The Unedited Version

As the season of winter draws near, the theme of loss is being written into the story of my life.   In September, the children's minister at my church died unexpectantly. A week later, my colleague mentioned that one of her dear friends passed on.  I learned on Facebook that two lifelong comrades of friends and family died, one a sudden heart attack, the other a suicide.  Over the phone a parent told me that she hasn't been active in the program because of her loss.  Three days later I experienced the same pain.  

Not all loss is created equal; losing my keys is not the same as losing my job.  No longer working can not be compared to no longer living.  Often language can aid in softening the shocking tremors of death.  It sounds more gentle to say "I've experienced a recent loss," rather than "My baby died."  The word "loss" is more mannered, publicly palatable.  The word "death" is graphic, non-negotiable.  Loss is fall in Florida.  Death is a Russian winter.  Death makes everyone feel naked in the snow. 

Such vulnerability is terrifying and can make one feel terribly alone. More so when surrounded by characters who may not respond in a helpful way.  They can say and do things that exacerbate sorrow and pain.  This is why I often choose to remain silent when someone shares their story about how death has touched their lives.  I don't want to say the wrong thing.  Worse, because of my own past, there are times when I have a discomforting automatic response to hearing bad news: inappropriate laughter.  It doesn't always happen, but since I can't predict when it will, I get very uncomfortable when someone includes me in the telling of their pain. 

Sharing my own pain is also risky, especially when that pain is bred from my own weakness.  When I am weak I fear judgement of others, judgements that come as spears in my naked moments, piercing the flesh and releasing what little warmth and consolation might remain. There have been times in my life when I knowingly walked a path that led to death, and when I met the end I refused to reach out for help fearing judgement: 

"She deserved it." 

"What can a sinner expect?"

"It's God's justice." 

To avoid these assaults, I keep to myself when I stray from righteousness.  If I don't tell anyone about the dark spots in my life, I can't be judged about how I live.  I know God will forgive me, but I'm not so sure about others.  Accordingly, with most people I share an outline of what's going on, presenting the Erica that's washed and processed and will not to offend. My grimey mess is hidden in a place where profanity fits better than honey-coated consolations.  I do this while at the same time believing what is written in James: "Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed."  I want to be healed, but to whom do I confess?  What characters in my story aren't carrying spears?

If I had to pick a sacrament practiced by Catholics, it would be act of confession. Throwing my dirty laundry in a quick spin cycle the shape of a tall wooden box is rather appealing, and there is something comforting about being known, grunge and all.  But I'm not Catholic, so the reality is a bit more like what my daughter shared with me in a conversation a few months ago.  She succinctly stated what was true for her, but what I understood to be true for me as well: "You don't know me." She went on to use a perfect metaphor for how she and I have come to live: each of our lives is a book that is read by outsiders who, for the most part, skip chapters.  They read the good parts - the parts we want to share - but they don't always have access to the darker side of the story, the part that is essential in every good tale.  Without darkness contrasting light, there is no conflict.  Creative Writing 101: no conflict, no story.  No death, no life.

Most of us get along fine skipping chapters of each other's lives.  We are satisfied with the edited version.  When it comes to what's really going on in another person's story, "People are too selfish to care," as my mother once said. They're too busy writing their own stories, which is fair.  Who has time to read between the lines of the exchanges that happen in most daily interactions? The common version is edited to be more concise and convenient:

"Hey, how you doin'?"

"Great, you?"

"Can't complain."

"That's good. It's nice to see you."

"You too, take care."

Both parties go their separate ways, moving on to act out the truth in the real story being written, chapters that are skipped during polite conversation.  Three months ago, a chapter was written in my life that I tried to share, but grief from loss and fear of judgement kept me from confessing.  So when people asked me how I was doing, I gave them the edited version.  If I had been more honest, however, the interaction would have read something like this:

“Hey, how you doin’?”

“Miserable actually."

"Why?"

"I just had a miscarriage."

“What!!  Wait...what'd I miss?”

“I had unprotected sex with a man I haven't married yet.  I didn't tell anyone because I was ashamed.  I knew I’d be judged because at age 42, ‘You should know better.'  And I certainly didn’t want to go to the church."

"Why?"

