Field Trips – Naples and Sarasota, Sept. 19-20, 2009

With winding up my time in south Florida, it was time to see family again before leaving. On Saturday, Jennifer, Frank, and Giuliana drove across from Ft. Lauderdale area and I drove south, so we met in Naples. We spent time at the Naples Zoo (with Ms. G. sleeping in the stroller the whole time) and then went for comfort food at Bob Evans. It’s not available on the other coast, and Jen and Frank were missing it!

On Sunday, Raphaella and I did an excursion to a beach that was new for both of us on Lido Key off the coast of Sarasota. Miles of beach, piles of shells, beautiful blue water…wonderful swimming among the fish. John Ringling (of circus fame) established a high class shopping area nearby in the 20’s called St. Armand’s Circle. So, we stopped and ate lunch there after swimming.

Love,
Susanne
p.s. My stepson Dave's surgery on Friday went smoothly and he was discharged on Sunday.

Creative Magic, 9-17-09

It’s been an interesting week, with lots of meals and consultations with friends and kids, assessment of when to leave Venice for home (likely next week), time at the beach and pool, new work possibilities, and more.

In parallel, Raphaella and I have been listening over the last couple of weeks to a 3-CD set called Creative Fire by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. It’s had me exploring my own creativity and observing while spending time with two different painters. And, I’ve been reading books with magic in them. And experiencing almost daily thunderstorms. And reading a mystical book called The Seven Valleys. The result of the whole mix of stuff is the essay below, which was amazing to write. Enjoy!

Love,
Susanne

Creative Magic
By Susanne Mariella Alexander

What is this magic that flows from fingers, hearts, and minds? The spark of genius or illumination at the point of talent that creates something new to reach from soul to soul? What robbing, destructive words—I’m not a writer or I’m not an artist—that make the soul bleed and the magic stop?

What words are mine or the universe’s, what painting is hers or God’s, what flower is other than God’s? And yet, presented from the souls of people blessed and giving. How do I listen to what there is to write or for her what there is to paint? How easy it is to create static and noise and busyness that shuts out the precious flow. What gives us the right to ignore or demean the soul-voice within that needs our care, respect? How hard it is to shelter flowers from the storm. To let them grow and blossom, live and die. To then let the storm swirl as it must to blow the old and useless free. To feel the magic in the lightning’s jagged slash. To feel grateful that God’s in charge and lets us feel the power in the thunder’s boom. I’m restless, wondering, feeling happy, sad, angry, joyful, scared, yearning. What am I meant to conduit, what magic is latent in my fingertips? I feel the symphony crashing in my ears, the power in the thousands of blended and discordant notes.

Sometimes I trust my heart to know what words are on the way, but often my head decides the content in its place. I watch her soul pour out its journey on the canvas. I watch the flowers reach their bloom of beauty. Is there really a choice of feeling the magic and creating the spell? The swirl of the mist in the crystal ball that says the words are just around the corner? The stroke of the brush that hangs suspended in the air above the canvas? The flower waiting to burst from the tightly folded bud? Magical and mysterious the illumination of our souls, the light that shines almost in spite of us.

My heart is confused, uncertain, waiting for the words to come. There’s magic in the air tonight, love holds its fiery breath. There are elves afoot or faeries’ wings perhaps. I know not what the power really is, the fire, and yet without its touch I’m alone, forgotten, abandoned. The burn to try, the burn to dream, the burn to be in the swirl of that power. It’s part of me…and yet it’s not. Connected, integrated, and yet it’s free. Full of light, but masked when with stabs of darkest black, my will finds its way and I forget to channel.

My boat is glorying in the highest crashing waves, the sudden troughing drop, the temper of the skies. And yet there’s hope for serene waters after dawn. What spell is on my soul tonight that leaves me wondering, reaching? What words dance beyond my fingertips, tantalizing, stretching? I rarely know, the truth would say. When they are best, I just open, and they come. How could they really be “mine”? How could it be “her” painting? How could they, and the flower, not simply all be God’s? We arrogantly place our names and initials and labels, because we are trained to own. And yet, I suppose it’s also being responsible for the gifts and who they touch.

True magic is not a random act, nor can it deliberately cause harm. It simply feels and flows and reaches out. It comes, it grows, it knows. It trusts the whispered voice, the heavenly chuckle, the assertion that the Spirit-World waits impatiently…or patiently…for us to agree to accept what it so freely gives. The communing thought, the butterfly touch, the flying wings of inspiration that heaven pours. How dare we disrespect this sacred space? What must I do to soar in the “holy air of light”?

