Friday Night, November 3, 2023

I’ve had trouble breathing all day today. My body forgets that it needs oxygen. It needs to remember that it needs water. I had just jumped onto a meeting with a team of leaders in the community where I am a part-time program manager. I received a text in messenger from a friend that I often see at our conscious and ecstatic dance events but rarely connect with privately.

“I have tragic news. Brad was murdered yesterday. I happened to be watching local news this afternoon when it was reported. I know you were close and was not sure if you were aware.” He included a link to the news article from Boston.com. Brad lived in the Boston suburbs with his puppy Luna and his sixteen-year-old son Lucas. Lucas was the one who discovered Brad with “obvious wounds,” as the article stated. I have since been informed that he was shot to death.

I shared with the team that a dear friend was murdered last night; I shared with them who it was and that they may have met him this summer at dance camp. And then I excused myself from the meeting. I could see by the expressions of the five of them that they were distraught, and so was I. I still am. I remembered to turn off my camera a minute later since they were using my Zoom account for the meeting.

I got up from my desk chair and plopped onto the green loveseat I sit on when meeting clients in person; I’m a counselor and a coach. I knew I was supposed to do something, but I had yet to learn what that something was. I sat up and found my phone in the crack between cushions, opened WhatsApp, and sent a message to our local conscious dance community informing them about our dear beloved friend, and attached a different article that had a live TV broadcast with a picture of Brad holding a bunch of wooden rods. Brad has been a martial artist practicing Shintaido for more than 20 years, and if you ever got him out in a big field, Brad would find the closest stick and run with the stick in his hand with a smile just as bright as the sun, if not brighter.

In a matter of moments, our community joined together on WhatsApp, expressing our disbelief, shock, and utter lack of ability to know what to say to each other. We shared, cried, and supported each other on Zoom an hour later.

Brad Larson Haiku 9/22/23:

“One last yellow friend

popped up in the yard to wave

goodbye to summer”

Brad showed up at one of my dances about five years ago. None of us knew him, but we could tell that life had taken its toll on him; he looked depleted, heartbroken, and void of energy and vitality. Our new friend had just moved from his wife and son out of the home. Over the next few months, he began attending our events regularly, and one could see some color and life returning to his face and eyes. Not too long after that, a local BioDanza group formed here in Rhode Island, and he became a member from the start.  Brad loved BioDanza, and it changed his life. In these last two years, we all witnessed how this dried-up man began to come slowly and consistently to life before. Brad became the guy that when somebody showed up new at one of our events, he connected with them somehow with this big, lovely, beaming smile on top of his six-foot-five frame.

This gentle, giant flower kept growing and growing and blooming and blooming. In this past year, Brad became part of the soul of our community. I’m not a good enough writer to accurately represent this man’s radiance and brightness, whether in a hug, a dance, a silly joke, a conversation in the hallway, or over a shared meal. Brad gave me hope that men can be beautiful. Brad gave me hope that men can grow and change. Brad gave me hope that a dried-up flower, if given enough sun, water, and love, can come back to life and become a garden that, in turn, becomes the sunlight, water, and love itself.

Another newish friend of our community was celebrating his birthday tonight, and we had all planned to celebrate with him. The birthday party became the group of people who did not know Brad; they were laughing and playing and drinking and eating, and the group of us who loved and were sharing our shock, disbelief, and need to feel bodies, hearts, voices, and eyes of the people that we love in our community to remind us of who we are. So many hugs and kisses. And stories and tears, and more hugs and more kisses. Hands holding other hands, eyes holding different eyes, hearts holding other hearts.

Tomorrow night, we will get together for that same dance in a different yoga studio that Brad came to about five years ago. We will hold a grieving and celebration ritual privately before the dance together.

Brad Larson Little Sugar Creek Haiku 10/10/23:

“An enchanted walk

to see a new morning and

grow a pair of wings”

It is 11:39 p.m. here in Rhode Island. I am exhausted. I should be going to bed. I should take a shower or a bath. I am exhausted. I am willing to do anything right now but get in my bed, turn out the lights, and be left with the sadness and pain I am feeling.

My friend Brad was murdered last night. I am not somebody new to the death of people I love. By the time I was 42, all of my nuclear family and every single aunt, uncle, grandmother, grandfather, or any living relative on either side of my family from the generation before me were dead. As I said, I am not new to the death of people I know and love. I am new to experiencing a beautiful garden like Brad being murdered in his own home. A light was extinguished last night. Mine is dimmer tonight. I have no idea what kind of music I will play as the DJ tomorrow night. I don’t have a clue.