"I hate spears. Anyway, I decided not to tell anyone, except those I trusted wouldn’t judge me and those who really needed to know, like my youngest child and my fiance. I didn’t want to have the baby, but I didn’t want to have an abortion either; I didn’t want to add to my shame. My fiance responded well and actually convinced me that having his baby would be a good thing so I got attached to the idea.  A day before my second visit to the OBGYN, I started cramping and bleeding.  I was getting ready to leave work to go see the doctor when the fetus fell out of my body."

"Oh, my God!"

"Yeh, that fucked me up."

"What'd you do?"

"I stepped carefully into the bathroom, removed my undergarments but she wasn’t there - she was stuck.  So I had to remove her myself.  I called the doctor, they told me to bring “it” in.  I wrapped “it” up in paper towels.  Got into my car, set “it” in my daughter’s car seat and drove myself to the doctor’s office.  Once there, they told me to leave “it” with the lab.  I did.  I cried.  They did an ultrasound.  My womb was empty.  I texted my fiance and told him, ‘It’s gone.  We lost it.”

"I'm so sorry.  Is there anything I can do?"

"No, I'll be okay.  I took a couple days off.  On the second day I told my youngest child.  She cried.  We cried.  I took her out to dinner and while waiting for our meal, I got a call from DSS; they had a three-year-old foster child, a girl needed a home.  I said yes.  My child and I were both happy, relieved of our sadness. 

"Well, that's noble."

"Not really. After further discussion with concerned characters I realized I was trying to avoid my grief by diverting my attention to the care of a child who needed me, though in reality I needed her.  So I called DSS back and told them, 'Sorry, but now is not a good time.'  After I hung up, I felt like shit.  They came a got her the next day.  My child cried.  I grew cold.   So, that’s how I am now.  Sad and cold.  How are you?”

“Um...................”

Needless to say, I think most folks would rather skip this version.  And the drama of this particular chapter doesn't end there.  My fiance decided it was a good time to revisit something he had mentioned when we first met.  I didn't take him seriously then, it was so unbelievable I thought he was joking. Turns out he was completely serious.  He believes he is being stalked by members of a fraternal organization.  He knows when they've visited because they leave paper clips behind.  It gets worse.  He believes that I've been a part of this torment, whether I knew about it or not.  Accordingly, he will never be able to trust me.  There's more, but I can't go into detail - my facebook is being watched. This chapter ends with me breaking off the engagement.  I didn't have a choice; it was either lose the relationship or lose my sanity.  I've gone crazy before.  Not fun.

People who I consider close friends and family may read this and wonder “Why didn’t she tell me?”  A better question is, how would knowing change things?  For what purpose do we share things like this?   I suppose the intimacy of knowing such details makes people closer.  Though this may be true, retelling a story over and over makes it seem distant.  The details less real.  It becomes just a story.  It’s not mine anymore.  It belongs to everyone I’ve told. 

This could be a good thing.  Maybe it’s me who is being selfish by not sharing.  Maybe I don’t give people enough credit; perhaps they really do care and genuinely want to know how I’m doing.  That sounds great and I hope it's true, but quite frankly, sharing is draining.  In the end I just feel empty inside.  That emptiness gets cold quick.  

Two numbers pop up in my life that always catch my attention, 3 and 7.  I haven't actually documented when they appear, but they seem to show up when I'm feeling lost or confused, hurting or just needing some encouragement.  I was feeling all of the above this past season, which is why it took so long to write about it.  It took even longer to share.  I kept my grief close, between me and God.  He's been guiding me through this.  Sometimes I know He's there.  There are other times, however, I feel so alone it physically hurts.  During one of these times, I looked at a copy of the ultrasound that pictured the dark spot in my womb, an imprint of where the baby was.  I noticed the time on the picture: 10:37:07 seconds.  Probably just a coincidence.

One thing is certain, God's speaks and moves through others. Those who don’t judge me by the mistakes I make but by the darkness I overcome.  Friends and family who are not only interested in reading my story, but want to be active characters in it.  In all honesty, I would not have been able to walk through this valley without these characters working cooperatively to give me the time and space I needed to process my grief.

I am also reminded that this is really not my story.  It never was.  It’s God’s story and it started long before I was born and will continue after I die.  I must be vulnerable enough to let Him write His way through each action played, day after day.  Through the darkness His light can shine.  Thus, I will publish this story as testimony.  To what? I have no idea.  I’ll leave that up to the readers.

