Dawn Culbertson

I had the privilege of knowing Dawn Culbertson for only a short period of time, while writing for the Baltimore Alternative years ago, but she was always someone who struck me as being around forever and would continue to be. Perhaps it was her childlike gentleness, her sense of humor, her youthful appearance (did she ever sprout a grey hair?), or her enthusiasm for the lute, music history, and the Baltimore arts scene. It's strange that's she's already gone, the same age as my mom. By all accounts, she died peacefully, after a night of English folk dancing, and was among friends. It seems to me she needed to stay here longer, for I don't know whether she, of the self-depreciating humor, neediness, and self-imposed isolation, ever really understood how many people cared for her and enjoyed her company, despite her quirks and her running commentary on her lack of love life. She, in a world full of friends, always seemed alone.

But maybe it was we who needed to know how much we needed her. I know I always assumed she would be around, and maybe that's why I never made much of an effort to keep touch with her after the paper—she was everywhere, posting on the artmobile e-mail list, at area coffeehouses and churches, writing for local publications. She never seemed far away, doing the things she loved passionately. And now she is seemingly far away, but I hope she can hear me when I say she was someone I always admired for being throughly herself and living fully for her passions, no apology. Hopefully we can keep her spirit alive by asking the same of ourselves.