As Ananya Chatterjea discussed the life of her friend, Beverly Cottman, she thought about the trait that most captured her aura.

“Her smile was luminous,” said Chatterjea, a professor of dance at the University of Minnesota and the founder of the Ananya Dance Theatre in St. Paul. “She would smile and there was just so much grace and light in that smile.”

I did not know Cottman, the magnanimous 80-year-old Minneapolis teacher and artist who died in her sleep last month on a trip to Egypt. Her passing came nearly two years after she lost her husband, the multidimensional Bill Cottman, a photographer, poet and game changer in the Twin Cities, too.

But the BIPOC community in the Twin Cities is both vast and small. The losses of our elders carry impact, directly or indirectly, because of their significance to the foundation of our sense of community.

Those within my circle who knew Cottmann said her death left an irreplaceable void. So why would I write about a woman I’d never met? Because I’d also like to live the fruitful life she did; one that left behind a garden of love, empathy and connection — and also a question of who will water its flowers now that she is no longer here.

“This notion that you can live artistically … that’s a thing,” Chatterjea said. “I would see [her and her daughter, Kenna] especially after she retired, the way she built relationships, the way she held the community with grace, the way she showed up at different arts events, the way she talked to children. … She was this umbrella force.”

Earlier this week, I watched YouTube clips of Cottman’s talks and performances. You can see her command of audiences and the grace within her voice through the screen. During a talk in 2014, Cottman told a fable about an elderly woman who would sit outside a bakery and smell the bread she could not afford, as she rattled her coins. But the baker, who demanded she pay for that smell, then took the woman to the village chief and asked him to settle the dispute. The elder then issued his verdict: “Since the baker has heard the sound of the woman’s coins, he has been paid for the smell of the bread.”

When Cottman finished the tale, the crowd gasped, cheered, laughed and nodded.

“Now this old folktale has many, many versions, and tales similar to it are told in cultures all over the world,” Cottman said. “No matter how it’s told or who the characters are, the message, the moral, the lesson is the same: An imaginative mind can overcome many obstacles.”

I continue to hear stories about a woman who left an imprint wherever she trekked. I heard about Cottman, the biology teacher who taught science in a relatable manner meant to encourage curiosity. I heard about the adventurer who traveled the world with her husband after she retired. I heard about the artist who preserved Blackness and its essence through storytelling. I heard about the woman who always had wisdom on the tip of her tongue. And I heard about the artist who long ago proved a Black woman in the Twin Cities can do it all — and do it all well.

Chatterjea, a performer and choreographer who was born and raised in India, had just moved to the Twin Cities as a single mother with dreams of growing her dance studio for Black and brown women when she met Cottman. Today, the Ananya Dance Theatre is “a professional ensemble of BIPOC women and femme artists who believe in the transformative power of dance and identify as cultural activists.”

Chatterjea said Cottman was one of the first people to join and participate. At one point, she’d been so committed to rehearsals that her husband would have to explain her absences from the Sunday church pews.

“That’s how we developed this language, ‘Oh well, dance is church,'” Chatterjea said.

But Cottman was also unafraid to express her views and opinions. When Chatterjea tried to push a new technique, Cottman told her that she could not do the moves because of her arthritis. Chatterjea said Cottman’s willingness to object helped her re-evaluate her approach and design alternatives for performers in the future.

Cottman left her mark, it seems.

I do not know how much money she had or the name of her favorite movie or the artist who sang her favorite song. I do not know the color of the car she drove or the flavor of ice cream she preferred.

I just know the undeniable wake she left behind her as she traveled through this life.

To those who loved her, Cottman was on a mission, even in her death overseas.

“She got herself free. She went to meet Bill,” Chatterjea said. “Talk about intention even in leaving. It’s not like she went to France and left. She went to Egypt and left.”