A tribute to Amy

We'll never know what could've been. Sometimes I get glimpses of what I think she'd be doing now. Like I know for sure, she'd love her laptop. She'd be sitting by a fire with snow falling outside. She'd have a hot drink and be writing away -- for pleasure, for work. I can hang my hat on this.

She loved snow. When we lived on Mount Olympus at Syracuse University, we celebrated the first snowfall by walking to the steps of Hendricks Chapel. We'd stand at the top and admire our footprints in the dusting.

I can only imagine how she would've blossomed based on how I know she moved through this life. There were principles and characteristics that she embraced...

The seasons

Beauty and elegance

Precision

Psychological understanding

Loyalty

Care of self and others

Comfort

Playfulness

Language

Family and heritage

Depth in relationships

Love and friendship

Vulnerability and sensitivity

Curiosity and exploration

It was really quite remarkable how she exemplified these pillars in her short life. As I read each word aloud, I'm reminded of just how fine a human she was at such a young age. There are others who knew her well who I'm sure would add to this list.

A connection between two unique individuals creates its own alchemy. And I have only to offer my heartfelt perspective of this person I love and have had the unbelievable good fortune to call friend.

There's a handful of women walking this Earth today who call her their best friend. I'm one of them. She was my anam cara -- the Celtic word for soul friend.

She loved her people fiercely. Her family and friends. She held us up, she cried with us and for us. She believed in us if we were losing hope and sight. She'd protect us from our own negative thinking. And celebrate our victories, our birthdays.

She was strong and steadfast beneath her small stature, pink fluffiness, and radiating smile. A true feminine power to behold.

The essence of Amy has been a guidepost for my life. I've breathed her in and made her a part of me. I carry her with me like a secret good luck charm, a boost of enthusiasm, a strength and support in times of challenge. I see her in scenes of nature, especially pink roses and lavender. When I'm playful, she's nearby. When I have my most meaningful moments, I imagine her sharing in them.

There will always be an emptiness, a blank page, an empty frame where the photo of her future should've been. I can't shake this or conjure up some therapeutic rationalization that'll ever make it OK that she died when she did. Nothing consoles me of the reality that she didn't go on to have more, here. She simply should've. The ache of this never leaves.

At a time where I see that the world needs her spirit and her energy, I imagine her moving behind the scenes. Bringing goodness, illumination, protecting children.

I can place Amy in every season. She easily wore each essence like an outfit of life. Once we took a skiing class together. She convinced me to join her expert group even though I wasn't at that level. She told me she'd stay with me and teach me. With Amy, limits were self imposed. She broke down barriers by presenting alternative ways of perceiving. She was the original mindset shifter.

In some ways, Amy felt like a paradox. When I thought I knew what to expect, she'd do something unexpected. She taught me to break out of self-imposed rules. She didn't live in a box. She questioned the edges.

Two sweet and innocent examples of this are my mustang, and Sarah's sweater. I chuckle even writing this but they're probably the worst things Amy ever did. Mind you, we were still teenagers. Here goes...

Sarah and Amy and I lived together junior year. We all shared clothing and sweaters. It was just a thing. Sarah had a rule about one particular sweater. A hand-knit wool gem made and given to her by her mother.

It seemed just this fast: Sarah goes home for the weekend. The door to our apartment closes and Amy comes bounding down the hall from Sarah's room with said sweater adorning her body. No shame whatsoever.

This very memory still brings a joyful gasp. The ever-present kid in me that was taught not to jump on the bed still can't believe she did it. I love that she had a little fun naughtiness to her. Because we all do if we allow it. And I love that she never seemed to feel even the slightest bit of shame. (Something I've had to personally work to overcome.)

I'd later find out that she'd driven my '66 mustang when I went away for a weekend. And she left a small tear in my favorite white shirt. I love these things because they remind me that she was real and human and imperfect. And young and alive.

Through her encouragement, she taught me to love and embrace my own humanness and imperfection. To give myself room to grow. And that I didn't need to apologize for being myself.

Amy held a bird's eye view and had a natural understanding of why people did what they did. If I was hurt or insulted, she helped me to see it wasn't personal, that other's had their pain and their stories. She would've been a magnificent therapist.

A magical part of life with Amy was the way she approached even the mundane with curiosity and introspection. Like going to a museum and marveling upon one treasured piece. Everyday had its artifacts of interest.

She was able to slow things down and seemingly stop time to make room for me and my concerns. In those moments, she took time to make what was important to me, important to her. With Amy, I felt seen. She masterfully demonstrated that tending to relationships was important.

As you read this, play Vince Guaraldi's Linus and Lucy song. Amy would bob her head like the girl in Charlie Brown Christmas. Big smile, head back, her hair moving side to side. She endlessly made me laugh.

We loved George Winston and Andreas Vollenweider, Carol King and James Taylor, and the Grateful Dead. This was the soundtrack of friendship. We studied, made tacos with ketchup, lit candles for dinner, sang as we cleaned...all to these songs.

She served as an unassuming guide demonstrating that life was both playful and serious.

Celebrations were big. Hugs were enveloping. Sadness was met with depth and openness. Though these were words I didn't know of or use yet, she was ahead of her time with mindfulness, heart-centered awareness, and consciousness.

I think of the many people I've known who've loved and basked in the big puppy pile of Amy's life and energy. Though I'm careful not to speak for others, I see us collectively as her walking, living tribute. Because I know the depth of Amy, one thing I feel certain about is that we're an extension of her love and her humanity.

That there's an overlay of Amy in every connection I hold is a part of her legacy.