My friend Naia is gone. I've never been as close to anyone. We shared love and despair and a certain level of intensity.
Three things happened this week that have never happened before. Yesterday a coyote crossed my trail on the way to work. I watched her for a long time until she vanished among the pinon and juniper. (I remembered the time Naia and I took a night hike in Chaco Canyon and a coyote walked not more than 10 feet ahead of us in the beam of our flashlights for a long while, until hearing something in the bush and vanishing into the night.) On the evening I saw the coyote I came home to find a dead rabbit in the road, as if a hunter had been interrupted mid-feast. Finally, this morning a whole flock of ravens flew across the road in the other direction, passing in front of my car and landing on the fence to watch me as I passed. (I sensed something of her in all of these events.)
Naia was in love with the sky. In the end she told me that this place felt more than anywhere like home to her, because of the clouds and the sunsets.
The Buddhist believe that when we die we have to cross a Bardo realm before we find release or return, and those of us on this side can help the deceased to cross that realm with our prayers. A friend of mine sent me the following Tibetan Bardo prayer to say as Naia crosses over.
"Bardo Prayer"
"May Naia complete the two accumulations: virtue and wisdom.
May she be free in the bardo realm from the variety of terrifying illusions and fears.
May she be guided toward a higher human rebirth with virtuous, loving parents.
May she be protected and guided by a perfect Dharma master.
May she be supported by Dharma circles.
And thus may she work for liberation and enlightenment."
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"Naia's Gift"
In the car, on our last ride,
when I was lost in the deep despair
that she knew all too well.
She told me that you loved me,
that you would help me and support me.
It was hard on that dark day for me to hear.
Until she took herself away
under a full moon.
Then you taught me
that what she said was true.
Her gift to me was the message of my soul.
______________
The following is something I wrote for Naia when I first started to know her all those years ago:
______________
"Butterfly Hands"
Hands move, touch, arrange.
Your hands are made of water,
Warmed by exquisite passion.
Hands drift and brush lightly.
Touching surfaces smooth and cold,
Wood and plastic,
Hands that give them life.
Hands in the air, moving the air.
Bodies like silk feathers of air,
Antennas of touch,
The pressure of insect feet.
9:59:20 AM 
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