Rachel was dedicated to the written word, so it’s not surprising that she drafted her own obituary. To it, she attached two works: one by Dylan Thomas appears on the bookmark you are holding, the other is John Donne’s “Meditation XVII,” which begins, “No man is an island, entire of itself.” This deep sense of connection was manifest in Rachel’s friendships. I am honoured today to serve as the collective voice for some of those dear friends.
Rachel’s friends are each struck with sorrow and loss, sometimes operating in what one of us, Heather Brown, terms “a zombified haze,” yet we are sustained by our memories of Rachel and the distinct gifts she brought to all our lives. Although we each have our “own” Rachel, a unique combination of experience, reminiscence, reflection, and emotion, we maintain a fierce dedication to honouring those shared gifts, as well. As her friends, then, we give you “our” Rachel.
For me, Rachel was my kinswoman. We didn’t have to do the genealogy; we knew we were cousins. She inspired me, always, to go for it, whatever “it” was. Last summer, the day after she returned from a Callanish retreat for people dealing with cancer, Rachel, her mother Sharon, and I met for lunch. Rachel glowed as she described the retreat, then said, “You should go.” I came up with several reasons why that was impossible; she firmly countered every one of my objections. With Rachel’s wind at my sails, I went home and started my application that afternoon, opening my life to the profound experience that is Callanish, and an even stronger kinship with Rachel.
A few months later, in her kitchen, she told me about the Leonard Cohen concert for which her sister Willow had just gotten three tickets. Our eyes locked, and we simultaneously blurted out, “We should go together.” She tried to persuade Cam to give up his ticket, but he was having none of it. So, I turned to her computer and booked tickets for me and my son. When we emerged from that enchanted Evening with Leonard Cohen, Rachel, Willow and I, giddily grinning, fell into a spontaneous embrace in celebration of the music, the magic, and each other.
That open-hearted expression and fostering of shared joy is what I most appreciated about Rachel, and what I will miss most acutely. The enjoyment of life, what her friend Tracy Lindberg refers to as “her openness and enthusiasm for sampling life’s flavours” was Rachel’s home turf, and she invited each of us to settle down and stay a while. Tracy adds, “The fullness with which Rachel savoured life made her an incredibly easy person for whom to get a gift, and I know that the phrase ‘Oh Rachel would love that’ will ring in my head whenever I see some exquisite little luxury.”
Kevin McGuirk, her friend and teacher at the University of Waterloo, refers to what he calls Rachel’s “beautiful loudness.” He writes, “I remember her remarking once, long ago, that some people thought she was loud… And sometimes she was loud. I think of her laugh, her boisterous enthusiasm, her intelligence, her bravery, and her beautiful loudness, as the expression of a robust soul.”
Many of Rachel’s friends remark on that “robust soul,” especially as it expressed itself through two of her passions - food and clothes. Tracy Lindberg remembers, “I could always count on our visits to involve a great meal and to quickly bring us back to the heart of our connection. Together we created many a culinary masterpiece, and met in countless restaurants sharing every possible cuisine. More often than not, coming to the table, she'd be bursting to share a gleeful tale of some impossibly great designer find that she had just garnered at the Sally Ann.”
Her friend Tracy Whalen picks up the narrative, “I remember the way Rachel packed a suitcase—a disordered tangle of clothes and shoes thrown together higgledy-piggledy. It wasn’t that Rachel didn’t love clothes. In fact, she’d often take me to her closet to celebrate her most recent fashion ‘find’ from Vancouver. But Rachel’s suitcase told me she was not afraid of wrinkles and a little disorder.” Returning to the question of food, she adds, “Rachel was an early riser and could not imagine life without good coffee. She pored over The Moosewood Cookbook (any cookbook, really) and took the time to make good food, meals that often involved lots of chopping—and cilantro. She felt life in her body, and was not afraid to lick her plate after a meal.”
Rachel’s exuberant engagement with the world and her love of words contributed to her gift for keen observation and conversation. Liz Reimer refers to Rachel as her “reading buddy,” explaining, “Together Rachel and I gleefully and conspiratorially ‘read’ the world around us: the gritty, hilarious and sometimes agonising details of our work and domestic lives, of people we knew and covers of People magazine, of politics, motherhood (that was the topic dearest to both our hearts), t.v. (she thought it was lame that I watched the new Hawaii 5-0 just to catch glimpses of recognizable Honolulu landmarks), movies, vacations, food, (another of our favourites), shopping, illness, love, death, and so many other things as well.”
Karen Hofmann writes, “As a conversationalist, Rachel was ideal – she didn’t shy away from any topic. Nothing was too personal, too political, too painful, or too paltry for her to take on, and she gave her complete attention, objective analysis, and genial wit to anything that came up. I attribute her ability to extemporize so widely both to her great intelligence, curiosity, and wide range of knowledge and to her depth of self-knowledge and self-acceptance. In the generosity of her mind was a world outlook that accepted every idea as worthy of investigation and sought to understand all.”
