LETTERS FROM LOVE — With Special Guest Andrea Gibson!

Notes from the star nursery

Dear Lovelets,

Many years ago, I asked my friend Richard from Texas (whom some of you may remember from EAT PRAY LOVE) what he thought about death.

It was not a random question.

At the time, Richard was fading away from life because of an incurable heart condition brought on, as he liked to say, by the fact that he had, in his own cheerful words, used his body “like a rental car.” Richard seemed to have such a deep sense of grace and surrender in the face of his mortality, and I wanted to understand how he had come to be so peaceful about it. Hence my question: “What do you think about death, Richard?”

He replied in his famous relaxed drawl, “Well, Groceries, the one thing I have noticed about death is that it always seems to take everyone by surprise. And I find that kinda weird, given that it’s the only item on the contract of life that is absolutely promised.”

It is weird. It is weird that death takes us by surprise, and it’s also weird that it exists at all — it’s terrifying and strange and mysterious and captivating. Mortality is a big subject — the biggest — and it’s the great equalizer. None of us can escape it, and all of us will have to meet it someday.

So how do we live, in the presence of mortality?

That is our subject this week, and our guest of honor is the radiant, the magical, the brilliant poet

Andrea Gibson

— who has been creating astonishing work and words about death and life for many years now, in the public eye, even as they face their own mortality. If you’re not already following Andrea here on Substack: run, don’t walk:

Things That Don't Suck

Many of you asked for Andrea by name when Margaret and I posed the question of who you would most like to see in this newsletter as special guests. We are moved beyond words by Andrea’s letter, and by her video. We are moved beyond words by the ever-deepening power of this community to face even the hardest aspects of life with curiosity and creativity.

We love you. We love you so much. Thank you for being brave with us.

Onward, 

Your Lizzy

Dear Love, what would you have me know about mortality?

My Little Leaf, it’s okay to tremble at this word. It’s okay to tremble at the world itself — for there is nothing like this planet in terms of terror and unpredictability, at least for a seemingly fragile human sensibility. You already know the terms of existence here on this planet. The terms are: absolutely anything can happen to absolutely anybody at absolutely any moment. And there’s nothing you can do to control it.

I know, I know. That’s a lot to take in.

I was with you, my child, the summer when you turned ten years old, when you really grasped this reality for the first time, and experienced the first existential crisis of your life, suddenly understanding that absolutely everyone and absolutely everything was going to die.

I was there with you many decades later, too, when you held Rayya as she took her final breath, and I will be there with you when you take your final breath — whether or not anyone else is with you.

I am here and I will always be here — and I am well aware that these words of reassurance and presence do very little, at times, to settle the deep anxiety and terror that can arise when you are faced with the word, with the truth: mortality.

So. Here’s what we’re going to do, Tiny Heartbeat. We’re going to practice mortality together, you and I. A lot of it. A little bit each day, we’re going to practice getting used to the idea of letting go, which is the same thing as death. We’re going to sit in meditation for many hours at a time, watching how every thought is born, lives for a while, and then dies — and slowly you will get used to that most natural and precious cycle of existence. We will watch each evening fall as the day comes to an end, and you will gradually get used to the idea that we will never see each day again — and that’s alright. We will go to sleep together, and disappear into the mysterious void — and we will get used to disappearing into mysterious voids. We will watch your face age in the mirror, and we will allow those lines to deepen undisturbed, knowing that they are there to slowly help you acclimate your mind to the idea that time is passing, and that that’s okay. We will gaze up at the sky, knowing that there are places called star nurseries, where new suns and planetary systems are being born at all moments — which will produce whole new civilizations, maybe — and this is happening even as other solar systems are fading. We will talk about death a lot, you and I, until it becomes as familiar and natural a subject to us as life — for in fact, it is that. For without death, life could not be. Death is deeply familiar, angel. It is everywhere. It’s always been with your kind.

But I have always been here, too. And I am the only thing that outlives mortality — as you well know, by your own experience of realizing that your love for Rayya has gone nowhere in the 6 years since she left. In fact, your love for her has only deepened since she died, and you feel that her love for you has deepened as well, causing your relationship to evolve and mature and grow in complexity, even when one of you is no longer here in her body. But does Rayya have to be here with you for you to love her? Why does she have to be here for your relationship to transform, to ripen, for your conversations to deepen and become even more rich? Does anyone have to be here in body, in order to love or be loved? Absolutely not. Death is a requirement, but the end of love is not.

So my dear, we will practice letting go but we will also practice loving, and that is how you step out of the spinning wheel of life and death, and into the eternal, which is where I am.

But here’s what we won’t do, honeyhead. We won’t cling — not to things, not to people. We won’t chase time, or try to hoard it. We won’t try to reverse days or slow the turning of the earth. We won’t live in anxiety about aging, arguing against mortality, or trying to game it. We will take each moment as it comes, you and I, and when it is time to give the gift of life back to the universe, we will say thank you, and we will give it back. But never, ever, ever — not on this side of the divide or the next — will we stop loving.

Death can take everything else, my love, and we will allow it.

But Love? Death cannot take that.

I am here, and I am with you, and I am with everyone. And when I tell you that I’m not going anywhere, I mean: I’m not going anywhere. There’s nowhere to go. Trust me, beloved. There’s nowhere to go.

Now let’s go have a beautiful day.

Love,

LOVE

Prompt

This week we are thinking about the big questions. Some of you are facing hard diagnoses, or loving people who are slipping away, or living with the memories (or, if we’re lucky, the presence) of loved ones who are no longer with us physically. So, if you like, consider using one of these prompts this week as you get yourself still and get ready to write your letter from Love:

Dear Love, what would you have me know about my mortality?