I was reminded today and tonight how extraordinarily fortunate I am to be a member of a community of spectacular human beings full of courage, strength, vitality, authenticity, love, and connection. I was also reminded today how easily a gun can extinguish a beautiful man like Brad. I have no interest in turning this into a political rant. However, I want to shine a light on how rare it is to have a middle-aged man who is as beautiful, open-hearted, loving, thoughtful, and authentic as my dear friend Brad. I am surrounded by extraordinary people, most of whom are not men. I was raised in a family ruled by violent, aggressive, and hateful men. Many men I have met in my life follow this pattern. Gentle, kind, loving men are not the default setting, and losing one in my circle feels like a significant loss. The world needs as many beautiful, kind, loving men as possible; I need as many wonderful, kind, loving men as possible. Tomorrow night, we will gather in ritual; I imagine we will hold hands, hearts, moments, and connections. And then we will move and dance and sing and play and laugh and cry and move and sing and dance and play.

Brad Larson Haiku 9/9/23:

A century’s bloom —

roses planted in prison

and sunlight on stone

My friend Brad was murdered last night; he will not be physically joining us tomorrow night.

Sunday Night, November 5, 2023

Last night, we shared a ritual and our dance event. The rituals were semi-private, and the dance was open to the public. I entered the space full of anger, aggression, and a hard edge. I didn’t want to feel. I didn’t want to have to participate in a ritual, even though it was my idea, and I coordinated it because a ritual celebrating and honoring Brad’s death meant Brad was dead. There was no mistake in the TV news or articles. Brad was no longer physically with us. He would not walk into the studio ten minutes late, with his beaming smile filling the room with warmth and explaining he had to feed Lucas before coming. The ritual symbolized the end of denial, what little shreds I could hang on to.

The ritual was beautiful, painful, and heartwarming. There were offerings, prayers, songs, and a few Haiku that folks wrote to honor Brad.

People were arriving for the dance, so I shifted to the front of the space to prep my MacBook to DJ. I was still prickly but more open to touch and connection.

We started with some warmup music, as is typical, and slowly built tempo and energy to match the energy and feeling in the room. We sang, moved, and stomped on the studio floor together. We were holding Brad with us individually and collectively. I played a few songs that Brad loved to dance to that aren’t really “dance songs”; everyone played along with golden smiles and open hearts.

The first “non-danceable song” was “Sita’s Abduction” by Kecak Ganda Sari. Brad would growl through his throat and jump up and down, running around the dance floor while most of us roared in laughter. That was Brad; offer him a way to play, laugh, smile, or dance, and Brad would open like a flower.

The other not-so-danceable song (which I love to dance to) was “Space Walk” by Lemon Jelly. Brad would “fly” around the room with his grand wingspan, repeating, “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, just beautiful” till we all joined him. We sang for him on Saturday night.

Brad Larson Rainy Day Haiku 7/30/23/

Mid summer teardrops

held in place by morning grass

sad or beautiful

We ended with two lovely pieces of music to offer opportunities to lean into feeling, being, and sharing.

“Carry Me Home” by The Sweeplings and “Halo”, a Beyonce cover by Jasmine Thompson. We were all on the floor in small and large “puppy piles”, sharing our bodies, connection, and tears of joy, love, and sadness for Brad. We could feel his Halo as we softly sang, “I can feel your halo, I can feel your halo,” as the song faded. And then stillness.

Right now, while writing this, I can feel Brad’s Halo. I can feel our collective Haloes as tears find their way out of my eyes, with my breath trembling.

As I mentioned earlier, I am not a stranger to death and grieving, but this has been different. This experience has been death and grieving within a loving, extraordinary community of open-hearted, courageous, authentic human beings that support and hold with extreme care and attention. This process has been a new experience for me, both to have a dear friend murdered and to be loved so forcefully that my system is allowing me to be with my emotions, thoughts, and resistance.

I will miss you and your physical body, Brad, and I commit to being just as beautiful a man as you have been for me and us.

This was Brad’s last shared Haiku from last Thursday, a week before my dear friend was murdered:

“Time to catch my breath

Breathe in breathe out, stand and watch

Golden leaves falling”