.A Friend Who Shared His Soul
Every so often in life, we meet someone who seems to bypass all the usual stages of acquaintance and step straight into the inner room. That was how it was with my friend Darrel McLeod. From the moment we met, there was a recognition—not dramatic or sudden, but immediate and unmistakable. It was the recognition of someone who lived with an inner life as vivid as my own.
Darrel was a writer, and perhaps that helped. Writers tend to cultivate a certain fearlessness about truth; they live at the edge of memory, emotion, and story. But he was also generous in a way that had nothing to do with craft. He shared his life openly, as a Cree man from British Columbia, telling stories that were layered with history, struggle, resilience, and extraordinary clarity. He didn’t speak about himself so much as from himself. There is a difference, and it’s a rare one.
Over the couple of years we spent together—listening to music, exchanging books, discussing literature and writing—I never once felt the distance that so often exists between people. Our conversations were effortless, full of curiosity, honesty, humor, and a sense of mutual understanding that felt both grounding and exhilarating. I never wondered whether he was listening. I never felt the need to shrink or simplify myself. I never doubted that he understood exactly what I meant.
He was, in every sense, the friend I had always longed for.
When he died, suddenly and far too young, the loss felt impossible to hold. It wasn’t just a grief for the person he was, but for the kind of presence he brought into the world—one that is not easily replaced, and maybe cannot be. I still miss him. I miss the ease of our conversations, the trust, the shared inner landscapes. I miss the rare feeling of being met exactly where I live inside myself.
His absence makes moments of superficial connection feel even thinner. And it reminds me, again and again, that when someone like Darrel appears in one’s life, even briefly, it is a gift of the highest order. A reminder that true understanding is possible. That soul-recognition is real. And that when we have known that level of companionship, we carry it with us always.
In the final weeks of his life, Darrel was in a period of extraordinary creative unfolding. He was only a few weeks away from publishing his fourth book — his second novel — and he was stepping boldly into a dream he had carried since he was young: becoming a jazz singer.
The very week he passed, he performed a concert with friends in Victoria, British Columbia. He hadn’t been feeling well, but he went onstage anyway. And afterward, he told me he was pleased with how he sang — genuinely pleased. There was a quiet pride in it, as if he knew he was stepping into a new chapter of himself, one that blended the storyteller and the musician inside him.
He had also done work in Puerto Vallarta with musician friends, producing some lovely videos that captured both his voice and his spirit. He told me — almost with disbelief — that after a lifetime of struggle, the success of his books meant he was finally living comfortably. And with that comfort came a new possibility: he wanted to spend the next year supporting and promoting some of the local musicians I had been championing for years. He said it with such enthusiasm, such sincerity. With his experience, his connections, and his generosity, I knew he would have been phenomenal. It would have been a beautiful collaboration, and we both sensed that.
That is what makes his passing so difficult to hold. He wasn’t fading — he was blooming. He was entering a vibrant new season of his life, full of promise and creative abundance. And I feel grateful, deeply grateful, that I witnessed that last flourishing. I saw him becoming the fullest version of himself. And I still miss him — not only for who he was, but for the future he was just beginning to step into.
In 2023, Darrel and I celebrated Thanksgiving together on the beach at Langoustines. Little did we know that would be the last. He passed away in Victoria, British Colombia on August 29, 2024. My musician friends in Puerto Vallarta notified me while I dined with my niece in Lisbon, Portugal. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for having enjoyed his friendship and his wonderful smile.
Every so often in life, we meet someone who seems to bypass all the usual stages of acquaintance and step straight into the inner room. That was how it was with my friend Darrel McLeod. From the moment we met, there was a recognition—not dramatic or sudden, but immediate and unmistakable. It was the recognition of someone who lived with an inner life as vivid as my own.
Darrel was a writer, and perhaps that helped. Writers tend to cultivate a certain fearlessness about truth; they live at the edge of memory, emotion, and story. But he was also generous in a way that had nothing to do with craft. He shared his life openly, as a Cree man from British Columbia, telling stories that were layered with history, struggle, resilience, and extraordinary clarity. He didn’t speak about himself so much as from himself. There is a difference, and it’s a rare one.
Over the couple of years we spent together—listening to music, exchanging books, discussing literature and writing—I never once felt the distance that so often exists between people. Our conversations were effortless, full of curiosity, honesty, humor, and a sense of mutual understanding that felt both grounding and exhilarating. I never wondered whether he was listening. I never felt the need to shrink or simplify myself. I never doubted that he understood exactly what I meant.
He was, in every sense, the friend I had always longed for.
When he died, suddenly and far too young, the loss felt impossible to hold. It wasn’t just a grief for the person he was, but for the kind of presence he brought into the world—one that is not easily replaced, and maybe cannot be. I still miss him. I miss the ease of our conversations, the trust, the shared inner landscapes. I miss the rare feeling of being met exactly where I live inside myself.
His absence makes moments of superficial connection feel even thinner. And it reminds me, again and again, that when someone like Darrel appears in one’s life, even briefly, it is a gift of the highest order. A reminder that true understanding is possible. That soul-recognition is real. And that when we have known that level of companionship, we carry it with us always.
In the final weeks of his life, Darrel was in a period of extraordinary creative unfolding. He was only a few weeks away from publishing his fourth book — his second novel — and he was stepping boldly into a dream he had carried since he was young: becoming a jazz singer.
The very week he passed, he performed a concert with friends in Victoria, British Columbia. He hadn’t been feeling well, but he went onstage anyway. And afterward, he told me he was pleased with how he sang — genuinely pleased. There was a quiet pride in it, as if he knew he was stepping into a new chapter of himself, one that blended the storyteller and the musician inside him.
He had also done work in Puerto Vallarta with musician friends, producing some lovely videos that captured both his voice and his spirit. He told me — almost with disbelief — that after a lifetime of struggle, the success of his books meant he was finally living comfortably. And with that comfort came a new possibility: he wanted to spend the next year supporting and promoting some of the local musicians I had been championing for years. He said it with such enthusiasm, such sincerity. With his experience, his connections, and his generosity, I knew he would have been phenomenal. It would have been a beautiful collaboration, and we both sensed that.
That is what makes his passing so difficult to hold. He wasn’t fading — he was blooming. He was entering a vibrant new season of his life, full of promise and creative abundance. And I feel grateful, deeply grateful, that I witnessed that last flourishing. I saw him becoming the fullest version of himself. And I still miss him — not only for who he was, but for the future he was just beginning to step into.
In 2023, Darrel and I celebrated Thanksgiving together on the beach at Langoustines. Little did we know that would be the last. He passed away in Victoria, British Colombia on August 29, 2024. My musician friends in Puerto Vallarta notified me while I dined with my niece in Lisbon, Portugal. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for having enjoyed his friendship and his wonderful smile.