Or: Dear Love, what would you have me know today about my loved one’s mortality?

Andrea Gibson, everyone. Andrea Gibson! The poet laureate of Colorado, spoken word artist, partner to poet and writer Megan Falley, one who plumbs in the most relatable way this incomprehensible Earth School curriculum. One of the most remarkable things about Andrea’s work, in fact, is that it is so utterly relatable, even when it’s about deeply intimate experiences that many of us may never have. Every Andrea Gibson poem I’ve ever read bursts with the full humanity and capacity for love that Andrea themself embodies. The written poems are gorgeous enough, but when they’re spoken by Andrea, they take on an impossibly ethereal layer of beauty (and when paired with music, all the chef’s kisses!). Here, for instance, is an excerpt from last week’s Things That Don’t Suck newsletter:

In short, I have long admired Andrea and their work from afar, and now I’m delighted to admire them from anear.

Here’s something else to know about Andrea and Megan — when they were guests at Glennon Doyle and Abby Wambach’s home, they brought this special gift — and I got one of the all-time great texts from Glennon: “Lizzy, Andrea and Meg stitched us pillowcases with the first lines of our letters from Love.” Come on!

By now, you are surely asking yourself: where can I get more Andrea? Well you, dear reader, are IN LUCK, for we will now list all the various places — aside from Substack! — where you can experience the magic. (We thought this would be more efficient than reposting all the work one by one, which is what we really want to do). So when you have some time, please go explore —

Andrea’s website

Andrea’s books — including the latest collection, YOU BETTER BE LIGHTNING

Andrea on Instagram

Andrea on Facebook

Here are spoken word videos, on YouTube

And finally, here is Andrea, in their full and incomparable glory. We could not be more grateful for this gift.

Love, what would you have me know today?

We are smiling as we whisper this to you. Smiling because of how often you need the reminder,  and how happy we are to remind you, Sweet Security Guard, that you are protecting yourself again. You are erecting walls between yourself and life. You know it, Tender Mason, by the bricks in your chest walking into the doctor’s office, bracing for more difficult news. We are here to remind you that there is no protection that will soften the grief. There is only the willingness to let grief soften you.  

Remember when Buddy wrote, “Lay down your weapons, including the shield.” No line of poetry had ever felt more for you. Reading it, you finally saw that your attempts to keep out the hurt would hurt you more than hurt ever could. Since that day, you’ve understood joy is born from your willingness to feel everything that is not joy. But you’ve forgotten that today — Sweet Chemo Brain, you’ve forgotten that seeking safety is very often the least safe thing in this world.

So trust us again, Adorable Doubter. Trust us to take your tiny hand and walk you to the center of your hurricane-ing heart, until you are again anchored in the knowing that your willingness to drown is the only dry land.

You know how people say “I could die right now” when they fall in love? Each moment you are in love with your life, you feel the same way, don’t you? Listen, Magical Mortal, dying is not a test anyone has to cram for. Nothing will make you less ready than trying to be ready. So no more bending over backwards in a hope to do this just right. This isn’t gymnastics, Eager Olympian. There is no such thing as sticking the landing of life. The only way to acclimate to the altitude of heaven is to know you are already there. You are already there, Angel On Your Own Shoulder.

You have learned so much you could afford to take a bit of a vacation from the school of life. The recess bell is ringing. The playground is calling, Mr. Religiously Serious. Mr. I Bet I Can Memorize The Tao Te Ching. You can sing along to a pop song in the toothpaste aisle of the grocery store and call it a hymn. You can watch shitty reality TV and say it’s a sermon, because it is, Sweet Prayer. What of this day isn’t holy if you are still here to witness it? You are here to witness it. You are not already gone, Sweet Song. The music is still playing. When you think you’ve misplaced your high notes, you’ve simply forgotten that grief can sing them too.

And that’s not to deny, Brave Ballad, how much courage it takes to want what you might not get. Do you know how gutsy it is to admit how badly you want to live? Yes, we love you for working to build a loving relationship with your mortality. But we also love you for screaming “I don’t want to die!” so loudly in the chemo room, you almost got kicked out. (Ooopsy.) We love you, Oopsy Doodle. We love you, Rule Breaker. We love you, Loud Mouth.

And because we love you, we must also tell you to let yourself dream, Sweet Snooze Button. Let yourself dream of growing so old you’re forgotten by the world and remembered by only your grumpy neighbor who hates that you can’t bring yourself to murder the dandelions. Let yourself pray and ache and long to live to be a century grown, a nail between your teeth, a hammer in your age-spotted hand, building a tiny house for the mice so they have somewhere warm to go when you usher them out of your home in the winter.

We hear you telling people you don’t mind having lost your drive. We hear you saying you pulled over at the scenic overlook and couldn’t leave the beauty behind. We smile as you say the trees would rather you befriend them than turn them into books. But that’s not the whole truth, is it Little Pinocchio? The whole truth is you’re afraid to write a book you might not live long enough to finish. Write the book, Sweet Poet. Lay down your shield and write the book even if it’s two chapters long.

Because only in self protection do you ever forget how magical and grand the universe is. Only in self protection do you whittle this giant world down to only yourself. Don’t be a splinter in your own heart, Kind Forest.

The opposite of “I’m going to die” isn’t “I’m not going to die.” The opposite of “I’m going to die” is “I am alive!” You are alive, Andrea. You are alive. That is all that’s true, Andrea. And the truth, you know, Andrea, is the only thing in the universe that will ever truly protect you. 

❤️LG