finding you amongst the greenery as I recall herb and flower medicinal (or poison) properties you've shared with me over the years, or consider the colour of a flower I think you'd enjoy. I never told you, but each year when I plant my garden, I choose at least three plants you've mentioned that you have in your own beds. I'm not sure how I remember them, I certainly cannot recall the specifics now, but somewhere in my subconscious, your voice lives to dictate the future of my shrubberies. Only now, of course, have I identified it as yours, and where it once went unnamed and made me smile, now it is known and beautiful and met with sorrow.

It's less bad at present, as all things are bound to get with time, but it is still an impossible distance away from "better". So many tears are sown into the soil alongside the foxglove and lavender and salvia. So many splotches in books I've tried to read, so many stains on my pillowcase, so many dead spots in my heart. Eventually, I'll have to cut it out completely, but this time I'll replace it with an apple wrapped in poppy petals, for never again will I let you doubt that you are, indeed, my heart and its rhythm both. 

And speaking of poppies... I try for them next year, with seeds from my grandmother's garden, and seeds stolen from a heritage garden in my home province (Don't look at me like that, Ozara. I'm not the one who had the dream where we were trying to steal a queen-sized mattress by taking it through a cow pasture. At least poppy pods fit in pockets.). I hope they take, I know both you and Morpheus are fond, and with you now travelling beside him, I feel I should get to know him better. Please visit. I wouldn't mind seeing you in action with your dual blades and black leather. 

One last installment before you leave to find your peace, Darling. Because I am not great at poetry, but you suffered through anyway, you get one more for the long road ahead while we wait to see each other again. 

Dance for me, Angel in the Afterlife, prematurely displaced.

Draped in garnet and soft, antiquated lace.

May Fae kiss your soul, and bestow complete control,

Denied you in this lifetime.

Read for me, Angel in the Afterlife, your fantastical tales.

Calm the chaos inside my nebulous mind.

In the Dreamscape of Time, where all you want, you can find

With gossamer, call us to you.

Speak to me, Angel in the Afterlife, guiding my way,

Leave your imprints on all of my pages

Somehow, this wrong turns to right in celestial light, 

Just wait, I'll see you in the next life. 

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Somewhere in this black hole her death has made, there's got to be a star to follow, a trail of apple blossoms or poppy seeds, to lead us forward as she walks the void between the stars- no longer confined to being simply a nomad. 

Somewhere, she scoffs that so much fuss is being made about her, that she really is not so important to disrupt so many lives. 

Somewhere, she will continue to debate with me about whether she is, in fact, a witch or not, with semi-solid reasoning and a multitude of excuses. 

Somewhere, she watches and waits, soothing our hearts between sobs, when we are silent enough hear her voice through our pain. 

Somewhere in time, she waits patiently until we no longer need her (hah, joke's on her) before she wakes and walks again.

Somewhere, she nudges and pokes as we pour through her works, decided and determined to see them finished for her; a commitment to fulfill one waking dream for her, and remove one last mask.

For now, though, we go to find a new normal, or at least as normal as she'll allow. 

Sweet Sleep, my ashen angel, my earthen faerie, my North Star.