I run, I pace, I pound, I’m heavy, I’m light, I’m full of grace. I race after the dragonfly that darts just out of reach. I’m onward, sideward, backward, upside down. Sometimes I simply forget that if I pause and breathe and float and glide and be still, the dragonfly will land on me and converse in a language loftier than the clouds, achingly lovelier than an orchid, softer than a promise. I simply have to open up my heart and smile and listen and share.

I catch a glimpse, tantalizing, clear. The light seems to fill the cells of my body and the essence of my soul. My heart glows with heat and power. I hold the love so near. What is this mystery…I suppose if I knew and understood it would no longer be so magical, so dazzling, so beautiful. The wisdom of the mystery keeps my fingers on the keys instead of soaring and accepting the soaring words as enough…for now. For this is the gift. What has to go onward. It is not a shackle, although at times it feels full with heaviness. It is not the hardness of diamonds but instead the purple of royal amethysts. It is not the thorn-pathed pampered rose but perhaps the sunny daisy mixed with the courage of the spring crocuses pushing through the snow and the summer hardiness of the golden marigolds. It is the joy of the blooming mixed with the sorrow of the faded, drooping blooms. It is the perfect note held for an endless breath of time and the slash of bleeding red ink from the editor’s pen or the crumpled paint-filled page. Sometimes the inner critic sticks its killing knife into every effort and makes it hard to live while bleeding. Sometimes the pain is too much to keep on creating. It is life and death, peace and war, symphonies and endless, necessary scales. It is thrill and despair, darkness and light to write, to paint, to create. It is a choice, without a choice. It is dwelling in “the holy air of light”.

Without the ability to express, the light of love is faded, drab, and cooled. One wonders in scared moments whether creativity is gone forever. It takes faith to trust when it goes dormant that it’s only resting and germinating. To not force the light to touch the baby seeds and sprouts underneath the darkened ground. To know with complete confidence that the gift is not gone, just pausing to breathe…and becoming ready to grow. This is the challenge: to release the fear, to know there will be a time, to banish the panic, to be certain the process is wise. Because creativity is sacred, it cannot be destroyed. When something is sacred, letting it flow feels like swimming “in the sea of the spirit” and soaring “in the holy air of light”…and creating magic.

* The quotations are from Bahá’u’lláh, The Seven Valleys, pp. 27-28

Marie Selby Botanical Gardens, 9-13-09

I’ve been stretching out a bit more socially. Saturday was a large Bahá’í meeting in Sarasota that I went to with Shirley Bascom from Venice. Sunday was a day with Farkhonde Edwards, a Bahá’í from Sarasota, an artist, and a widow. We spent the morning at the beautiful Marie Selby Botanical Gardens, which is famous for its orchids. I believe I saw another blue heron, too. We followed the visit to the garden with a wonderful Persian meal. Enjoy the photos. The painting on tree bark is one of Farkhonde’s creations.

Love,
Susanne

Sadness and Shells, September 9, 2009

The anger with Craig’s death has surprised me, but the sadness has not. It comes and goes in intensity. The last few days have been calm and peaceful with book writing, sunrises, some editing for our kids, and light socializing. I stretched out last night and went to a larger Bahá’í meeting in Sarasota. I simply introduced myself as a friend of Roger and Shirley’s who was visiting from Cleveland. So, there were no emotional moments about why I was here…just lovely spiritual and friendly space. A little mild anxiety ahead of time, but to my relief no panic attack to stop me from going this time.

My dreams last night were full of sadness, though…about Craig initially and then another one that was about my daughter’s father having cancer (not true). I slept later than usual and awoke out of sorts. My email brought me the news that yet another family member of one of my family and friends cancer support group had passed (3 in three weeks).

I needed to take my sadness and be at the beach, so I grabbed supplies for a portable breakfast and headed to Casperson, the wildest beach locally. “My” heron was there and a dragonfly was present by my head as soon as I sat down, flying to and fro very close near me for a long time. It made me say “hi Craig!” We often commune, and in my heart/head I heard him say he loves flying and was glad to be with me. And, I teased him about never moving slowly or staying still…just like in life!