The Christmas Letter, 2009

It's usually about this time when I start thinking about whether or not to send Christmas cards. This year, I posed a question on Facebook to friends and family, inquiring whether or not these holiday greetings are obsolete. With today's technology we can e-mail greetings, which is much more cost effective and saves trees. What about the Christmas letter? I remember growing up they would start rolling in by now, some as long as two single space pages, recounting the year's activities. There was the annual letter from an uncle and aunt, the RV champs from California. Their yearly life summary would be read Christmas Day with dramatic intonation and gestures to liven up a very droll report. Then there was the family friend, a Vietnam Vet who wrote the parody of the Christmas letter. As the years went on, his letters seemed to get more twisted and bizarre, always detailing extreme scenarios and vivid descriptions of personal events one never, ever wanted to know. The tradition, however varied, set the standard by which I would come to write my own.

As a traveling gypsy (now retired,) my family and friends grew to expect that I would invariably report at least one of three events every year: a new address, a new job, and at least one major drama. I doubt anyone has ever kept the complete assortment of these annual accounts, but the collection would be interesting to review, from a historical perspective, of course. Study would show a questionable pattern of living, one that was uncertain, unstable, unpredictable. If anything, these letters revealed that I was most surely coming undone. I imagine most of the recipients of these letters exhaled a deep sigh of concern or consternation upon reading my sordid tales, "Poor child. When will she ever settle down and normalize?" I am happy to report that in September of 2008 I completely unraveled, and have since begun the process of sowing a new pattern, one of deliverance, peace, and glorious moments of pure joy!

I will avoid detailing "my time away" as I've come to call it, but I will say this much: last September I had a transformational experience that shifted my consciousness so dramatically, those who knew me before this time would hardly recognize the new me were we to have an in- depth discussion on just about any subject. I view every aspect of living with different eyes, especially those two topics nobody ever wants to talk about over dinner: politics and religion. Before, I was a radically liberal, pro-choice, pro-whatever works for you, progressive democrat, universally circular on all matters traditionally unilateral, and would twirl and spin in the gray area just for the sake of argument. This consciousness was reflected in my lifestyle, and was as confusing and ambiguous as the former sentence. Now, I see things more clearly, fresh, new. I strip everything down to it's spiritual essence, to the fundamental and, as some may contend, narrow, simple truth. I expect I will lose friends because of this. It is written that those who follow this path with lose their life. Mothers will turn from their daughters, brother will be set against brother, husband against wife. I do not look forward to that time, if it should come, but I would gladly exchange my old life for what I have only begun to experience in this first year of my renewing.

With that said, I want to assure my family and friends, especially those who've know me since childhood that some things haven't changed: my sense of humor, my periodic urges to commit random acts of senseless spontaneity, my emotional sensitivity and deep compassion for those who are suffering. Even better, what was once lost, broken, corrupted, perverted, or hardened from life's trials, has returned. Hope. Great expectations. Belief in promises. I smile more, sometimes for so long my cheeks hurt (the muscles are unfamiliar with such strain, but they are stretching and strengthening with continued exercise.) I watch less drama, and seek out comedies, and yes, even musicals, ("The hills are alive/with the sound of music/aah-aaaaaaa-aah. That's how I feel!) Those desires from childhood that were rich and wonderful have come back to me. I wanna help people. I want to roll down hills and climb trees, and bake cookies. And I'm singing again, even making up my own songs! Though I'd choose the blues song "Good Morning Heartache" by Billie Holiday on karaoke night, I would do so only because I'm still an alto and I know all the words by heart.

Of course, having a four-year-old to play with makes all this change as accommodating as free shipping on Amazon (my shopping habits haven't changed either, I still don't like the mall, though I'll admit, I went twice in the last month and I didn't feel like I was going to hurt anybody.) This year she requested a guitar, a scooter, and a vacuum cleaner (? - yeh, I thought the same thing; my old women's liberation spirit reared her head on that last one.) I found two out of three on Amazon. If anyone knows how to tune a guitar, I'd appreciate a quick lesson. I also got her a full cleaning set, all pink. It comes with a vacuum, duster, broom & dustpan with the cart to hold everything. (It was less than $20, what can I say? At least, I know she's cultivating a clean spirit!) The big ticket item was a digital camera, as bulky as the first cellular phones ever made, one that can be dropped repeatedly without damage. This is in response to her incessant pleading at every photographic moment, "I wanna do it! Please mama, I'll be very careful." She looks at me with her academy award-winning puppy-dog eyes, and reaches for my antique 35 millimeter camera. Yeh, like that's ever gonna happen. "No, it's my camera! Mine!" (That childhood possessiveness has returned as well.) I am excited to give Edojah his gift; it's a classic. He's reading well, so I got him the choose-your-own adventure series that started my childhood love for reading. His birthday falls a few days after Christmas; I'm hoping to win on eBay his birthday gift; another classic, (I'm battling bids for battleship - one of the top three board games of all time, just after monopoly and scrabble.)

