special edition: mary ellen sullivan & the soul of the hummingbird
i don’t usually write on wednesday mornings, but this is no ordinary wednesday. my beloved friend, the one to whom i said goodbye on friday, the friend i’d not named here — out of respect, out of privacy — she died on sunday afternoon. her name is mary ellen sullivan, and before she died, she asked that i write her obituary. my knees nearly buckled when i opened the email friday night that held that blessed and soulful and wrenching request. mary ellen was a writer; we met 35 years ago, when i was a nurse learning how to be a journalist, and she was fresh out of boston college, ready to take on the world as a magazine writer and editor. we stayed friends for all the years and all the life that has tumbled by since the summer of 1981. i was in her wedding, she was in mine. i was there, too, when her marriage ended, and for the weeks and months that followed. she drove me to the hospital the bitter-cold night when my first pregnancy was suddenly slipping away. i drove her home from the airport the gray winter’s afternoon when she returned from her six-month trek around the globe all on her own; it was during that car ride that i told her i was again pregnant, this time with the baby who would become my firstborn. when mary ellen started a blog four years ago, i became a careful reader and devoted follower. i knew — because i’d been doing it for five years by then — just how exposed you can feel, just how much it matters that this curious form of writing be held to the very same standards we’d both learned at medill’s school of journalism (i loved it once, not so many months ago, when mary ellen caught a typo in one of my blog posts, and she called to make sure i correct it; i had mis-typed “their” when it should have been “there”). and we both knew that an even higher standard comes into play when you commit to what we do here: you write from the heart, you speak the deepest truth you know, and when you hit the “publish” button you unreel a prayer.
so in the hollow hours of saturday, wholly aware of the weight of the assignment — “write mary ellen’s obit” — i turned to mary ellen’s breathtaking blog, on the wings of the hummingbird. as i pored over her entries, i melted. and i started to smile a very deep smile. i realized that mary ellen had already written much of her obituary. her words were so poetic, so infused with the essence of who she was and ever will be, i simply began to snatch up whole passages, lining them up in what felt like the wisest order. i realized that mary ellen might have had a hunch that i’d figure out the way to write her obit: let her write her obit. and so i did. i stepped out of the way, made hers the voice of the obit.
it is serious business — in my book, perhaps, the most serious business — to write an obit, anyone’s obit. a whole life is distilled. the message of a lifetime is trumpeted, is illuminated. it is daunting to sit down and try to capture the whole, the beauty, the poetry. and so, every time, before i lift a finger, before i put a finger to keyboard, i close my eyes and i pray.
the answer to my prayer on sunday afternoon, minutes after i learned that mary ellen had died and it was time for me to begin my assignment, is today in the chicago tribune; it’s what’s known as the “lead obit.” mary ellen would love that. and that makes me smile in a week when my heart is sodden with sorrow.
with love, here is a life story i want you to read. mary ellen’s wisdom, her poetry, her clarity — the whole of her — takes my breath away. from today’s chicago tribune:
Mary Ellen Sullivan, who wrote a blog on joy, dies at 56
On the day she was wheeled into surgery for recently diagnosed ovarian cancer, Mary Ellen Sullivan wrote words that would become her clarion call, words that ring with the insistent urgency of a prophet: “If you are sleepwalking through your life — wake up — before the universe does it for you.”
She posted the words on her blog, On the Wings of the Hummingbird, a compendium of wisdom and joy, under the title, “A rare piece of hummingbird advice.”
Sullivan, 56, who died of ovarian cancer Sunday at Prentice Women’s Hospital in Chicago, wasn’t in the business of giving advice.
She was a writer and traveler, a diviner of joy — joy unexpected, unlikely and against the odds. “In a time of chaos (now righted),” she wrote in March 2012, “on a day in which joy seemed eclipsed by uncertainty, I committed to writing about joy every day. I figured that if I can find joy when I’m in the mud, then maybe I have something to say about joy.”
