That's me with Erik Bengtsson, just over one month ago, on February 8th at the top of Pole Mountain in the Jenner Headlands. Over the last few years Erik has become one of the best friends I've ever had. Every month or two we set out on a day-long hike in one of the far corners of the Bay Area, spending hours talking about work and life, our plans and hopes and fears and dreams. We've found these days deeply rewarding on many levels, and this year we had already scheduled one for every month but September, reflecting our increasing commitment to the shared experience, our ongoing dialogue, and our friendship.
Reaching the top of Pole Mountain a few weeks ago was particularly meaningful, because we had tried once before in October 2018. We got close to the summit but had to stop a few miles short because I was still recovering from an injury, and I knew that if we pushed all the way I might be in too much pain to make it back to the bottom on my own. It was the smart thing to do, and Erik was happy that I made that call, but we both held onto the idea of returning and making it all the way up, and last month we did just that.
At the summit we made the decision not to follow the trail up to a fire lookout, but instead scrambled up through a steep field to an overlook, where we took in the view above. It was stunningly beautiful, all the more so because of what it took to get there, and we sat and continued our conversation. Then we fell silent for a while, just absorbing the feeling of being in this landscape, the forests rolling up and over the hills like waves. We would have stayed longer, but Erik had a date that night that he was excited about, and we had a long trip back. As we stood up to leave, I decided that I wanted a photo of us together, which was an unusual impulse--on hikes with Erik I typically bury my phone in my bag so it won't be a distraction from our conversation. But that day I said, "Let's take a selfie." And I'm so glad I did, because February 8th will be our last hike together.
Erik worked for Cameron Yarbrough, the founder and CEO of Torch, an online platform that provides coaching to organizational leaders. I've known Cameron for a number of years and also consider him a friend, although we're not in touch very often. Last night Cameron texted me and asked if I was available to talk. This had never happened before, so I called him right away, and he told me that Erik had died in a rock climbing accident. It was a heart-stopping, world-stops-spinning moment, and I'm still dealing with the shock. One of my first absurd thoughts was, "How can this be? Our next hike is on Saturday!" Cameron and I talked about what we were going through in the moment and how much we loved Erik and how hard it is to realize that he's gone, and it was helpful to hear this painful news from someone who felt that same pain. (Thank you, Cameron--I can't convey to you how grateful I am that you took the time to make that call.) And then I turned to Amy and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
It doesn't feel accurate to say that Erik was my "best friend," because that implies a different kind of relationship to me--peers who socialize together and share in many aspects of life. Erik and I weren't peers--we met when he was a student of mine, and then years later we worked together as client and coach--and we were far enough apart in age that it was a fruitful source of difference between us. It was a few years after our coaching relationship ended that Erik and I considered working together again when we decided that we wanted to stay in touch, but he should work with another coach. So we chose to become friends.
That didn't translate into socializing together outside of our monthly hikes, in part because I just don't socialize very much. As a coach I spend all day, every day interacting with people, and while I love my work passionately, I need a lot of time to myself in the evenings and on weekends in order to be of greatest service to my clients each day. But Erik and I certainly shared many, many aspects of our lives over the course of hours of conversation, and that running dialogue has been one of the most fulfilling aspects of my life in recent years. So he ultimately became one of the very best friends I've ever had.
And with his death there is a hole in my world and my heart that I don't know how to fill. After sobbing last night, I've been able to be present with clients today and to fulfill other responsibilities, but the sadness and grief come crashing through in occasional waves, and there always seem to be more tears. And right now that seems like the best way to honor what a special person he was and how much he meant to me. He occupied a special place in my world and my heart, and those places are empty now--although, as I write this, I realize that's not entirely true.
Those empty places in my world and my heart are full of love.
- Erik loved his mom and his dad and his sister deeply. Family trips to New Orleans and Florida were among his most meaningful experiences, and he often thought about how to be a helpful son as his parents grew older.
- Erik loved what he and Cameron and their colleagues were building at Torch. It meant so much to him to have found a role that allowed him to bring together his many skills--as a leader, a strategic thinker, an operator, and a coach--and to have the potential for impact on the world, to make a dent in the universe.
- Erik loved the process of personal growth and development, and he loved challenging himself. He was always striving to deepen his practice as a meditator, an adventurer, a leader, and even as a boyfriend.
- Erik loved the women in his life, and he loved being in love. He had been in a number of relationships, some long-term with the potential to be permanent, others more fleeting, but he was an eternally romantic optimist.
- Erik loved his friends from so many different communities that he had been a member of, from the Wranglers in Austin 20 years ago to the gang of buddies who roamed the globe with him on climbing and surfing adventures.
- And I loved Erik. He was directly responsible for two pieces of writing that are particularly meaningful to me: Stop Trying to Be "Good Enough" By "Getting Better" (an original line of his) and When We Are Ready, The Practice Will Be Waiting, the contents of a notebook I filled out while hiking in Point Reyes, territory he and I had explored together many times. Re-reading them now doesn't fill those empty places, but it reminds me of what's there.
Goodbye, my friend. I will miss you so, so much.
Other losses in the past have inspired the posts below--I'm finding some consolation in them now, and perhaps others will as well.
Mourning Ends, Grief Needs Not
Viktor Frankl on Love, Suffering and the Meaning of Life
The Final Third (On Mortality, Values and Spending Time)