This year has been full of all the moments humans come to appreciate, especially during difficult times. Yes, 2009 has been trying, but the trials have exercised my strength and faith, and exorcised the demons of fear and doubt. The slide show below tells our story for the year. We have smiled from cheek to cheek, and leaped in the air for no apparent reason other than for the fun of it. We've also worried about our future, refused to smile, and mourned great loss, (rest in peace Grandpa.) Still, we celebrated birthdays, a new baby, (Rio's cousin) and weddings (brother on father's side, and sister on mother's side.) We played on the beach, went horse back riding, paddled down one river in Florida, and up another in Oregon, and enjoyed a road trip to see family (and father) in North Carolina. We played dress up, gave group hugs, planted seeds, and made peace. We glorified God in our songs of praise (and will again this weekend, pictures will be forthcoming) and showed faces full of love. These words and images are testimony to how good God has been this year, as He always has been, and always will be. I am so thankful that now I see. I mean, really see.

Have my external circumstances changed? No. I'm still underemployed (working part-time waiting tables at a local Mexican restaurant and as a writing lab specialist at Santa Fe College, helping students write their essays.) Karibi and I are divorced, finalized in March, (but if it's God's will, nothing is final.) I'm still uncertain about my direction. Where am I going? and How do I get there? are questions that remain unanswered, but now I am more confident in my guide. There is light above me, and in me, and though it has yet to shine upon the next step, I trust He will, and at just the right time.

I'm looking forward to Brianna's visit. She arrives from Cali on the 26th. I'd like to take a road trip up north to go play in the snow. That's my Christmas wish. In the coming year, I will strive to exercise more, eat breakfast every day, and reduce my just-before-bed munching (I haven't been delivered from that bad habit, but there are some battles I must fight on my own!) I plan to continue writing; I am now a "truthseeker" on www.cultureunplugged.com. As a regular contributor I get paid to write about media, film, culture and consciousness. It's my best (and first) paid writing gig yet! Thanks to those of you who have taken the time to read the articles I submit. Your comments are encouraging and add support to my value as a writer.

To all my friends and family who have not yet done so, (or tried, failed, tried again, fell, gave up and now don't know what to do,) I encourage you to come to the Father. Step out in faith, with a heart like a child. Consider it your second childhood! I pray you experience the hope and joy and peace in Christ; even though December 25th was not his actual birthday, it's as good a day as any to remember the spirit in which He came, as the ultimate Christmas present. His life and sacrifice is a gift "gooder" (as Grandpa Pete would say) than any man, woman or child could ever hope to receive, whether naughty or nice. Praise God that He loves us so much! May you accept His love, dwell in it, and share it with all you meet this season, and in the year to come.

Rocks and High Places

"He maketh my feet like hinds' feet, and setteth me upon my high places." Psalm 18:33

Should I ever retire as a traveling gypsy, there is only one place I wish to stake my tent.  It is here where I go to escape the furious world and my own flurried living.  It is my heart and so it is home, a space that offers a teaspoon dose of the healing peace we might find when we return to our true home.  It is called "Shindler's Bar," a name with double meaning, for the 24 hour in-home open bar, and the gravel bar, two city blocks of rocky shoreline that mark the Shindler haven along the Rogue River in Oregon.  

Shindler's Bar is more than a cabin high on a hill, constructed by hand, inch by inch, from third-story roof to the sawdust covered basement floor.  More rare than the landscaped labyrinth of trails and terraces, some shored up by walls of stone carted up from the gravel bar below.  To me this place is even more than family heritage. Purchased in 1941 by my great grandparents, it is securely locked into collective ownership under my grandfather’s legal authority.  It can never be sold unless every living descendant agrees.  There are six children, eleven grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren.  Getting 26 kin from Shindler’s list to sell the bluff along the river would be like negotiating the Gaza strip.   It is sacred land with a history that stretches beyond its boundaries, carried wherever the children go.

