In recent years Tricia and I had exchanged favorite new outfits at clothing swaps, watched 4th of July fireworks together in the mist from her balcony, ventured hours away to see my favorite musician in concert whom she had never heard of but instantly loved, camped on the beach and been awoken by curious wild ponies at 4am, eaten our body weight in local seafood, brewed beer, concocted herbal first aid remedies, and shared many hours on the yoga mat. I had just seen her on Friday afternoon, when she'd stopped by to help bottle our first ever batch of hard cider. A regular member of our Sunday Ladies Brewing Club, in spite of her gluten intolerance, Tricia was excited to help with this highly experimental brew that she could actually drink. Then we'd emailed back and forth a few times on Sunday in the late afternoon, excitedly putting pieces in place for her to lead another bitters making class this spring. How long was it between her last email and her last breath? Why did I not hug her longer when I last saw her on Friday? Was the homemade granola I'd given her to celebrate winter solstice the last thing she'd eaten on Sunday, before traveling to the holiday dinner at which she never arrived? I can't stop crying.
One thing that Tricia taught me by her example over the course of our friendship was the principle of Ahimsa, which I understand as the careful cultivation of nonviolence in thought and deed. She was no doormat, mind you, but aspired to always be loving and forgiving and respectful toward herself and others. It was one of the many things I admired about my friend, and I tried to practice it, too. I am really struggling with embodying this principle now, with the lack of it shown Tricia by the person who needlessly took her life. Would this not be the most important time to practice Ahimsa, though, when it is the most difficult? Is this how I can best honor my friend? I wonder.
One thing that Tricia has taught me through her death is to not take things for granted: people, opportunities, life. None of us saw this coming. How could we? Not knowing which day will be our last makes each moment precious -- a good reminder to cultivate joy and love whenever and wherever we can during the time that we have, leaving our mark in the hearts of others.
Farewell, my beautiful, fearless, loving friend. My heart will miss you for a long time, as will the hearts of so many whose lives you have brightened by just being you. Back to the earth you go, to nurture us yet another way.