Danica 1993

Danica and I had gone to school together since kindergarten but we didn't really know each other until high school. We became closer friends in college because the music majors hung out in the music department practice rooms until all hours. Danica and I ended up sharing a studio apartment the summer of 1993. That was the summer she passed away at the age of 31 from a blood clot that had gotten into her bloodstream after she'd had surgery for a knee injury.

The night she died I was visiting a friend because two people living in a one bedroom studio had started to get on my nerves. Danica had needed to stay somewhere between roommates for two weeks. That two weeks had turned into two months and she didn't seem to be looking for another roommate. When my land ladies called the next morning to tell me Danica had died, I broke down. The loss of a dearly loved friend and the circumstances surrounding her death were devastating. I also felt a lot of guilt about my not being there; lots of what ifs and blaming the doctors for releasing her from the hospital (she had fainted at orchestra practice earlier that evening) because she didn't have medical insurance; disbelief that while she lay dying her mother, who had picked her up from the hospital, could only stand there in shock and do nothing; the sad realization that, in the end, Danica didn't think anyone really loved her. The one poignant comfort was that my land ladies, who were kind and loving women, were there to hold her hand and told her they loved her before she died.

Though I had basically rejected Christianity in 1993, I did have a rational, philosophically based belief in spiritual reality. I realize now Jesus was holding me in his hand even then and he gave me a gift that started me on my journey home.

I don't know how long I mourned for Danica but there finally came a morning when I had cried enough. Light invaded the room warming my tear stained sheets. In a weary daze, I watched soft fingers of dawn gently dance with dust particles, then touch my face and fill my swollen sight. And in the careful hush of that waiting house I heard laughter above my head and all around. It was a merry laughter and suddenly I knew it was Danica's. Though I didn't hear a voice somehow I knew she was happy she was free... free of a body she'd despised. She didn't want me to be sad. And in that moment I wasn't sad for her. But I was still sad for me...for the loss of a beautiful friend.. a friend I felt I had taken for granted. She laughed again comfortingly. There was no condemnation and no judgement, only joy. I couldn't help laughing in amazement with her. She knew I loved her and she forgave me...so I got out of bed and ate breakfast.

Then began the difficult process of letting her go; gathering her now precious things from my apartment and taking them to her mother; asking the secretary at the college to phone Danica's clarinet students because I couldn't face their shock and tears and joining with her two other friends, all of us moving through a surreal dream, to organize a memorial service.

In this life, Danica didn't think anyone loved her but that wasn't true. Her memorial service, held in the college band room - a place she loved - was an incredible group effort that grew organically into a beautiful work of art that truly celebrated her life. Artist friends came from all over the country. They told stories of Danica's kindness to them, her quirky humor and deep soulful intellect, her incredible musicianship, the fact she never forgot anyone's birthday and always sent them a carefully chosen card that made them laugh and that she was always there to listen when anyone needed to talk. Beautiful original poems were read, funny stories told, favorite songs sung, beautiful classical music played. Some of the college professors who had come out of courtesy were stunned. They knew Danica was witty and an excellent musician but they hadn't really known how deep and beautiful she really was.

How often do we only bother to see the surface of a person? How often do we hesitate to say "I love you" to someone who is really special to us? How often do we hide who we really are out of insecurity or self-hatred?

What did God teach me?

Spiritual reality is real. Look deeper. Tell people you love them. Accept, love and be your unique and beautiful self.

During the month after the memorial service I often sat in the funky loft bed of my overthegaragetreehouse studio and let my mind roam. It seemed like Danica's spirit was still there for a while watching over us. I was comforted by that feeling and also felt a growing wonder about God and soulfulness. I realized Danica was a soulful person who loved people. She was drawn to soulful places too and had loved the quirkiness of my rustic little place, calling dibs on the loft when she moved in. Sitting there, looking out on the beautiful, peaceful gardens below my window, I understood why she didn't want to leave. I began to wonder if maybe she knew subconsciously she was going to make her transition and wanted it to happen in a beautiful place where she felt loved. My land ladies had heard of such things. They told me Danica connected emotionally with them in the weeks before she died and talked a lot about her life and spiritual reality.

Who but God truly knows or can judge the human heart?

Concentric rings
of spirit rise,
gentle,
inevitable,
incomprehensibly wide.
My crown of tears
rides close the rim
of wakefulness.
Now sounds a hymn
of curious bliss -
a laughter sweet,
unearthly balm,
easing
mortal pain
with heavenly song.