I have a scar on my hand from cutting old hawthorn branches with Amy on the weekend before she died. In the intense days afterward I didn't tend to the wound very well. It got red and angry enough that my brother told me - sternly - to clean it out better. I did, and the cut slowly healed through scabby and scaly stages while I picked at it.

I clearly remember wrestling a gnarly trunk out of the ground with Amy and scraping the base of my index finger. We were working well together that day. This was in the period after Amy had stopped taking the anti-depressants she had been on for 15 years. It was after she had taken several psychedelic "journeys" with ketamine and MDMA, trying to heal old traumas and uproot unhelpful life-patterns. It was also only a week after she recovered from her first COVID infection. She was doing OK and it felt like a final warm weekend to clear up the yard before winter settled in.

At that time Amy was much more able and willing to help with my yard "infrastructure" projects than she had been before. The pharmacological changes and therapy sessions seemed to be really changing her. She could get ready for a dog walk, or backpacking trip, in a fraction of the time it used to take her. On those outings she was also much more open to talking about hard issues between us, and shared thoughts and ideas that came from her heart. I had been skeptical of her fast-paced changes, but the results had me excited about the future of our relationship.

Despite these seemingly positive changes, Amy seemed quite flat emotionally. She didn't show much of the quick and vibrant spirit I had known. She was making fewer of her (terrible) puns, but she'd at least laugh a little at mine. She'd sleep early and stay in bed later, and she wasn't doing her normal morning meditations and journaling. It was a little worrying.

Autumn was coming on hard just then and the light failed faster by the day. That gloaming time of year was always hard for Amy. I figured her low energy was part of her adjustment to lots of changes in her body and mind, as well as the seasons.

Then there were her struggles with the news of this world. Amy relied on me, a news-hound, to give her reports on how so many precious things - democracy, the climate, peace - were under threat. I tried to be accurate and honest but to also leave space for hope and action. Anyway, I knew that world events weighed on her.

Nevertheless, Amy was nothing if not resilient. I thought she'd pull through this rough patch as she had through hard troubles before. She had new perspectives and lots of support available. There were spots of bright fall colors among the troubled forests, and Amy always had an eye for that kind of thing.

She had promising work in guiding psychedelic therapy journeys, and she was excited to start incorporating art therapy into that process. Her own art-work was doing very well; with several commissioned paintings and works hanging at the best art gallery in Montana. She was actively making winter plans for us to ski with her sister's family.

And, what the hell, we shared a cozy home with two sweet-and-salty dogs, in a great neighborhood next to a creek and some inviting mountains. While Amy feared the cold dark early winter, she also LOVED to snuggle in with the dogs by the fireplace with an art project, tea, or a good book. I really thought we'd be OK.

I've journeyed back to those days innumerable times since Amy died, and what she did to end her life will never make sense to my mind and heart. I have a really hard time seeing how she got to such a desperate place. But I keep trying.

I've been thinking about some psychedelic trips Amy described. When the effects were strong, she said she could lay on her back and feel her body fill with flowers. Then the flowers burst out of her and filled the air all around, and then the whole sky. Flowers from her body exploded out from the Earth and into the farthest reaches of space. What a gorgeous, spectacular, vision!

I know that Amy felt visions such as this very deeply, and connected them to her faith in the predictive processions of astrology and mysterious archetypical powers that structure reality. She was an enchanting and enchanted person. She wholeheartedly embraced many magics. I can only imagine the impact such exuberant psychedelic visions had on her. I know that they would have been incredibly compelling, and they may have become more real to her than her everyday bodily reality. If those visions were a true window into reality, then our ego-driven lives and bodies could be just an impediment to enlightenment.

Amy had plenty of challenges in life, just like we all do. I think that in some ways she was running away from dark terrors and difficulties. But maybe she was also running toward transcendent ecstasy. Her last short note to me said, in part, "May our souls reunite in infinite love." She believed, or wanted to believe, in a great and beautiful adventure to come.

The wound on my hand has been a bodily marker of time since Amy died. Now it's just a patch of slightly redder, slightly smoother skin. I don't really want my hand to heal completely, but it will. The body does keep score.

My heart and mind feel very rough and scabby, if a bit smoother on the surface. I'm curious what that inner healing might feel like, and if I can let it happen. It feels inevitable, nothing stays the same.