What is unique about Shindler's Bar is its isolated location; like heaven, only some are willing and able to get there.  It requires a long drive and boat ride, or an hour's hike on the lower Rogue River trail, not easily found, nor listed on popular trail maps.  The logger’s road to get to the trailhead is winding, mostly gravel, and without signs to indicate direction.  The way to Grandpa’s cabin is a fairy tale path that follows the river, bridging over singing creeks.  One feels small and humble under the wings of the old-growth coastal rainforest; human significance is overwhelmed by deciduous tanoak that share existence with mighty cedar and Douglas fir trees. The weight of the woods is light and liberating. Any resistance I bring from the world is worn away with each step.  After two miles the trail divides, the left continues on to the village of Agnes, the right is the peak of the descending path that ends at the massive estate.   I always stop to stand at the height of the trodden walkway, my soul smiling in exaltation: my grandpa built this!

It is here that I discovered God’s supremacy, where I admitted while kayaking down the river, "It doesn't get any better than this.” Here, God is.  Seen in the diamond studded night sky viewed lying down on the highest porch of the house, surrounded by shadows of towering trees stationed like sentinels all the way up the mountain's height. God is felt in the steady pull of the river's current, heard in the crooning creek. Yet this setting is not so exceptional in and of itself.  What makes this home extraordinary is the person who lived here, my grandfather, now gone, passed March 26, 2009.

Anyone who ever encountered Franz Otto Shindler knew he was exceptional.  A Swiss German-English man, his character was complicated.  Yet, he was, by example, simple: eat good food, keep good company, live in a good place.  My uncles each have differing views about him.  The same is true for my aunts.  My mother revered him.  I idolized him.  He was more than grand, for me he was father.  When I told the father of my youngest he had passed, he expressed the truth succinctly: "Your first love."  Yes, he was; heart warming and heart breaking at the same time.  Grandpa was a drinker. Alcoholics and children don't mix.  The ugliness that can manifest, can and did reveal itself often enough to leave scars on his children.  I've heard the stories, but they could not alter my view of him.  With him I was safe and protected, welcome, loved.  

I could hear it in the way he would say my name as he was just sitting about.  I'd walk behind him, hug him, nuzzle my nose behind his ear.  He rarely smelled good, but even his funk was tolerable, sour but not old.   He'd sigh, "Well?" then say my name.  If he'd been drinking, he'd mumble something more but I'd only half listen to his words, focusing instead on his voice.  It resonated ease, like walking barefoot on the beach at the far end of the gravel bar.  The rocks there are more like rough sand, the heat of the day absorbed in the shells and stones.  That was his voice, and his voice spoke of the man; rough but warm, conflicted but comforting.  In this sense, Grandpa was very much the naturist, not just because he could often be seen walking around his house butt naked, but also because his personality was like his natural surroundings.  Being in Grandpa's presence was like a walk on the gravel bar on a hot summer day.

 

The bar itself is a quarter mile stretch of rocks that range in size, though none too large for the average man to carry without strain.  In the sweltering summer months, one can see the waves of heat rising from them.  As children, we used to speed race across the bar, hopping from stone to stone to avoid burning our tender feet.  I would often fantasize I had wings, leaping into flight as high as the eagles my uncle identified during his days as a riverboat guide.  The distance between the shaded, sandy trail that leads up to the cabin and the beach at the end of the bar takes about five minutes walking, three minutes leaping.  If you’re leaping, the sensation of soft gravel marks the beginning of the far end beach and the last steps before reaching river relief for scorched feet.  Once our feet cooled in the water we could lie down and relax, breath in the river's breeze, listen to the cry of the osprey. Searing to soothing best describes the time spent with Grandpa; like hot rocks, I learned to avoid his temperament and then enjoy his presence when he would cool down.  It was an exercise in making my “hinds' feet.”  To be agile in life and reach great heights, one must be deft in maneuvering through rough places.  At Shindler's Bar, the place and the person were the same.

The bar may look barren; to the casual observer it's just a pile of rocks. Only when you get down on your knees can you see otherwise.  I would lie on my belly, facing a pile of rocks collected on the walk to the beach.  I'd build rock houses, creating mini Flintstone villages.  Once I found a red rock shaped like a heart, not the Valentine version, but like the human heart, small enough to fit comfortably and hold in my hand.  Then there are the flat rocks, smooth and circular, perfect for skipping, a serious contest for those who have any skill.  My favorite beach activity is the art of constructing rock towers, balancing the flat stones with the sometimes perfectly round.  

