I sat in silent meditation as the tea swirled in my cup, contemplating the last few days, the last few weeks, the moments that have gotten a bit lighter as the days have found their way from deep darkness around the sun back into a bit more light.
We were gathered together in a small group, searching for community in this city of strangers that so often pretends that we are not, for a ceremony. A tea ceremony. The tea on offer last night was a miner's tea from China. Cooling to the body and, as I learned, engaging for the mind.
Six rounds were poured. One after another gently served in beautiful clay cups. I held mine and with each pour, more tea leaves gathered with a story in the bottom. I know that there are wise crones that could have discerned the messages in those leaves for me, but what I found was a message from Philip Seymour Hoffman.
Go ahead and laugh. I certainly did. Loud and clear, I heard him say, "Ah, Nakedjen, this is the only life you've got."
Wise and timely words from a dead man.
****
The last time I really saw Philip Seymour Hoffman he could barely keep himself vertical. It was far too early in the morning for either one of us, honestly, and a film he had both directed and starred in was screening at an ungodly hour at Sundance. I'm not sure he actually went to sleep the night before and instead had chosen to acclimate to our thin air and altitude by just drinking all night. He could have been absolutely any one of the characters he's played standing there, but he was also absolutely himself. He was charming in his self-deprecation and was completely honest that he felt his film was just, well, not so good and thanked all of us profusely for sitting all the way to the end.
I chatted with him briefly when he was here, again, the year he died. I asked him if he was drinking enough water? Altitude sickness, you know? He laughed his laugh and told me drinking water wasn't the problem. He shuffled his way, I wandered mine. That was a strange Sundance year for me for a whole host of other reasons, but I still mark it as the year we said goodbye.
****
My last few months have found me struggling with time. With age. With love. With relationships. With the masks that we wear.
Self-medication can take so many forms and can cause harm in our lives in such varied ways. The devil in our own hearts is sometimes a mistress whose lies are far sweeter and nicer to hear than the hard truths we're tasked with facing about ourselves. So we eat the pecan pie doused with bourbon while sitting on the couch in the dark with a dog in our lap and hide under our blanket and believe that it might not be such a bad way to disappear.
****
Then the light hits you square between your eyes. Brightly.
You put on your love goggles that you remember you actually do own.
You get some fresh air. The dog stops snoring and wags his tail and reminds you that walks in the woods are good for you, too. You say yes to an invitation.
You actually get out of your pajamas, extract yourself from the bottom of the couch, make no excuses, stay sober.
A dead man finds his way into the bottom of your cup and reminds you that this is the only life you've got and a smile finds its way to the corner of your frown.
I'm not making promises about tomorrow. Today, I'm showing up for the living.