Guestbook

My Eulogy for Waters' Water’s wasn’t just someone who told stories; he was one of the greatest storytellers to ever walk this earth. He loved to tell stories, yes, but more than that, he loved to make them. If you spent five minutes with him, you were suddenly woven into one. One of our favorite words from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows is sonder—the realization that every person you pass has a life as rich, complex, vivid, and intricate as your own. That in someone else’s story, you might be nothing more than an extra, or a passing light in their window. But Waters? Waters was never an extra. Waters was a character—and we all know it. He was a main character to everyone in this room. He played more roles in one lifetime than most people dream of. He was a son, a brother, a brother, a friend—many people best friend—a boyfriend, and my husband. He was a student, a teacher, an apprentice and a mentor. A cannabis cultivator, a plant geneticist, a snowboard instructor, a salesman, a landscaper, a builder, a mycologist, a glassblower, a hot springs caretaker, an arborist, a sanitation specialist… and lastly on his death certificate, a roofing inspector. He was the shaman-sage. He was the charismatic cult leader we all teased him about. He was a joker, a smoker, a midnight toker—our space cowboy and a gangster of love. He was a mover, a shaker, and a breaker. He was a trickster, a party anima-l a Tigger to be precise l , a mischief maker—and yes, sometimes he could be an asshole too. But every version of him came from the same place: a heart that ran deep. Emotionally, Waters wasn’t a bowl or a cup—he was the ocean. Vast and unpredictable. Wild and tender. Capable of holding more love, more chaos, more humanity than any single person should. He didn’t just love you—he loved with you. He could touch your heart, flip your perspective, challenge you, change you, and make you want to be better. His mission was simple: minimize his carbon footprint and maximize his human imprint. His intention was literally written on his skin—tattooed on his right wrist for every handshake: “remember why you came.” To him, that meant to teach everyone he met to be a being of love. He joked for years that he was shocked he survived past 30—and then again at 40. Some part of him was always knew he wouldn’t be an old man. We discussed his funeral many times and this is exceeding his expectations! But he lived. God… he lived. There’s another word from that same book: gnosienne—the private, untranslatable story that forms between two people. Every one of you has a gnosienne with Waters. Your own chapter. Your own universe with him in it. And now comes mine. Because to me, Waters wasn’t just all those roles. He was my husband. My bestest friend. My mirror, my cuy, my partner in crime, my home. We were two rivers that became one. My mathematical brain once calculated it: for 29.8% of the days he walked this earth—33.4% of my hours—he walked beside me, woven into the fabric of my world. Our gnosienne was deep, complicated, beautiful. No one has ever known me the way he did. And still, whole parts of him—entire galaxies of experience—will remain beyond my reach. That is the heartbreak of love: how the closest person to you can hold universes you will never see. But I knew the essence of him. I knew his laughter—the real one, the chest-deep one. I knew his softness, the tenderness behind the bravado. I knew the dreams he whispered only in the dark. And he knew me in a way no one else ever has. That was our story. Our gnosienne. And I will carry it for the rest of my life. Love you forever in all ways always