It is the balancing act that Grandpa had trouble negotiating.  He was never able to master moderation.  This is what set him so far apart from others.  His passions were absolute, and whatever he believed, he did so from the heart and without regard for who it might offend.   He was an independent, true to the issue not the party.  He and I disagreed on most political and religious matters, but he listened to me because he cared about my beliefs, and I listened to him because I wanted to understand his way of thinking.   Though we never saw eye to eye on some issues (he was an avid hunter, I am a vegetarian, he loved the bagpipes, I prefer the Native American flute,) I never felt judged by him.   He accepted me unconditionally. That is a rare quality; it is the foundation of love, without it, the highest places can never be reached. 

Keeping company with the likes of Grandpa required the same approach needed to traverse the hike in to visit him:  be surefooted, level, and careful along cliff sides. Know about the topic before joining the conversation, remain levelheaded when it heats up, and take care when engaging in controversial issues like gun control or animal rights. Grandpa never bothered with political correctness or decorum.  His confrontational commentaries could make Gandhi go to war. He reveled in contention, more so if he’d been drinking.  He could turn a slight skirmish into a full-blown battle; mind-to-mind combat could last all night.  Unfortunately for those who were so miffed they had to leave his presence, the hike back from Grandpa’s is all uphill and takes twice as long as it does coming in, which may have been of benefit.  The return march might have worked out irked nerves or hurt feelings, a necessary therapy as one could not expect an apology; the river does not say sorry for flooding, nor does the bear ask the salmon for forgiveness.  It’s not in their nature, and Grandpa was as close to nature as a human can get.

Despite his irreverence for decency, Grandpa lived a modest life.  For over 20 years his lifestyle was eco-friendly. Long before the term self-sustaining became popular he was practicing what green lobbyists now preach.  His water came from a mountain stream.  He generated his own electricity; hydro and solar power, a single generator, and careful use of wattage insured he had enough energy to get through the day and into the evening.  Water was heated by fire, either from the fireplace or the wood burning stove.  He bought supplies in bulk, enough to last for months if necessary.  He grew his own produce and killed his own meat with his own weapons.  It was Grandpa who taught me to shoot using selected rifles from his antique gun collection.  His lessons started early and aptly apply to life: pick your target, take time to aim before you shoot, and “don’t shoot anything you’re not prepared to eat!”  This was his mother’s warning, given to him when he received his first gun.  He shot a seagull, she made him eat it.   Perhaps that is where he acquired his dietary habits.  His rule was to try anything at least once, and he insisted I do so as well, from octopus to cow tongue.  He is part of the reason I became a vegetarian.

Grandpa was the king of hospitality and great feasting.  He welcomed company and entertained graciously, granting free self-service access to the liquor cabinet and food pantry. Company meals were considered with care, cooked slowly, and always served with wine.  His kitchen, steeped in the smell of rosemary and elephant garlic, is the only space that has a skylight, making it the brightest and most welcome room in the house.  From the kitchen window is an open view of the garden, growing the herbs and vegetables he would often sauté with generous servings of real butter.  Near the garden he built a smokehouse to prepare fresh caught steelhead or any other meat my uncle might bring from one of his hunting trips.  He was an epicurean to be sure, from rosemary chicken to clam chowder, using secrets like fish sauce or sardines in his roux. But not all meals were so grandly planned. I remember one visit in particular; I was following him around his garden like a doting puppy.  He stopped along the eastside pathway to point out blue-black huckleberries.  His German sausage fingers picked a handful to give to me.  I was in my late 20s, but with this small gesture I was like a five year old given permission to eat cake before dinner. This was often the way Grandpa made me feel, as did my stays at the cabin. Surrounded by ripe beauty, I was forever young and cared for, privileged, free.

It takes a certain kind of man to live the way he did - off the grid, on his terms, committed to his home and land.  His wife Sonja, God bless her, is testimony that he was not as self-reliant as he might have seemed. While he bought the seeds, she tended their growing.  She was his right hand, day after day, night after night – often long and uproarious - for decades, until the very end.   I missed his last years; living on the opposite side of the country makes it more difficult to stop in for a visit.  I am told his last days were demanding and draining, but mostly disheartening.  I wanted to say good-bye before he left, but then my final memories would have been of him dying, his body suffering.  I was selfish in my need to hold onto the romance of this first love of mine.   I struggled with his death. 

To be continued......