A tiny love letter to cosmic friends and messengers

My brother in-law often says, "the women in your family are just built differently." And I smile a little because almost everyone I've ever dated has said the exact same thing.

There's always a mix of awe and laughter as they learn more about the women that came before me and how their lessons move through me.

I've often shared that my ancestors are a bit assertive and seemingly ever present. I've felt them intervene during moments of danger, push me forward in moments of opportunity, and send me joyful messages in moments of hopelessness.

Since the exact moment she died, my Nonna has sent me animal messengers. She couldn't stand animals when she was alive; the only ones she could tolerate were my dogs, so no one is more surprised by her chosen method of supernatural communication than me.

But it's definitely her.

Back in 2013, while her older brother was dying, my Nonna overheard a bittersweet exchange between us in the hospital one night where I asked him to come visit me often from the other side and to make it obvious.

"Don't just have a feather float past me; don't be subtle and mysterious. Move a chair across the room. Terrify me with your presence."

He held my hand and laughed.

He whispered, "no problem."

My Nonna sat on the other side of the room and watched us in silence with the same sharp blue wolf eyes I view the world with. When he eventually fell asleep, 1 looked over to see her crying silently. She pointed at him and said, "That's my best friend."

I could feel her waves of grief existing in another human dying slowly outside of her body and her inability to talk about it.

I went to bed last night with a heavy heart. The details of how painfully life is unfolding on life's terms for me aren't important. The feeling is what is important. Facts can trick us into feeling special and separate. But my pain and grief are not unique. People have felt this way since time began - even you, dear reader.

We've all been there at some point.

Hollow, a bit broken, and completely untethered.

Last night, I needed something to bring me back into the earth's gravitational pull. I often wear my great-grandmother's wedding band on a chain around my neck. So, 1 put it on, closed my eyes, and prayed for sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night in this big, new, and completely empty house and stared up at the stars peaking through the towering palm trees outside of my bedroom window.

It's so clear up here.

Sometimes, it reminds me of living above Pololü Valley, where you can see shooting stars every few minutes from your bed.

After a few breaths and a few more blinks, 1 adjusted to the darkness. The hollow feeling returned in a rush as a not-so-subtle reminder that our dance wasn't over yet.

And then I heard it.

A sharp song coming from the mountains behind my home. An ancient howl of dust and bones. A few moments later, I heard a joyful call and response echoing through the valley.

The separate ecstatic howls slowly synchronized over the next few minutes into a frenzied, high-pitched crescendo.

Coyote.

A pack.

1 inhaled as 1 listened to them coming together in the night to hunt, fight, and play. I could hear each one of them as they participated in this song.

The trickster, the reluctant hero, the seer, the creator, the sage, and the shapeshifter were all present.

All of them singing the chorus of a song to me from underneath my window. A new earth version of Lloyd Dobbler stoically holding a boombox above his head, reminding me that I wasn't alone, that everything is unfolding right on time, that nature has a plan, and that despite how it looks and feels to the contrary, I am playing my part perfectly. I am not a victim of this moment; I am necessary even (and especially) in my brokenness.

Over the last few weeks, I have unknowingly stumbled into a painful initiation, one that I would never have chosen for myself, one that I did everything to avoid. And yet, here I am. There is a ton of grief right now, but having been here before, I can say there's also joy.

My job isn't to cling to either one but to adjust, adapt, accept, and shape-shift when called upon.

The chorus is the verse, as they say.

I also felt my Nonna on the other side of my bedroom for a moment last night. She was curled up on a chair in the darkness, watching me and silently pointing a finger at the exact spot on my body where my grief now lives.

"That's my best friend."