We are in New Orleans in the last of our southern states tour, soaking in the hospitality, gobbling up the gumbos and beignets, and I am personally availing myself of a daiquiri or two a day, allowed out on the street, in the car (Don’t worry, I’m not driving!) and anywhere else you might find music floating out from somewhere, which is everywhere. What a vibrant city, full of people ready to tell their stories and to listen to yours. I’ve been called honey, bluebell, sweetie and buttercup. I’ve been hugged by waitresses, kissed on the lips, given amulets of appreciation, and listened to enough music to have developed an ear for blues and jazz that has my toes tapping and hips swaying in ways they’ve not done before. The city of New Orleans (or Nawlins as the locals call it) has restored my faith in humanity, if not in driving.

It was daylight savings last night and I got up early to record our 2 Chit Chat Chicks podcast with my partner in crime, Eydie, but she is either out doing her Sunday morning shop or availing herself of an extra hour of sleeping on daylight savings day, so I am ensconced on the sofa in our Airbnb, taking some yearned-for Leah time that’s been hard to grab on our road trip. How can there still be so many obligations, even when not working and on a vacation? I haven’t quite figured that out, but a big part of me is anxious to settle into our house on Vancouver Island next month and really begin our new life, post-Emily, in a new, permanent and exquisite part of the world. All the grace and love and opportunities we have had since Emily’s passing have been a blessing beyond measure, and, at the same time, have left us in a bit of a limbo, and had us craving routine and stability. These normalities have been vacant from our life since the saddest day I expect I’ll ever experience: November 24, 2024.

At a drag show, of all the places, I met a woman, Steffanie, on Friday night. In between watching the acrobatic and charismatic performances of some truly magnificent queens, we shared our motherhood stories and wept together and bonded and found a kind of sisterhood that maybe only mamas who have lost their children can have. Her story is vastly different from mine – an adoption gone awry, with beloved baby whisked away before a day was up, due to the birth mother changing her mind – but I viscerally felt her heartbreak. It touched a part of the live wire that now lives in me and is ignited by people who live with a certain kind of pain. I have a rapid fire signal for it now. Maybe I’ve always had it but wasn’t tuned into it.

New Orleans is full of magic, some of it conjured and some of it real. There are plenty of haunted and ghost tours and voodoo stores, none of which are of interest to us in the moment. The jazz and the blues are what is speaking to our hearts and unearthing our emotions, and they are to be had 24 hours a day in the city of sorcery and music and history and magic. As it happened, yesterday, we wandered past a teeny little store tucked away in the French Quarter that inexplicably beckoned us in. It was empty, save a lone employee (Donna Lee) and housed bits and bobs of jewellery and music paraphernalia. We got to talking (as you inevitably seem to do in New Orleans, especially when you have a life partner who has suddenly turned gregarious and also looks like an aging member of a band and is constantly asked if he is a musician), and as our life stories began to intertwine and fuse, we realised we shared some common experiences involving our loved ones and their pain. Again, we told our story to a stranger because she had been willing to share hers. We listened closely and spoke intimately. It felt like a holy time in a magic shop that had once housed a famous psychic who had been a close friend and confidante to the voodoo priest and famous musician Malcolm John Rebennack Jr. (known as Dr. John – one of Don’s favourites). This shop had been frequented by Jackie Gleason, Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan and the likes, all coming for readings from Mary, apparently a psychic for the ages. 

Donna Lee explained there was a portal in this building and the spirits were abundant and full of love here. She said she was disinterested in any ghost seekers or people looking to find evidence or non-evidence of the beyond. She was there because she believed there was a beyond and she was compelled by what was there, and the spirits that blessed her. Even my skeptical sweetheart took comfort in her stories and I felt both our energies shift as we spent time chatting with Donna Lee in her dark little spot in the French Quarter. We were blessed with something inexplicable in that tiny shop and Don walked away with a little gift – a silver angel coin – that he had noticed in the front of one of the cabinets and she had said, “Oh, you just take that. I think it’s meant for you.”

Our dear Emily is ever-present on our minds, whether we are talking about her or not; we can each feel when one or the other of us is overcome. We know when to give space or when to hold one another. It’s almost becoming second nature.

This city, for all its boisterous energy and beauty alongside quiet desperation and music that reaches out and grabs you by the throat, combined with spicy food and strong drink and fried chicken I’ve never tasted the likes of, is full of a radiating energy. I believe the spirits are present and are helping us with our healing here. Today we are visiting an out-of-town cemetery (The in-city ones you have to take a tour and we would rather have our own wander), and I hope to commune with the angels, including my own personal Emily angel. Sunday promises to be another spiritual day, and finally a blue-sky one as well.