Happier New Year to you all.

Love - Dave

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/…

Here's some writing to communicate with other people who knew and loved Amy. I started this a while ago but have dawdled with finishing up. It still feels relevant to me.

--------------------

Last night I awoke at 3AM. I just heard that part of the night called the "Wolf's Hour," a common time for unwelcome waking up and nightmares.

I've known the Wolf's Hour as a time for spinning thoughts that can spiral toward bad places. It's happened enough that I know, even in the dark moment, to discount the apocalyptic conclusions I arrive at; things always look far better in the morning light.

But last night I felt energy rising in my chest, filling my core with an unsettling, vibrating warmth. I tried to smile through it, but strangely found that I physically could not smile. The energy became an intense anxiety without clear focus, and I felt I would have to go walk outside to calm down.

Then Juno, the beautiful dog Amy brought into our lives, jumped on the bed to lick my hands and lay down next to me. My energies softened and faded. As often happens after a crying jag, I began to feel calm and clear, and I thought I might be able to sleep.

Turns out I couldn't sleep. Morning arrived after interminable hours, and I felt like a zombie. After a too-short dog walk, I hustled down to a therapy appointment. Exhaustion and upset brought me to my first tears in days. I heard myself saying, "I just don't know how to live in this world anymore."

That does NOT mean that I feel myself to be at risk. It means I don't know how to place myself or be myself in this new world. As I wrote early on, Amy was in everything I am. Even when I thought I was being independent, everything I did was in relationship to her. Even with her gone that is true. I will have to learn to live without her presences, collaborations, oppositions, commentaries, helps, and love. I can try to imagine how she might have responded or reacted, but mostly I'm going to have to move beyond that kind of memorial, too. That's the sort of thing that feels hard: truly living without her.

I now have a sort of freedom that I sometimes fantasized about when Amy and I had relationship troubles. "If only I could do just what I want!" the frustrated voices in my mind would used to shout. Careful what you wish for, I guess.

Now I keep finding myself leaning into someone who has disappeared - and dizzily catching myself before I fall like a tree. I'll remember how to lean into other parts of life, and other people, eventually. I'll have to but right now I don't really want to.

I'm weary of mourning Amy and well as my past life with her. I'm over the pitched awkwardness of grief in a small community. I'm over-tired of imagining how Amy got to such a dark place.

In that exhaustion with grieving I can ricochet off toward other horizons, other ways of looking at this new world. I imagine how I, and maybe all of us, helped make Amy's life as wonderful as it was.

I've plumbed a lot of despairing depths, now sometimes I'm climbing toward sunlit heights and surveying how excellent many of her hours, days, and years were. Amy fought hard against deep depressions, and she won 47 years. With great effort and help from all of us, even among challenges, she made a vibrant life for herself. She loved the whole world deeply.

The journey of a life matters.

I've also felt energies besides midnight terrors. For days I have felt buzzing clouds of warmth flying around my body. These energies gathered and pulsed into the middle of my forehead. Amy would have loved to hear that I, a salty skeptic of New-Age spirituality, am experiencing a chakra awakening at my Third Eye!

I feel this warm energy most of the time; while talking with friends or cleaning the house; while writing and while dipping into the icy creek. This energy feels strange but comforting. It makes me curious about what is to come.

Here’s an image that has been with me throughout the time since Amy passed:

We walk amidst silvery threads that connect us to the people and places we know and love. You can move within this gossamer network for decades without noticing or knowing much about it. But when you stumble and fall toward hard rocks, that nearly invisible caul of connections instantly brightens and tightens. Once-distant people and your seemingly ordinary place suddenly become essential supports. As much as you will allow, they will catch and hold you up or lower you gently into a new place; they bind and start to heal grievous wounds.

The silvery network around me has been amazing. I can’t say thank you enough to everyone who has visited, texted, called, messaged, and randomly hugged me on the trail. THANK YOU is a mantra I will now repeat to the end of my days. I say it loudly to those who organized our gathering for Amy; who cooked food and hauled gear and arranged that beautiful meeting; who played music and led dances; who embraced strangers with Amy’s warm spirit. I say thanks for these weeks of fantastic meals brought to my door. And thanks, too, to those who have stood off not wanting to overwhelm me with support. This flood of aid will abate, and I will need you. (It’s OK, just come on over!)

