People like to say that love is simple.

But more often than not, love is very complicated. 

We hurt the ones we love, and we love the ones who hurt us.

Love is actually really hard work. 

It means making sacrifices, and trusting others to find their own way even when we think we know better. And when we can’t let go, we often hurt those we love. 

Our culture also teaches that grief should be simple; someone dies, and we are sad. 

But grief is as complex as love.

We are left with feelings of guilt and regret at the things we did wrong, the things we didn’t do, the way we hurt the person we loved, for the times we were angry or didn’t give them space, or didn’t trust them enough, or didn’t let them in. The list goes on, as I’m sure everyone knows.

There’s also something officially called “complicated grief,” which can mean two things: that grief lasts longer than is culturally or socially “typical” or acceptable.

But it can also mean that we are grappling with very complex feelings about the person who has died.

With Ms. Anonymous and her family and friends, all of this was, and is, true. 

For Ms. Anonymous, who experienced the loss of many friends and family over the years, too many for one person to handle well, her grief was deep and long-lasting.

And the love between Ms. Anonymous and her family was deep, but also not easy.

I know it was deep because her parents, as far as I can see, would do anything to make things better or easier for her, and to make sure that their grandchild, Ms. Anonymous’ son, was loved and cared for and had all the privileges and care they had given Tessa as a child growing up.

I know it was deep because she accepted their love and support. 

And it was complicated because of Ms. Anonymous’ history with addiction, and of physical and emotional pain.  

I know her love was deep, and complicated too, because of the herculean effort it must have taken for Ms. Anonymous to stay completely sober for as long as was humanly possible for her so she could be a good mother to her child over many years.

I know it was deep because of the way she planned for her son’s birth, and the choice she made to give him the best possible nourishment from her own body for way longer than is socially acceptable in our American culture (and I promise I won’t embarrass him by saying how long!).

I know her love was deep because, despite the chronic and deep physical and emotional pain she experienced most of her life, she made sure to be fun loving and affectionate with her son whenever she was able, as he told me himself.

She loved so deeply and so truly that she wanted to do right by everyone and, I can guess, was disappointed in herself when she let those she loved down, Ms. Anonymous’ love went beyond her family, to animals and other people.

She treated and loved the stranger as herself, which is one of the strongest and central tenets of Judaism. 

She made friends with the unhoused she encountered on the street, bringing them food and clothing.

She learned to love the stranger from the values she got from her parents, to care about the underdog, whether it was the hungry, the unhoused, 

or the rights of women to be in charge of their own bodies, or for the dignity of the LGBTQ community she was so closely allied and aligned with.  

She loved poetry, a love her father transmitted to her by reading to her at night—or in the middle of the night if she couldn’t fall asleep. 

And her own poetry showed great talent, maturity, and depth from a very young age.  

 

Last but certainly not least, Ms. Anonymous was a “nature baby.”

I feel this is a good time to turn the microphone over to others who knew and loved Tessa deeply, to add to the richness of the story of Ms. Anonymous’ life.