How to Feel Better

Forgetting and Remembering

Start by wondering if you know anything at all to be true, other than love.

Think of your childhood pal, who put his hand on your mom’s over Hawaiian ribs at Kelbo’s in L.A. How he said to her: “It must be so hard, raising two kids on your own.” She burst into tears, saying thank you, thank you. Wonder how he knew—at eleven!—to say such things.

This friend is now gone, lost at only twenty-five. You crouched down when you heard the news, like a duck-and-cover bomb drill. Say his name now, every morning. It’s not really a prayer, more of a remembrance. You try to imagine him saying don’t forget me, but he’d never say such a thing. All you can conjure up is him laughing.

Pretend for a little while that there is no death, which only the young can do. It’s like enjoying a dream, all the while knowing.

When you lose your parents, one after the other, try everything possible in a desperate, grasping attempt to fix your grief. When none of these things takes the sadness away, you feel more lost than ever. Maybe at some point, almost by accident, tell yourself it’s okay. Look how hard you’re trying, how much you’ve endured. See how tender your heart is, how full of love. Forget this, then remember it again.

Swim in the frigid water next to a waterfall, dunking your head, every cell lighting up. You linger at the foot of the falls. I’m sorry, you say, over the roar of the water. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Recounting this to a friend, she says this reminds her of a Hawaiian prayer she learned:

I’m sorry.
Forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.

She wonders aloud, “Maybe you were stuck on the first part.” You climb the fire tower in the forest the next morning, and say these phrases to the horizons, every direction full of winter’s bare trees, dull browns and grays, like a sea of bones.

You wake in the night, forgetting, wondering where everyone is, your heart the only sound in the room. What do I need to do, you wonder. There’s a sense that you could do something to make things right, if only you could remember what it is.

You recall that after your first unthinkable loss, you sat on the floor, uncomprehending, for a good hour, turning this around and around, desperately trying to think your way out of it: There must be something I can understand that will help this not be true.

You worry now, in the dark, that you’re not getting better at it. What was that thing your meditation teacher told you long ago? Effort and surrender are like the two wings of a bird. I don’t know how to surrender, you told him, picturing a one-winged gull.

Just think of it, he said, as welcoming. You wonder about this, given that there’s so much that feels unwelcome. It’s not about liking the way things are, he told you, it’s about noticing where you’re bracing against your life, and slowly, gently, relaxing your grip.

You still feel like you’re missing something; you let yourself welcome that. Something loosens for just a few moments, and your body feels so alive in its grief and wonder, so full of love and loss, it’s almost unbearable. Long lost people come back to you, like gathering clouds.

When you were little, a pear-shaped crystal fell from the chandelier, and you discovered it on the carpet, thinking: treasure. You clutched it in your hand, running your small thumb over its facets. You lay on your back on the living room floor, dusty slants of sunlight cutting through the blinds. You reached up with this crystal, hoisting it into the morning light. Dozens of rainbows cast across the ceiling and walls, moving with your hand’s turn. It felt like magic. You could hear your mom humming something from the kitchen. You put the crystal to your eye, and the room burst into fractals.

You feel lost and confused, again and again. This is proof of how tender your heart is. You keep forgetting, of course. Forgetfulness is the natural state. But the remembering comes, too. You try to remember how and where to begin. Start by wondering if you know anything at all to be true, other than love.

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