On Thursday, January 10th my dear Mother died suddenly and unexpectedly of a massive pulmonary embolism.

The shock of the sudden loss of a loved one is a very strange feeling. The first few days I was in a total haze, I recall very little of that time. Laura and I packed up and flew to Albuquerque within hours of hearing the news, and the next week was spent with family grieving together and supporting one-another. Now as acceptance begins to set in, I feel compelled to write a bit about my Mother, and about my experiences through the loss.

As I look past the sadness, I begin to count my blessings. I feel so lucky that I have no unfinished agenda with my mother. She knew how much she meant to Me, and I know how much I meant to Her. I am glad that there is no anger and no regrets between she and I. I feel grateful that she left us with exactly what we needed to hear from her. Just a few weeks ago, Mom created a MySpace page as part of an effort to reach out to a long-lost friend. One of the things she included in this page was her view of heaven and eternity.

My personal view of heaven and eternity is this: We’ll all be there, and the negative pieces that live inside us will have crumbled into inconsequential dust and lost all power to do harm. We’ll be our highest and best selves, and find that we burst spontaneously into infinite-part harmony at any and every opportunity, like the most spectacular Broadway extravaganza ever (only better on an scale beyond our wildest imagination), and we’ll somehow know all the words and the music, and sing in a language we’ve understood all along but never consciously grasped. We’ll forgive ourselves for all the awful things we’ve done, forgive everyone who has ever wronged us, and understand why we and they did what we and they did. Then we’ll whistle and go fishing in heaven, as the John Prine song suggests, with Magnetic Mary (and Plastic Jesus, Allah, Buddha, and all spirits of greatness) riding on the dashboard of our car.

I don’t believe she knew she would be dying soon, but it’s as if some part of her was getting ready. I consider it a miracle and a gift that she left us all with this soothing and comforting image. She was so good with words.

On the other side of the sadness, I feel a sense of motivation. A desire to get better and live my life. The shocking realization that any of us could go at any moment can either shut you down or can light a fire under you. I’m going to make it the latter.

If I have one piece of advice, it’s this: Tell your loved ones how much they mean to you as soon and as often as you can, and try not to take any fleeting moment for granted.