A Sudden Loss, A Missed Goodbye, A Lesson on How to Gather in Crisis

I received a harrowing telephone call on Thursday morning. My wonderful sister-in-law, the visual artist and naturalist Laura Wilund Adams, was going into hospice. Laura had spent the last ten months receiving world-class treatment for leukemia.

Relatives from both sides of the family immediately made plans to travel to Atlanta from around the world. But by the time most of us arrived on Friday, it was too late to say goodbye.

Here’s how my brother, Andrew, captured his emotions on social media:

With profound and overwhelming sadness, I share that the light has gone out on the love of my life.

Laura Wilund Adams
October 9, 1963 - March 27, 2026.

Laura was born in Sioux City, Iowa, in 1963; attended elementary and middle school in Atlanta; high school and college in South Carolina; and later became a lawyer in Santa Fe and Savannah. But her real passion was creativity, and thirty years ago she made the bold and affirming decision to pursue the life of an artist.

She began exploring photography but found inspiration when she experimented with tearing up her prints and reassembling them into collages. The technique led to her signature creative style.

Andrew put it well in Laura’s obituary:

“Heavily layered paper collage on canvas.” These words are how Laura Wilund Adams described the unique art form she developed and mastered for the past thirty years. Collecting colored and textured papers from around the world, especially Japanese washi papers, she would cut them, tear them, wet them in acrylic, and blend them together into exquisite scenes of nature and portraits of birds, bears, and other animals. Beloved across the country, her work reflected a deeply intuitive and nuanced feel for light and depth, color and texture.

An avid birder and dog owner, a passionate and inventive chef, and committed family member, Laura was not just a lover of nature; she was nature. She didn’t just make art; she was art. She didn’t just embrace life; she was life.

We spent much of Friday in a state of shock—wandering around their home; doing things to be helpful; eating, laughing, and crying together. By Saturday Andrew said he wanted everyone to assemble together and share memories of Laura.

As it happens, I had spent of the previous week recording the audio of my new book, A Time to Gather. The book, among other things, describes my deep dive into contemporary mourning rituals around the world, from attending ten funerals in a week in Ireland to joining a Grieving & Weaving Circle at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

I had never been so grateful for having a work experience at the exact moment I needed to draw on it for my personal life.

“If we’re going to do this,” I suggested, “maybe we could make it a full-blown ritual?”

I threw out a bunch of ideas that form the backbone of what I’ve learned makes for successful gatherings: how can we create sacred space; open and close the circle; include everybody; make sure you feel held; end with hope.

What happened next was the kind of impromptu magic that often arrives in times of need.

We arranged seating in their living room for seventeen; my brother carried over the first piece of art he and Laura ever bought together, a beautiful, glazed ceramic vase and candle holder; the family assembled.

Andrew described the artwork and asked one of Laura’s closest friends to light the candle; the room was instantly transported into what felt like a sanctuary. The guests, ranging in age from ninety to nine, went around and told stories, blubbered through tears, grasped at tissues, and, in a surprising number of cases, told absolutely hilarious anecdotes. Apparently teenage Laura was a well-known thief, who openly stole her brothers’ T-shirts the second they returned home from a trip.

“They look better on me!” she announced, not even defensively, when the purloined souvenirs were found hanging in her closet.

I am forever surprised by the incalculable balm of a belly laugh in a paralyzing time.

When it came time to end the gathering, my brother shared the story of their wedding and told how Laura gave him an inscribed gift of a priceless edition of Edward Lear’s bound poem, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. He asked me to read the dedication, then the poem out loud.

Unsure what to do with a delicate book filled with such exquisite illustrations, I read it as one would do to children, showing each double-page spread. Entering what felt like something of a trance, I paid tribute to Laura, ended by citing her full name, stood, and blew out the candle.

By the time I looked up, most everyone had stood from their seats and collapsed into the arms of someone alongside them.

The moment felt timeless and timely; the emotions felt eternal and immediate.

What had begun as impromptu was elevated into the everlasting.

A celebration of life will be held for Laura Wilund Adams at The Temple in Atlanta on April 19, 2026, at 2:00 PM. In lieu of flowers, the family welcomes contributions to Birds Georgia or PAWS Atlanta.

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