I had a lovely time collecting shells for our granddaughter Karida. After swimming, I was delighted to see a small tortoise for the first time. It seemed appropriately symbolic for me emerging from my shell! And all of that had me sitting and writing some more poetry:

The Shells of Life

Like I, the tortoise sticks her head
Out of her protective shell
Bravely venturing forth
Into a world of sand and surf and life

Each shell I gather reminds me
Of the sea of living life
Some whole and full of beauty
Some broken, battered, worn
Some beautiful on the inside
And plain on the outside
Some colorful on the outside
And plain on the inside
Some full of color inside and out

Each shell is unique
Each contributes to the richness of the sand
And each formerly held life
Like the memories of those we love or loved
Strewn across the sands of time
~ Susanne Mariella Alexander

As I began to leave the beach, my cellphone rang. It was Dave, my stepson, calling with “bad news”. His cancerous brain tumor that was removed a few months before Craig’s was diagnosed in 2007 has recurred. Oh God, this sucks! And more sadness in my heart. He’s had scans every 3 months and they have been clear. Now surgery looks imminent and life has another change and adventure. As he has been throughout, Dave is calmly confident that he will beat this and be fine. I appreciate his optimism…reminds me of his Dad. And the outcome will be whatever the outcome will be. The prayer circle has begun…guiding him through the second opinion and whatever the choices are to be made. We invite you to pray with and for our extended family, including Dave, his wife Christina, and their two-year old son Aidan.

I asked Craig how he feels about what is happening to Dave. He says he’s sad…and he couldn’t prevent it…there are greater forces at work. All he can do is be with all of us. He’s glad I cried on the beach even though he couldn’t. I’m reminded of a Bahá’í quotation that recurs often for me, “O My servants! Sorrow not if, in these days and on this earthly plane, things contrary to your wishes have been ordained and manifested by God, for days of blissful joy, of heavenly delight, are assuredly in store for you. Worlds, holy and spiritually glorious, will be unveiled to your eyes. You are destined by Him, in this world and hereafter, to partake of their benefits, to share in their joys, and to obtain a portion of their sustaining grace. To each and every one of them you will, no doubt, attain.” (Bahá’u’lláh, Gleanings, p. 329) And, still, we sorrow!

Love,
Susanne

Doing, Being, and Anger, September 6, 2009

(Note: You will find it more meaningful to read the previous posting on Being vs. Doing before reading this one.)

I was encouraged by knowledgeable and caring people to spend my time in Venice emptying the vessel of grief, not get intellectual about it, cry, feel the loss, experience the anger and get it out with physical action, reflect, stay away from morbid/unhealthy thoughts, do “sweet” reading, stay as fluid as possible, follow my needs, be nurturing, stay out of action mode, be kind to myself, eat what works, immerse myself in creativity (including writing)… It’s actually a pretty tall order (dare I say to-do list?!)! I think for the most part I’ve been successful at all of this though.

But, some times I notice that I’ve slipped into getting things done and done now, going from one activity to the next, or looking for diversions. Saturday was a day like that. I got up and had to go to the pool to swim and be done by a certain time so I could get to the Venice Craft Fair by about 10 a.m. before it got too hot. On the way home, I got thinking about maybe I should run around the state and visit people all the rest of the long weekend. And then I drove past a neighbor at 15 miles over the speed limit and she used hand motions to tell me to SLOW DOWN! Okay, so I was in need of the message!

I made myself sit down at home and really check in with how I was feeling. Humph, it didn’t take long for my favorite “emotion to avoid” to arise. So, I did artwork (see photo) entitled “There Are Times When Anger Needs a Voice” followed by the poem below.

Giving Anger a Voice

There are times when anger needs a voice
But why be angry, it seems so pointless
Just disrupts my moments of serenity and joy

And yet, it’s not yet time to let go of it
It’s useful in accepting, nudging me to feel
How could you? I’m affronted!

You, of all people knew what all I’d done
To recreate myself a scant handful
Of years before and now this?!

To ask me, no tell me, no choices given
To begin again to find my place in life
To learn and try to be anew again?

