Nurit with a birthday card I gave her a couple years ago: Once in a while, someone very special comes along and makes the world a little more wonderful.
I’ve never shared an extended personal story in my professional newsletter. When I watched my father die less than two years ago, I shared briefly how being in nature and seeing new leaves offered some solace and motivation—it reminded me of the life cycle and our short window in the sun. But having lost my sister so much earlier in her life, it’s been much harder seeing spring rebirth and knowing that she isn’t seeing it, too. I’ve had to lean into these tools we created more than ever. I’ll share just a sliver of that journey here.
Cognitively and physically disabled, Nurit was a shining spirit who loved music, art, and people—with a huge smile and heartfelt “thank you” for everyone, even in her hard final days. She shaped me profoundly and was certainly the first inspiration for this work, along with our parents, who supported us creatively and unconditionally through their early struggles as immigrants. I loved her fiercely.
Despite tireless efforts from her and all of us, and roller-coaster-highs-and-lows, it became clear we’d need to let go. This felt impossible, even physically. After I’d held her hand for 16 hours, minus a few fast bathroom breaks, a nurse gently reminded me that the dying need us to be ready. Still holding her hand, Compassing with the other, I forced myself to explore what was happening and why—with my heart, gut, and body, and lots of commas and ? marks. Three threads emerged as I explored my pain:
Ways that she’s such a powerful part of me, which felt stripped away.
And then, all the ways she still lives within me, my family, my music-making, and my work.Ways she felt far too young—certainly at heart—and had fought through so many medical challenges before, including a wonderful day of seeming recovery before her final crash. And the many things I hoped to do or places I hoped to go with her.
And then the recollection that, after her life-saving surgery as a child—and before the other challenges that arose—she was given 50, maybe 60 years to live (she was 53).Mistakes I unconsciously made that may have contributed to her decline.
And then, those made by others who care so, so incredibly deeply for her and gave her their all.
I realized that what mattered most for me was to explicitly keep her alive in all those ways; to embrace that this may be all the time she was given; and to remember how she was devotedly cared for by so many people who are ultimately human, forgiving myself as easily as I did the others.
The first was satisfyingly tangible—a chance to use my hands and the space and stuff around me. I resolved to put pictures of her in my workspace and our family’s living, music, and art spaces, right along like pictures of shared meals with our parents, and making things together with my Dad. To keep our weekly time to play music “together.” And, since she’d ask for Twinkle, Twinkle each time and was such a spark and light for me, to connect in some way with her each time I see a first star at night.
My other two needs were less tangible—when pictures are usually my superpower to save the day. This time, no sketch or symbols would come.
Then, I accidentally opened a video of a song I didn’t remember taking a couple of surreal weeks earlier at a retreat with my favorite band.
I was reminded of why there’s a + on “Our 10+ Human Tools”: music, especially combined with words in song, is a powerful way we capture what matters most in a way that infuses our ears, hearts, bodies, guts. It’s why countries have anthems, cultures pass songs down through generations, and why we have playlists for different moments.
The words of the song suddenly had new meaning and precisely matched what mattered most for me to hear then and often since:
(From Verse 1) I will never be the best I can, except for fleeting moments.
(From Verse 2) I will never see this town from space…but I’ve seen the light of Bogata.
(From Verse 3) I’m surprised I got this far, like a monarch in El Paso.
(Chorus) If your body’s sore it’s ‘cuz you’ve done something; If the sun is in your eyes, then you’re alive; If your heart is worn it’s ‘cuz you loved someone; and when you die, you lived a life.
Nurit and I playing together in happy times
Songs and stories also offer us helpful observations and ideas. Another, true-story song of theirs reminded me that a final rally before dying is common—and to do what we’d always done together and fire up my fiddle for her one more time.
None of this changed the loss I can feel to my core. But it’s helped me live with it. To slowly be able to hear this, let her go, a little, to live while continuing to love her fiercely—and love on my mom, husband, and kids. We never know how much time we and loved ones have.
These life-celebrating and life-changing songs, Lived a Life, One Last Drink, and Let Me Go, are written by Trevor Lewington, like three that have fueled this work: Shangri La (which I shared last year and becomes more relevant by the day), Broken Line (on repeat through the longest nights of this work, about his grandfather’s letter-writing that changed Canadian law—with a soul-filling bridge), and Letters (which comes on just when I need a little “compass” pick-me-up). Along with songs by fellow members Brian Buchanan and Craig Downie, the band’s repertoire is filled with true stories, and heartfelt awe, of people’s capacity to withstand profound challenges—punctuated by songs with pointed questions about our own choices. I’m so grateful for what this band has poured into their music, which has filled our family’s cups in so many ways. Trevor’s sons are the same ages as our daughters; his 11-year-old is fighting recurring brain tumors. Trevor is encouraging donations for research here in Dale’s honor.
And we welcome donations in Nurit's memory to VARC (formerly Careers)—whose people and programs filled Nurit's last 30 years with so much love, joy, activity, and meaning. People are what ultimately matter most; Nurit won everyone’s hearts—at VARC, her group home, and at the hospital—and they put their full hearts right back into their care for her. We are endlessly grateful.
Nurit continues to inspire me—this became my first blog post! Only through writing it did I realize that of course a song was the channel for this insight. Songs were Nurit’s clearest language. While she could speak only in short phrases and her paintings were beautiful abstractions, as I described in her tribute, she could sing along to her huge rolodex of songs—kids’ and holiday songs in two different cultures and languages, and popular songs of all eras (especially Elvis). A reminder that to truly involve everyone and their insight, we have to engage through their natural human tools and, in Victor Udoewa’s words, their ways of being and knowing. A bit before she passed, and ever since, I’d started experimenting with putting playlists (with known or new songs for me) on random shuffle while going on a run (one of my human tools) and finding that the songs which arose had surprisingly helpful insight for the moment. That practice will remain another concrete connection with my wonderful sister.
Thank you, always, Nurit.
Nurit with our mother and my girls a few years ago.