Mark Evans Studio

Grief is often described as something we move through, as though it were a tunnel with a visible exit. But in reality, grief is less like a tunnel and more like weather. It rolls in unexpectedly. It changes temperature without warning. Some days it is a quiet fog; other days it is a sudden storm that soaks everything in sight. At its core, grief is love with nowhere to go. When we lose someone or something that mattered deeply to us - a person, a relationship, a version of ourselves, even a dream - the attachment does not disappear simply because its object has. The routines remain in our muscle memory. The reflex to text them, to share news, to seek comfort, lingers long after the possibility is gone. Grief is the space between what was and what will never be again. On Saturday our beloved little dog died. It wasn’t a surprise - he had been navigating health issues for the past few months and we had arranged for the Vet to come to our home to put him to his final sleep before his disc...

  On Thursday, right at the beginning of teaching my class, I got violently sick. Not much warning. No graceful fade-out. Just that hot, dizzy wave that tells you your body has other plans. I excused myself to throw up in the bathroom and returned feeling a little better. I managed to power through the three hour class because sometimes adrenaline is stronger than nausea. But once I left and made it to Penn Station, my body clocked out. I was vomiting into a brown paper bag I had to buy from Walgreens. There is something particularly humbling about paying for the bag you know you’re about to throw up in. I had tucked myself into a hallway that was very quiet but a few people were still walking by.  We all know vomiting is awful. Doing it in public feels like a total stripping of dignity. You become hyper-aware of your body, your vulnerability, the way people avert their eyes. I wasn’t dangerous. I wasn’t loud. I was just a sick human being trying to get through the night. Most...