I keep saying I’m pissed off
Anger not an emotion I’m wont to claim
Damn it, damn it, damn it

I pace, I race, I DO, DO, DO
And yet the anger just won’t let me BE
I hide, I smile, I ride, I hide again

But then I have to hit or punch
Or slash in bright red marker
To let the tension in my belly out

I’m mad, not glad, and some sad, too
I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna
I kick and fuss, whine and moan

For a while I can be spiritual and strong
This is God’s will, and I’m grateful
I smile, I laugh, and I’m okay

But then in some middle of the day
When I’m doing, doing, doing and having fun
The being police arrive and yell
You’re forgetting to BE, just stop awhile

I’m tired of thinking, I’m resisting being
I just want everything to be back to normal
There’s something wrong here, it’s not right

My head goes round and round
Until I feel like a coil about to break
I’m exhausted from trying to figure it all out

Should I be there, should I be here
Should I do that, should I do this
Should I, should I, should I?

How do I shut off my mind?
I’ve trained it well to think, think, think
I’m the queen of lists and analysis

I’m playing a game of saying no lists
When my desk is strewn with reminders
On scraps and scraps of bright yellow paper

Do I go, do I stay, do I run, do I stop?
I can’t even stop all the questions
I don’t want to wait for the answers

And having to wait for the answers
Makes me feel pissed off!
Again and again and again.

So, here I am again – angry at nothing
Just Craig, and God, and life
Well, maybe that’s something, I guess

~ Susanne Mariella Alexander, 9-5-09

I really do commune with Craig, God, and life on a positive, loving, spiritual plane a lot of the time, I swear! But I guess that’s not coming out as poetry at the moment…sigh.

Thanks for listening,

Love,
Susanne

Being Versus Doing, September 6, 2009

I’ve had a lot of encouragement over these weeks of grieving to be in “being” mode, versus “doing” mode…by people who haven’t seen my endless to-do lists. People who have seen my lists really think this is an impossible task for me…and believe me, it is not easy. I’m sharing below a letter of encouragement and explanation of these concepts shared by John Cunningham, a long-time friend of Craig’s and mine and our meditation teacher (along with his wife Laurie) as well. I’ve spent a few days meditating on these concepts since he sent the note.

What has emerged from my contemplation is that it is possible to be in “being” mode while “doing” things…what is required is awareness in the process of my emotions and to be calm and loving while sitting doing nothing. Note John’s comment about avoiding the thought that “this is a waste of time”! Baha’u’llah in The Seven Valleys encourages us to “seek at every moment to journey from the plane of heedlessness into the realm of being”. So, I’m dancing with all of this, having times when I’m feeling very much like I’m in “being” mode and other times when I’m just human and no way to avoid the long-time patterns of Susanne!

Love,
Susanne

From John:

I have been thinking of you, praying for you and for Craig and your family – praying for your unfolding process. As I read your blog, I envision you as spending this time just being – not doing, but being. You are a doer, so in a sense what you are doing right now is just being.

Being is such a different kind of process than doing. When we do, we apply energy and direction and skills and talent and results occur. We have projects and plans and lists and tasks and actions and results and follow-up. Each step can be gratifying – make a plan, get a little shot of success feeling; take action on the plan, another shot; cross something off the list or close a completed project, a big shot (at least for me). With projects, more energy (within limits) means faster and better results. The mind is in its heyday – focus and balance and mental stimulation.

By comparison, being can seem like we are idle or wasting time. The mind asks “Ok, I’ll just be. What do I have to do to just be?” It wants to do. That is its nature. But being is the realm of the heart – the mind cannot go there. As the heart opens, the mind gets quiet, and we move into that space of just being. For me, the feeling of just being seems to emanate from my heart center and not from my head. It is wordless and spacious, connected and universal.

How quickly the mind steps in to make sense of this world of being. It will comment on the experience, define and categorize it, evaluate and interpret it. It will claim the experience as its own and take credit for it. If we believe the mind’s stories about being, we see that being disappears into the shadows of the thoughts.

Being cannot be rushed anymore than a flower can be made to bloom. Trying to rush being is like dumping water and fertilizer on the seed to try to make it bloom on our schedule. The seed is more likely to die than to make a flower under such circumstances. All we can do is prepare the soil, apply just the right amount of nutrients, and then wait for the flower to happen. We prepare the heart with prayer and meditation, slowing down and letting go, and then waiting for the heart to open - to just be.