Sullivan, a longtime Chicago resident, was born in Harlingen, Texas, and, from the beginning, crisscrossed the continent and the globe.
“I grew up a nomad,” she once wrote, “living in 10 different places by the time I was 19 because my father’s corporate job took our family across the country and around the world. Some of it was glamorous — San Francisco in 1969, Europe for my college years — but other parts were, as you might imagine, difficult.”
She earned a bachelor’s degree from Boston College in 1981, majoring in English, with philosophy and art history minors. In 1982, she earned a master’s degree in magazine journalism from Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism.
Upon graduation, she took a job as a magazine editor at General Learning Corp., a small educational publishing house in Highland Park, and five years later, she moved to Advocate Health Care, in Oak Brook, where she ran the publications department for another five years.
She was putting down roots, falling in love with Chicago, from the lakefront she biked by the mile to the backstreets and blues joints and countless holes in the wall. She explored the city with an adventurer’s eye and a journalist’s curiosity. After a decade, though, she was ready to travel the globe. All on her own.
“On the heels of a short marriage, a grueling divorce and some burning career questions, I took an extended leave of absence from my job to travel around the world by myself,” she once wrote. “I skied the mountains of New Zealand and biked through the Chinese countryside. I bargained for goods at the Bangkok night market, shopped the glittering stores of Hong Kong, touched the crumbling Berlin Wall, swam along the coast of Australia and holed up in Somerset Maugham’s former hotel room in Malaysia to write.
“Mine was nothing less than a spiritual journey in which I peeled off layers of cultural conditioning to get to the essence of my spirit,” she wrote.
Unwilling to return to the corporate world, Sullivan launched a freelance writing career that brought her bylines in the New York Times and various women’s magazines, as well as travel guides, a book about Chicago’s “Cows on Parade” public sculpture exhibit, and liner notes for a jazz record label.
She designed her life, she said, so that she could continue to travel, paradoxically deepening her roots the farther she roamed.
“I spent one winter in South America, another on Tahiti and Easter Island. Along the way I fell in love with Africa and returned to this land of my heart, time and time again. I began studying with the ancient medicine men and women around the world, and found a community here in Chicago of like-minded people who became my tribe.”
While in Chicago, Sullivan convened a writers’ group that influenced a memoir, a novel, a self-help volume and a historical text, “The Warmth of Other Suns.”
She might have found her deepest calling, though, as a keeper and chronicler of joy. Her blog, which she started in March 2012, was a reflection of the way she lived her life.
She began by putting a journalist’s sharp eye to the world around her:
“I noticed how unconscious most people were, blind to the joy all around them. They walked with their heads down and their defenses up. They saw without seeing, heard without hearing, spoke without thinking, remembering nothing. It actually hurt my heart to watch. And then, as the economy got worse and the natural disasters quickened, I saw fear, anger and incivility. Drivers became ruder, sales clerks surlier, tempers shorter.”
And so, she set out to right that, recording joy day after day. She named her blog after the hummingbird: “My favorite description of hummingbird magic comes from Ted Andrews, who wrote the seminal book on animal totems called ‘Animal Speak.’ He says, ‘There is something inside the soul of all of us that wants to soar through sunbeams, then dance midair in a delicate mist, then take a simple bath on a leaf. There is something in our souls that wants to hover at beautiful moments in our lives, making them freeze in time. There is something in us that wants to fly backwards and savor once more the beautiful past. Some of us are just hummingbird people.’”
“Guilty as charged,” Sullivan added.
And she ended one blog entry with this insistent instruction: “And if you love the life you have, please, please, practice gratitude. Wake up every morning acknowledging just how much beauty is in your world. Pay attention to it, honor it and keep your heart and your eyes wide open. You won’t regret it.”
Sullivan’s partner of 18 years, Michael Schmitt, died in 2014.
She is survived by her parents, Donal and Martha Sullivan; two brothers, Bill and John; and a sister, Sheila Zimmerman.
Memorial services are pending.
Barbara Mahany is a freelancer reporter.