Each friendship was multi-faceted and broad in scope. Angela Donnelly remembers, “I've never laughed with anyone as much as I laughed with Rachel. We drank tea together, ate chips and salsa, listened to Joni Mitchell's Court and Spark over and over. We protested and advocated, took trips, shared books and cried together. We gossiped, oh did we gossip. And analyzed - each other, our families, our friends, strangers, whoever. Rachel loved people, took so much from all of us and gave even more in return. She was there, all the time.”
Leah Clare further remarks on the delightful depth and breadth that Rachel embodied. “I first met Rachel in 2002 when she was my professor of Women's Literature. I was smitten. In a student/teacher type of way. I had never met anyone who was so highly intelligent, articulate, funny, and down-to-earth all at the same time - very real. Rachel could have an in-depth conversation with you one second about the complexities behind Systemic Functional Grammar and then turn to you, with that mischievous glint-of-the-eye, and say "So, are you in camp Aniston or camp Jolie?"
Rachel’s cancer, and its return, was devastating to her friends, but she was able to bring her “robust soul” even to this. As Carolyn Ives observes, “She enthusiastically embraced life and whatever it brought. Even her treatment—she was willing to try anything, and she gave every option a chance to show her what it could offer.” On this point, Kevin adds, “Rachel was very true, in every sense. And she was brave. I told her this once during her first bout with cancer. She said, ‘I'm just doing what I need to do.’ This was her attitude, her way of facing this thing without despair.”
Martin Whittles was one of Rachel’s very dear friends, who himself passed away from cancer in 2009. Martin had become Rachel’s brother-in-arms during their collective battle with the disease. So when Rachel was re-diagnosed with her own cancer, nearly the first words out of her mouth were—“I wish Marty were here; I need to speak to Marty.” Dawn Farough, Martin’s beloved wife, says of Rachel, “After the Fall of 2007, our friendship turned ‘hard-core.’ We had long conversations about cancer drugs and research, exchanged coffee dates for chemo dates, and supplemented our cookbook and fiction reading with books written by those who had experienced cancer. I remember Rachel’s impassioned speech at Martin’s funeral, her presence at the hospice immediately after his death, and always always the energy she put into maintaining a wonderful quality of life for herself, her family, and her many girlfriends. Oh yes, the girlfriends! ‘According to Cameron,’ Rachel once told me, ‘I have highly developed social needs.’ Then she dissolved into laughter.”
That circle of girlfriends drew closer to Rachel as she faced the reality of her recurrence and her approaching death with characteristically clear eyes. Liz remembers, “When I saw Rachel the day she had become completely bedridden, a week before her death, the very first thing she said to me was, ‘Well, Lizzie, I don't know why, but we've been talking about all this, all these years, and now, here I am.’ “
In the wake of our loss, some of our reflections weave a tapestry, a collective love letter which reads:
Perhaps Rachel`s best quality was her complete acceptance of people as they are. She never judged her friends or wished for them to change, which is what led us all to confide in her, about hopes, dreams, successes, even failures. She always helped me to see the positive in situations—and her greatest gift to her friends was her encouragement for all of us to do the same.
She always seemed to know what I meant. She had a gift for understanding others: that's why so many of us found her to be the generous, supportive, and also hilariously sarcastic, witty, and perceptive companion and interpreter of the world she was. At times the talk was more about the struggles than the strides, and it was then that I appreciated Rachel's vision even more, because it was her conviction in my capability at those times that rallied my own.
Rachel had my back. She loved me. I don’t know if Rachel knew how much her love sustained me and healed me. She was much more than my teacher, much more than my boss, more than a friend...she was my family...and she is irreplaceable.
I will forever remember Rachel’s capacity for wonder and her rapture for books. I will remember how Rachel could keep a secret. And the sound of her voice cracking when she told me that she had cancer. I look forward to the sweet and joyous memories of my dear friend Rachel, who will always be welcome to pop into my mind and stay as long as she pleases.
Angela Larson summarizes for us some of Rachel’s invaluable lessons. She writes that Rachel taught us to:
“Love big: Rachel took the concept of “unconditional love,” unfettered and unqualified, out of the realm of pop culture and lived it.
Laugh loudly: Rachel’s boisterous capacity for joy, in a world that often gave her pause, has always been inspiring. Rachel freely shared happiness, motivating others to do the same.
Be careful with assumptions: Blessed with an inherent ability to empathize, Rachel could understand those “different” from her. The expansive continuum that was her world view continues to inspire us.
Angela continues, “These are but a few of the lessons Rachel imparted to me. I could add loyalty, inclusion, idealism, fairness… but the scope of her reach and influence is not easily defined, not easily measured. I am beyond fortunate to have been her friend and pupil in life; thanks to Rachel, my heart is more capable, my eyes more open, my ears more receptive. And though I pine for more of her instruction, I am buoyed, however slightly, by the knowledge that perhaps I can continue sharing with others what she has taught me.“
Finally, one enduring message I take away from the heartfelt statements gathered from Rachel’s many close and very dear friends is, I think, best expressed by Karen Hofmann. She writes, simply, “Rachel created a world that was infinite in scope of subject. The world is a much smaller and duller place without Rachel’s company.” Farewell, our beloved friend.
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