I think that grieving can be experienced as a process of being. To do this, we must pay attention to the experience itself and not to the content of the grief. We must be present to what is happening - how our mind and body feel, to its unpleasant nature, to its impermanence - and not to the stories of loss and what-if and woe-is-me. The heart is jolted and ripped, and yet we find it is very open if we are able to stay connected with it. The intensity can be too much at times. But at other times we are able to stay with the process, sometimes even welcoming it in. If we are able to look directly at the experience of grieving, it is much easier to stay with it than when we are caught up in the content of the grief and the stories it weaves in the mind - at least this is my own experience.

Grieving is like a vapor in the air - thick and heavy at times, thin and transparent at others. It coalesces around our stories – a special place, a particular date, a certain setting. I remember about 3 years ago I was in North Olmsted after a summer storm. The road ahead was blocked off by the police. I could see that a large tree had fallen over and there was an ambulance with its lights flashing close to the tree. I immediately broke into tears, even though Janet had been gone for more than 10 years. [His sister Janet was struck by a falling tree branch and killed.]

I guess I am writing all this to you as a form of support for your process of just being at this point. Not as a project to deal with the grief, or to move on with your life, but just being. Support for you to just be with your wounded heart, your loss, your pain, your grief – as well as with your inquiry, your wonder, and even your joy as it arises. Support for you to look at each mindstate directly as it visits you. These processes of being ask only for your awareness. And while they cannot be rushed or whisked away, they can open the heart in ways that doing cannot. They have the capacity to stabilize us in the ground of being, and they beckon us to connect with ourselves at a much deeper level, at the level of nobility of which Baha’u’llah speaks. They invite us to connect with others through that same ground - to see the Noble Beings on whom our faces are painted, to see our true nature, to see God standing within each one, mighty, powerful and self-subsisting. This gift of an open and connected heart is the boundless fruit of our time spent with these transient emotions.

You continue to be in my thoughts and prayers, Susanne. Please enjoy the beach and the heron.

With love,
John

Circuses, Friends, and Full Moon, September 4, 2009

Friday was all about relaxing and having a good time. Raphaella and I went up to Sarasota to the Ringling Art Museum, Circus Museum, and Mansion, http://www.ringling.org/. She and I toured part of the art museum and then headed to the place where the John and Mable Ringling lived while the circus was wintering in Florida. We sat outside and visualized living in such a place and what sorts of places we would be comfortable living in. This one looked too big for me! The inside though was very ornate, dark wood, and very uncomfortable looking, so we decided we liked the outside better! (see photos; Raphaella is in front of the mansion; the view of Sarasota Bay is from the terrace; the dew-covered green plants artistic shot was at the entrance)
We had the delight at lunchtime of connecting with Michael Mariano and Jenni Menon, friends of mine from Sarasota, who I just found out live in this area. Craig and I last saw them at Bosch Bahá’í School in Santa Cruz, California a few years ago. They had another friend with them (Dr. Laura D’Angelo who was visiting from Nashville). (see photo) After lunch, Jenni went back to work and the rest of us toured the Circus Museum, reliving our childhood memories of the 3-ring circus and lamenting that the next generation won’t get to experience it the same way. If you feel like watching Raphaella's 167-shot slide show of the day, you can go to this link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/heartfulart/sets/72157622273116954/show/

In the evening, Raphaella and I went to a full moon ceremony on the beach. It had the flavor of a Native American ceremony (cleansed with sage smoke, appeals to the four directions, drums, talking stick). The leader asked us as part of the ceremony to identify and let go of what is not serving us in our lives. For me it is being tethered to one spot. I’m definitely feeling the need for lightening up my material life and be wandering for a while. So, I’m visualizing what that potentially looks like, and we’ll see what manifests! The sunset was beautiful, and it was great to beat a drum and have memories of drumming with Craig and of dancing around the fire with childhood friends at Pow-Wows in Saskatchewan.

This was the most walking and most energy-expending day that I’ve had in the last weeks, so it was great to feel that it went well, and I was tired but wasn’t exhausted at bedtime. Yay! Signs of recovery!

Love,
Susanne

Where There Is Love...September 3, 2009

Last night before bed, I wandered my new home and sat or spent time in places that I haven't been using! It felt a little like expanding my world. Before bed a title came to me that I knew I needed to write about. When I arose this morning, I wrote to match the title without knowing what the length or outcome would be, and what emerged was an essay with an ending that surprised me. The part of me that is very proper wants to apologize for the title, but I'm going to let it go and just invite you to read it. I also expanded my world a bit this afternoon with a small devotional meeting at Roger and Shirley's home. I cried a bit when the music and readings moved me, but it was good.