Weaving this community-wide (indeed, continental) web of connections was among Amy’s super-powers and I’m deeply grateful for it now. I want to keep it strong. I’ll do my best to hold up my silvery strands for you when you teeter or fall.

My place has worked as well. The sun has stayed in the sky most days. That clear light through blue skies has drawn me outside almost constantly. My dogs have been well-exercised at the very least.

The sun has encouraged my daily dips in the nearly-frozen creek, too. I’ve been going down to a few choice holes, alone or with an intrepid friend. The dogs stand by nonplussed while we strip down and ease into the water. They nose around in the bushes, trusting that our fit of madness will pass quickly. I go in up to my chest and count four sets of four calm breaths. Then I dunk completely and gasp my way onto shore.

It’s a plainly crazy and obviously difficult thing to do. But like many strange obsessions, it gets easier with practice and reveals unexpected benefits. Now I barely pause getting into the water; I know that molten cold well and it doesn’t scare me anymore. Now while I’m in up to my neck it’s easy to breathe smoothly; to have a look around at the trees and water and the fine light. I emerge alive in every fiber. The cold burns away bodily torpor and mental fuzziness and leaves me full of energy and resolve.

Back at the house I have more time alone, and that’s mostly a good thing. I’m trying to re-inhabit my home. My mind still spins with thoughts of Amy and I do sometimes get caught in sad and tedious eddies. But mostly I can appreciate her spirit even while I mourn our losses. I don’t really know what lies ahead for me but I have hope that, whatever happens, thanks to you all and this place, I will be able to move through it with my eyes and heart open.

Here is a short film of the gathering for Amy:

https://photos.app.goo.gl/Kit…

It’s the Friday after Thanksgiving. My brother headed back to Seattle on Monday to care for his daughter. My dear friend Justin left for his Mom's place in BC on Tuesday. I’ve been sleeping at a friend’s house the last few nights. More friends are coming soon to stay and support me. It’s all good and I could hardly be more blessed in this moment.

I’ve had time alone with the dogs at home finally. It’s a bit lonely but feels necessary to have some solitude and to re-inhabit my house. This strangely comforting silence feeds my desire to sojourn a while in the wilderness to just be with my sorrow. Maybe to befriend the grieving heart in my chest.

—---------------------

Last Sunday there was a gathering for people to grieve and celebrate Amy’s life. At noon I walked from my house through the woods along the creek to the park. People were already there laying out food, assembling sound systems; talking, crying, laughing.

Soon the place was filled with Amy’s tribes. Old friends, new friends, cancer-surviving paddlers, co-workers and collaborators, artists and athletes. I was totally unable to move because of all the warm, sad people embracing me. Love for Amy was everywhere and I swam into it.

At two o’clock I called everyone to the field and asked that we all form a large circle. Hundreds of people amoeba-ed into a ring on the grass and held hands.

Then I asked that everyone repeat after me:

-We are here for Amy Coseo

-Our friend and sister

-Lover of the world

-We grieve for her

-We hold each other up

-We celebrate Amy's bright spirit

-We live for her every day

Joined voices are always powerful, and I thrilled to hear the congregants speaking my prayer for Amy. Next, a pair of women who have lead many group dances led a chant and spun us into a tightening spiral. I walked past everyone there and looked into each person’s face. We slowly cinched into an enormous group hug, and I asked for a moment of silence. I saw a sea of grieving but exultant faces with tears streaming all around.

Finally, I asked everyone to find a person they didn’t know and share stories about Amy. I moved through the crowd. Between innumerable and inescapable bear hugs, I spied representatives from distant arms of Amy’s galaxy of friends, meeting, talking, and embracing. Those moments were magical for me. Amy’s networking Nirvana.

The high from that gathering has carried me for days since. We all needed a space to share sadness and laughter with many of the people who loved Amy. I feel for the many more who could not attend. We will share images and film from the day soon. Note that there will be another ceremony for Amy in Montana sometime this winter, and another on the East Coast later in the year.

