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What Stands Between Us
In the days following the death of my dear friend Adam, many people have said something to the effect of: “You of all people know he’s still in your life.”
I understand such comments come as a bid of faith in my skills as an intuitive, but I’m nonetheless surprised. Because even for me, contact with the embodied—aka conscious, living people— is very different from contact with the “disembodied.” Yes, as a life-long empath, I often receive “downloads”— flashes of emotions or information from departed ancestors, energetic guides, sometimes even the souls of people caught between life and death. But I would never pretend I understand everything about this other realm, and I don’t trust those who claim they do.
We living, breathing people are limited to the third dimension not only in terms of physical limitations but in terms of our capacity to fully comprehend energy and matter. Thus when a loved one dies, our faith that we are supported by something we can’t intellectually grasp is sorely tested. We wonder if our departed person is safe or scared. We worry they might not know what we were unable to tell them. And we fear we’ll never connect with them again.
T
he truth: These concerns are for us still on this plane, not for those who have moved on to a realm we cannot yet understand. In my work as an intuitive, I often can help others find peace and meaning in these losses, and I am glad to do so. But while moving forward my recently deceased friend may message me through dreams and small coincidences, this will be so very different from the easy luxury of a quick text exchange, a shared joke or meal, and, ah me, a warm hug. We who are embodied crave the creature comfort of other bodies, and must embrace the companions of our heart who share our plane. Which is to say: Regardless of my intuitive abilities, I will deeply miss my friend, and that’s okay.
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Adam Ford, 1970-2020
My friend Adam Ford died unexpectedly this week.
Beautiful, big-hearted, and steadfastly evolving, Adam had been a fixture in my life since age 16 and it is fucking impossible to imagine not receiving another text or impromptu visit or white-knight gesture from my cherry-haired guardian. Somehow it didn’t dawn on me that there might come a day when I would never again hear him say: “Ros, ya need anything?”–even if it meant him dropping everything in Boston to help me move a table in Brooklyn.
I keep flashing on moments of our shared youth and his steady love, and breaking down again. A brilliant athlete and thinker and cock(tail)sman, he saw everyone clearly, which is why he could be so shockingly intimate and also so shockingly blunt. He was a fierce protector, fierce truth-teller, fierce champion, and if I’m being honest I don’t feel I ever lived up to that love. It’s the worst thing ever, scanning through our texts exchange and seeing that he was writing to my best self when I wasn’t behaving as her. But that’s the truth and he deserves my owning up to it.
At left is an image of my stunning friend in Moscow; at right is the last page of a letter he wrote me in 1991 upon hearing I’d been in hospital. His passionate concern was even more beautiful that his physical presence, which is saying quite a lot. As I write this, I can’t help thinking that what hurts most is that of everyone I know, it would have been Adam himself who would have most fully appreciated what I’m writing now. Not because it’s about him but because he so appreciated any expression of genuine emotion. He read everything I wrote, and messaged me immediately afterward to tell me how it had reached him. It’s odd to send this now into an Adam-less world.
If you are reading this, please join me in upholding the rightly named Adam–first place in everything, especially when on a bike. Behave today with as much care and kindness as possible in order to honor his legacy. Above all, please make sure each of your dear friends knows they are appreciated. We are so lucky when we find allies of our heart to travel with through this life. I wish I could tell my sweet friend that now.