Love,
Susanne

Where There Is Love, All Farts Are Forgiven
Susanne M. Alexander

I suppose I’ve forgiven him for his farts in public, and of course any other more important misadventures, but I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him for dying. But there…I’m ahead of myself in the story.

I remember before we married looking at my approaching middle-age body and stray hairs and blemishes and being concerned that he’d find me wanting. It turned out to be totally irrelevant. He was always much better than me at looking on the inside, not the petty faults that traipsed around in everyone else’s vision…or my own.

Marriage is an intensely physical experience. Making love. Bumping hips in a tiny kitchen. Sharing the newspaper. Drinking Mandarin Orange Spice and Country Peach Passion teas. Cooking endless meals. Back rubs. Bubble baths. Digging in the yard and planting lilac bushes and bright red impatiens flowers. Yes, impatience…always we wanted to get on to the next activity, the next goal…and yet we also regularly paused for sunsets over the lake.

Oh I know that marriage is also intensely spiritual…we’ve prayed enough together and done enough spiritual things together for me to know that, too. I suppose without that right now, the insanity of his absence would actually make me feel insane. But, the absence of his physical presence is the crux of the grieving. I’m farting alone…so to speak.

Even though he’s with me spiritually, he can’t feel the sand that’s between my toes, the sun that’s on my face, the donut in my belly. He can’t massage my back for me and feel the slippery peach lotion between our fingers. He can’t smell the chicken and sweet potatoes cooking in the oven. He can’t pee, poop, or fart. He can’t wipe the tears from my eyes. Or from his own.

I carefully arrange my new home without him as if each pillow placed or trinket adjusted matters. As if he would care even if he were here. In fact it’s exactly the opposite of what would make him comfortable, he who had to be reminded to wipe his feet at the door…repeatedly.

If the spiritual is more important, why do I long for the physical? Why do I grieve the loss of the sights, touches, smells, and sounds? Why does the feel of the pain in my heart matter?

He’s flying and I’m stuck on the ground, mired in the muck of confusion and illusion. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there are moments since he’s flown on that are happy or even sublime. It’s just that it’s all so different and unreal and he’s gone. He’s out of his cage and I’m still contained in mine. He’s gone where I don’t belong. And I want to throw a five-year-old tantrum that he’s there without me. And then I’m grateful that it’s not yet my time.

I look at the stars and wonder does he see what I see? I dance on the rug and imagine him dancing with me, but does he? I do the dishes he used to do and wonder does he miss the suds on his hands that I insulate with bright yellow gloves? Does he know that they’re yellow? Does he care? No, of course not. He answers that in my head before I even write it.

It’s as if this person that I’ve lived intensely with for all these years is now someone I don’t quite know anymore. He’s doing and experiencing and living in ways that I can’t completely envision and growing in ways I can’t see. I’m angry and sad and happy and mad and struggling with envy and greed. The road to acceptance is paved with lumpy pillows and soggy tissues and lonely cups of tea.

Would you like a banana with your cereal for breakfast? Do you want me to wash your gardening jeans (please!)? How about some intimacy tonight? You’ll laugh at this comic! Will you play your flute for us tonight? Can you open this jar? I’m sad, can you please listen to me and hold me tight? The rhythm and pattern of life lived together is shattered and trampled under the weight of his leaving. And I can deny it if the picture is straight on the wall and the flowers are arranged just so.

I’m slowly straightening my body that locked in fetal position from the shock, protecting myself, figuratively going home to my mother before husband and marriage were even glimmered or dreamt. I stretch and feel pain. I walk and feel pain. I sleep and feel pain. It reminds me I’m here and he’s there or there and here both…sort of. Life is confusing and squishy…I cry in my shoes…that wander and wiggle and blend in the flow of the days.

My place in the world is confused and uncertain. Where to be, what to do, who to be. Just being is unfamiliar and at times annoying. He reminds me of our early mantra: patience, detachment, and flexibility. Important concepts that sometimes make me want to pound on the bed or shatter the china.

Does he see the sunrise, the sunset from a place without time? Does he see the beauty of the ocean and clouds in my eyes? Does he still see the beauty in my soul far better than I do? Does he know I still love him? Yes, I suppose he does. And where there is love, all farts are forgiven and so is his death.