Lady of the Turtle Totem

Monica was magical, and she was my friend.  Although she died too young, she lived much longer than almost everyone with her congenital heart condition normally does.  She lived on borrowed time, and she knew it, which is why she lived so wisely and so well.  If she ever felt sorry for herself, I never saw it.

I've mentioned a number of my friends on this little web of mine many times, but Monica was the only one about whom I wrote an entire entry, twice.  (See Dec. 15, 2009, and Aug. 20, 2011.)  I didn't realise that fact until after she died.  Slipping into my web so unobtrusively, not just once, but twice, was typical of her quiet, gentle ways. And now she's here a third time.
I learned a great deal from her, just by her example.  She was a true listener, which is my favourite kind of person.  She moved very slowly and carefully, because her heart couldn't withstand undue exertion.  Her cautious, measured manner served her well.  She always thought before she spoke, and she spoke less than most people, which is why others always took special note of what she had to say when she finally said it.  She was a peace-keeper.

But what made Monica extra-special for me was her magic.  I don't know if everyone was aware of just how magical she was, because she didn't talk about herself very much.  Besides, she had her priorities, like staying alive.  Her spirit guide was most surely the tortoise or turtle; creatures who move slowly, carefully and live long lives. The "borrowed time" that was given to her was because she followed their ways.  And her quiet, gentle demeanour gave her access to the unseen world, where magic abides.  She brought me there on several memorable occasions, leaving me with stories I shall cherish forever.
But she wasn't a wuss, that's for sure.  She spoke her mind when it was necessary, and I paid attention.  Everyone did.  She was a social worker and a counsellor, a calling that suited her well.  I found it easy to share my deepest feelings with her; feelings I never spoke about with other friends, even though they may have seemed closer to me.  She understood me, warts and all, and didn't fail to call me on them.  She was a deep listener when it came to hearing me when I hurt.  In fact, we became friends during a time in my life when I was hurting a lot.  
Ironically, Monica died at a time when I'm hurting again.  Her passing distracted me from myself for a few weeks.  So for a while I've been grieving the loss of a friend, rather than dwelling on my own petty concerns.  It's not uncommon for people who suffer from depression to get snapped out of it by a tragedy, disaster, or a death utterly unconnected to their personal woes, if only temporarily.  Monica was a trained and sensitive counsellor who understood that completely, and so she understood me.  And I'm pretty sure she'd understand what I'm feeling now.

The long, brutal winter and a string of lesser heartbreaks have taken their toll on me.  That's why I'm doing my best to muster up memories of my quiet, willful, magical friend to remember what gratitude truly means.  Monica lived with a great deal of gratitude, and was rewarded for it with many special, happy times and many people who loved her, not the least of whom were two good men in her life - Michael, her husband, and her son Oliver.  I want to acknowledge them as I write this, lest I appear too self-absorbed in my struggle to work my way out of my current funk.  And that's the irony of losing my friend.  Just when I thought I would have used my loss as another excuse to muck about in more misery, remembering Monica pulls me out of the ditch, and forces me to focus on what counts.  She lived her life deeply, gratefully, thoughtfully, and well.  Remembering Monica lifts my spirits.
Thanks, Monica, for showing me what really matters.  And thanks for bringing some magic into my life.
Blessed be.
- G.P.