“If nothing saves us from death, at least LOVE should save us from life.”

- Pablo Neruda

I Miss You, Aimee

This time last year, in August 2022, a colleague of mine died. Very suddenly and unexpectedly. Her name was Aimee. I grieve Aimee quietly and slightly secretly. I wonder why I should be allowed to mourn her still, since she was a work colleague and not a close friend or family member. It’s curious to me, a year on, how deeply her death continues to touch.

I miss her. I miss her every time I fill up my water bottle at work. Before I open the door of my room and peer around the corner, I sometimes close my eyes and imagine she’s standing there by the water fountain, as she did every morning. She flashes a big smile as she spots me, already filling up. Small pangs of sadness come at strange moments like this when I remember.

Aimee was a young nurse who was talented, intelligent, caring and beautiful. A sister, daughter, fiancé, auntie and friend. She was kind; she was cheeky. And she was a keen yogi, too - I remember a stretch of lunchtimes when she coaxed the staff to follow YouTube yoga in the meeting room, encouraging everyone to do something good for themselves. She could moan and whinge like a trooper, just like the rest of us - I loved that! How to possibly describe her - she’s someone who leant into life.

The Last Time

I think of the last time we stood at the water fountain - what she was wearing, the words we exchanged: we hotly debated the best place in London to eat Chinese dumplings. It was an inconsequential moment, but how special it seems now.

That memory makes me wonder what it would be like to experience anything for the last time, no matter how mundane. Like filling up a water bottle, sipping a cup of tea, or sharing a joke with a friend. Imagine the last time you’ll step outside and look up at the sky, whether it be cloudy or sunny. The last time you peer down at your phone, scroll and thumb a message. The last time you take in the face of a loved one. Imagine if it was your last time.

What if we could imagine even the most ordinary things as if they were the last - what kind of presence might we carry in those moments? How we'd choose a different level of appreciation as we’d hold them tightly.

Direct Transmission

This residue of gratitude for life in general (both Aimee's and mine) wasn’t the only thing she left behind.

At the beginning of each week, I scribble on a paper diary to compile my to-dos and tasks. As I plan the week, the first thing I write at the top of the page is a visual reminder, which feels like a direct transmission from Aimee - “Life is short… ENJOY it!” I write this out afresh every Monday in glistening ink - as I glance at it frequently during the week, I think of her again and again.

When Aimee parted this world, she left the touch of an incredible gift - sending me a daily reminder to live more. A cliché, probably, but I’ll use it here - to ‘live, love and laugh’ immensely and expansively. I thought I was doing those things well enough already, but suddenly it’s as if I realised I could do much more.

So bittersweet; her death had me asking myself how intentionally I was living - with fear and doubt or with abundance and love? That question soared through me months after her death like a tidal wave.

Death-Defying

Why is it that Aimee still speaks to me like this? Was it the shock of her sudden death? Her young age, her vibrancy and her shining example of how it was to embrace life? Was it because I held regrets that I didn’t appreciate her enough, that we kept saying we’d go for those dumplings and never did? Is this death close to home a reminder of the fragility of my own existence? Am I having a mid-life crisis? I don’t know - maybe all of the above.

The urgency to lean into life, to make life count, felt almost violent this past year. Maybe it was my way of dealing, of defying death itself. A response to an untimely injustice by saying, “Oh death, you can’t touch me - see, can you see just how alive I am?” But beyond the need to do something impulsive, leave my job or tick items off my bucket list immediately, the message has softened to a background hum.

I hear Aimee assure me, “Yes… live love and laugh plenty, but why so aggressive, hon? Do it slowly but surely, continuously.”

Remembering Aimee

I still miss her a lot at the most random moments. Every time I pass that blasted water fountain, I remember - she’s not here.

All the emotions that arise - anger, confusion, guilt and plain grief need time and space to be witnessed. Whilst acknowledging the experiences of loss, which are unique to us all, I find such hope in having a chance to metabolise those griefs into meaning and perspectives that give us freedom from despair.

Remembering is to be thankful, to see the painful and exquisite beauty in the moments we take for granted. But not only this.

Death can be a wake-up call, to start waking up to yourself - to look inwards with honesty. It nudges us to ask the questions yoga does fundamentally - to lead an examined life.

This past year, remembering Aimee has helped me bring those questions right to the fore: Who am I? How do I want to be? How can I live more consciously - to find out where am I awake and where I am asleep? So that I can try to become a more intentional, present and loving being. Because the examination of ourselves - physical, mental, spiritual - is our practice. And an honouring of all that lives on and all that has passed.

Let’s practise.