Copyright © 2016, Chicago Tribune
blessings, my beautiful friend. blessings upon blessings. and thank you. thank you with all my heart….
this is the headline that wound up in the newspaper edition of the story. she would love this headline, as do i. oh to be known as a “chronicler of joy”….blessings, my hummingbird friend. i will be watching for you, waiting for the brush of your wings past my brow. and my heart…..
Thank you for your courage and being…especially the courage of “being there” when is the hardest, saddest, soul wrenching time in a life. xxoo
xoxoxoxo thank YOU for being there when she needed a nurse so very very much……
Barbara, that you and Mary Ellen were there for each other’s seminal life moments, for such a long time, makes this so special. You captured your friend’s spirit so perfectly with her own words, in the special way you chose the passages. The last passage, about feeling deep gratitude if you love the life you’re living, rang so true for me. And about feeling such sadness at the lack of depth of living observed in those around us, as times get more bleak. You have done your dear friend proud, Barbara. I, too, have a “Mary Ellen” in my life, for 42 years. She as well is a Chicago native and is someone who lives deeply, connected to her surroundings in the ways that your friend describes. We, too, have shared each other’s life passages intimately, and I can’t imagine not having her as my heart-twin. I am always thanking God for her presence in my life, but this obituary has made me say a more conscious prayer of thanks for my Cindy, who is as integral a part of my life as breathing.
Thank you for sharing your gift of touching our hearts with your words, Barbara.
i love that ME’s message inspired a “more conscious prayer of thanks” for your Cindy. you are both blessed. and thank you for writing.
Ahhhh. My heart is weeping. I am sorry.
Andrea Lavin Solow
thank you, sweet angel..
This is perfection, Barbara. And I never use that word. You listened to the woman, and her words, with illuminated her beautifully.
thank you, beautiful ellen. thank you, and thank you. i have tingles that her message is now cast to the winds, and scattering and seeding across the landscape. on the wings of the hummingbird, she and her beauty are soaring…..
I’m so sorry you lost such a beloved friend and extraordinary person, but you have paid beautiful tribute to her in a way that only someone who knows how to love another could. Laurie
bless you, sweet laurie…xoxoxox
I will carry her with me… xoxo
bless you. so will i. so will a whole flock of hummingbirds….
Read and reread this to make sure I didn’t miss a single syllable. Beautiful in every sense of the word. A fitting tribute to an incredible soul and, although I never had the blessing of knowing her, I feel that I know her now. Her influence on your life is evident and her friendship deeply cherished.
Beautiful bam, you’ve lovingly placed the period at the end of her sentence. xox
you most blessed angel of the high country. xoxoxox just love you through and through…..
Much love, dear heart. xox
I shall think of ME and you every time I see my sweet hummingbirds at the kitchen window this summer AND take her instruction and actually use that gratitude journal I have by my bedside. The first entry: Thank you for sharing her with us, dear BAM.
SO beautiful. isn’t it amazing — she is the first entry in your gratitude journal?! ohhhhhhh, if only she knew how far her ripples are rippling. i pray — and believe — she does…..xoxoxo
What a beautiful tribute to a beautiful lady.
bless you, and thank you, dear ramona….
She sounds absolutely wonderful. How blessed you were to have such a friend.
indeed, i was……we were…..
[…] so, for the second time this week, i am writing an obituary. and while the loss of a most blessed friend and the loss of a furry one are in no way comparable, […]
Your post is beautiful, Barbara. So glad my friend Cindy told me about it. I also posted about MES and credited you with her obituary. I can link your name to your blog, if you’d like. My post is the second most recent, and the most recent post is a result of MES’s influence on me to get out:
[…] from my fingers to the screen — my description of her and her life’s work — in the obituary i wrote, at her request, just after she had […]
[…] ellen sullivan died. she was a writer, a chronicler of joy, i called her when i sat down to write her obituary, trying to distill her essence into a few short sentences and paragraphs that swept across the arc […]