The quieter time since Sunday is a foreshadowing of days to come. I need to befriend the quiet times as well as the communal ones. Amy was far quieter than most people probably knew. She loved a slow Sunday spent painting and reading by the fire. That lives alongside her art and high-octane networking, and I want to embody that quieter part of Amy’s spirit, too.

My mind and heart are exhausted with mourning. It’s hard work, and just like digging post-holes in rocky ground or caring for an ailing relative, you need to take breaks. Thanksgiving gatherings were a good break for me, I allowed the momentum of happy conversation to pull me back into the current of life for a while.

I still have moments of anguish and breaking grief-waves. The weight of our collective loss is back-breaking and we need to carry it together. But more and more often I see my mind and heart seeking ordinary pleasures of life; joking with friends, cleaning the house, making to-do lists, and especially being in Nature.

I seem to be seeking a kind of normalcy and a way to settle down again. The problem is that even the rough outlines of that new normal are not at all clear. I just have to be patient, be with the love of my family and community, be active in the world however I can, and watch closely for inspirations filtering through the woods and the stars.

I hope this writing is useful for those who wonder how I am doing, and more than that I hope it might help you or someone you know on their journeys.

Love to you all - Dave

I am late to the game with my post. Dave, my heartfelt warmest condolences to you.  I am not Amy’s sister, but I am Kate Coseo #2 in the family. Thank you to the wonderful people that started this site. It has brought a lot of people comfort, support and maybe even some laughter.  What a smile on her face in every picture . I’m grateful for everyone that shared their memories of Amy. I would like to share one of mine. We had  a coach, an RV, we named her Vanna and we had an amazing four month trip planned to the Pacific Northwest in 2018.  Of course we had a stop in Missoula to see Amy. Dave, you were out of town. Sorry. We planned a day or two. We spent a week! We could not get enough of Amy’s infectious laugh and smile. She had so much planned for us. We met moki. We saw the beautiful creek in their backyard  full of flowers and wildlife. We had dinners and barbecues and a tour of the University of Montana. She taught me so much about flowers and trees and plants.  I was in awe. We played ladder golf.   Don’t tell her, but I won. We celebrated first Friday and enjoyed wine, music, coconut macaroons, fish tacos and a game we called bananagrams, but she showed us a version called speed scrabble that she played with the original Kate Coseo, her amazing sister. I am so grateful for that week. I am even more grateful that I scrapbooked and journaled it. I am also thankful for all the memories Jim is sharing with me that I didn’t get to experience. Fun times in NYC and her creative ways to get the Osprey’s  off his sailboat. I hope everyone gave thanks to her today in a way that was reflective upon them and celebrated her. I am forever grateful and thankful for this amazing family. Our  mantra has been Angels for Amy. I believe she is at peace and I also think she  is kicking everyone’s ass up there in ladder toss. ❤️

In the middle of the cooking crew on "pisco sour" night. — with Amy Coseo

Amy with the love of her life, Dave — with Dave Morris

Our Florida adventure to the beach, the Everglades and some damn gluten free cookies! — with Kim West, Tamara Love and Jenn Clary

Just returned from a celebration of life for Amy Coseo. She is a light in so many lives and brings her full self to all she does. She is still with us. Now she is stardust. She touched so many people. It was wonderful to share stories with friends new and old. 💔 This is circa 2003 @ Harold’s Club.

Her total enthusiasm for life and need to help those around her. Set her apart from a lot of people I’ve experienced through my life. She always left you feeling special and loved! An incredible
Person. I used to babysit for her. She was so so sweet!💜💜

Amy’s Harvest Wholeness family

I am sad to miss the remembrance and celebration of Amy today and want to share how much her life and her passing has touched me. She brought such presence and intensity to our conversations, both of us interested in exploring the mind and the ways unconscious material could revealed itself in mysterious ways. I found her courageous in the many ways she expressed herself and championed paths toward healing, from her own cancer recovery to advocacy for affordable health, to exploring new avenues toward wholeness and wellbeing. I’m struck by the many apertures Amy held open in life, and the incredible network of open-hearted do-gooders that made up her community. There’s a way that Amy could be with both pain and joy simultaneously. She will remain a beacon for me in this way. My heart aches for all who are feeling her loss, as her loss touches me with a similar intensity to how she touched me while living. May her bright spirit be with you all today.  🍃💫